It’s been an entire week since Burt Hummel sat me down on the sofa and told me that I mattered. It’s been seven long, drawn-out days since I gave part of myself away to Burt, or if you’d prefer it, one hundred and sixty eight very complex and neurotic hours since I opened myself up to my best friend‘s dad, or maybe I could call it the ten thousand and eighty minutes of polarising extremes that it took for me to end up here. I honesty wish I could say that this house has fixed me, just like that, and that this family have made me right and let me breathe, but that wouldn‘t be the truth. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever be the Blaine I want to be because in the last week alone I’ve developed a whole new mix of problems- though, these ones typically don’t physically knock me around or forcibly buckle my knees or sadistically bruise me.

Anyway, for a few days, after Burt’s talk, I felt so alive. I was alight with ambition and brimming with feeling and hanging on every single word that was spoken in this house- it was all so new and exciting and irregular. Then I settled in a little, I let my guard down, I exposed myself and before I knew it my peaceful nights turned into nights spent staring blankly at the ceiling and then they turned into nights spent tossing and turning and then they progressed into full blown night-terrors. It all happened so quickly, I had no control over it. Now, every single night, I wake up in Kurt’s bed, covered in sweat, my body physically aching from the fights that I replay in my head again and again. I have to drag myself into his bathroom where I shut the door and stare into nothing until I forget. I forget the nightmares, I forget what I’m feeling, I forget how to feel… it’s better like this. This way I can cope.

For a number of days now I’ve been trying so hard to fit in here, even though my heart’s not in it, because I really do care about these people. At least, I remember that I do. I don’t want to upset anyone, anyway, when people get upset I feel too overwhelmed and then I get into thinking and that doesn‘t do me any favours. So, I’ve been making the idle conversation, I’ve been chopping the carrots, I’ve been pouring the coffee, I’ve been shopping with the family, I’ve told them exactly what they want to hear, I smile when everyone else smiles, I laugh when everyone else laughs but it’s not real, I have to make myself do it. Something inside of me has changed. I’m like a vacant body. I can’t feel anymore. I’m out of place in a house like this, a home that thrives on feelings and sharing and sharing feelings. I’m like an icy snowflake drifting past a warm beach on a scorching summer’s day. It’s just all wrong.

I’m so numb. It’s like I felt too many emotions, too quickly, for too long and now they’ve all just been scraped out of me with a blunt, rusted knife for survival‘s sake. I have nothing left inside of me, I’m hollow and unoccupied and void. I’m finding it progressively harder and harder to feel anything at all. For someone like me, someone who’s used to feeling so much, this should be an incredibly terrifying revelation but I don’t feel anything, and I‘m not sure I even care. Everything I do seems to be so damn difficult now. So, I just kind of… stare.

I can’t hold a simple conversation, I keep drifting off into unthinking silence, I barely sleep, I look awful. But mostly, I can’t understand why I had so much hope and belief while I was living in that house and now, now I’m finally free, I have this huge, gaping, empty hole inside of me that just grows and grows and grows and grows. It get’s darker and darker and darker and I can’t help but wonder if it can swallow me whole.

It’s like my body just wants me to forget ever feeling anything at all. Like it just wants me to exist, and I wouldn‘t even mind that, at least then I’d never feel the way he made me feel, ever again. I least then I’d never have to feel petrified or worthless… or humiliated… because…that was… feeling like that.. what he did..

Blaine, stop it.

My head goes quiet.

‘……’

Finn drops his fork and I jump. We’re all sat around the kitchen table, eating our lunches, and I just know that they’re all looking at me right now because since I stopped crying they haven’t stopped asking me if I’m okay. It’s like I have to cry all of the time to be alright, I just want to stand up and scream at them- ‘I am not the sum of my tears.’ But I can’t even find the willpower to do stand, let alone scream; so, I just sit still and nod and stare and agree and mimic the emotions that Kurt is feeling and showing because no one ever asks Kurt if he’s okay. I used to ask Kurt that question… when he was having his-- his hard time... when he didn’t know about… about my secrets… before he saw all of those dirty.. marks.. all my bruises... and before I let my…

Blaine, stop it.

My head goes quiet.

‘……’

‘……’

‘……’

It takes a burst of laughter for me to start moving again, for me to realise I’ve been staring again. Losing more time. At some point last week I woke up with the new found ability to stare and stare and stare until my eyes start to burn but even the painful sting doesn’t stop me from staring. That day, when I woke up and everything was different, I didn’t tell anyone, I didn’t make a fuss, I just carried on like everything was normal. I ignored the fact that a piece of me was missing; and it still is. And I continue to ignore the fact that I think I have a super nova for a heart.

I think maybe I should be upset right now but I’m not.

“Blaine, honey you haven’t eaten much.” Carole says, drawing my attention back to the table. The concern is still there, laced throughout her voice, like it usually is, because Carole just cares so damn much.

I look at her. No. I stare at her.

She reaches out a well meaning hand, moves to put it on top of mine, brings it down swiftly, but I manage pull my hand away quickly enough. I slip it under the table. I don’t want her to touch me, not Carole, I can’t do this right now. It makes me feel too weak… too defenceless... and it reminds me too much of being… of being so stupidly... pathetically… useless.. and that reminds me of… of… of my…

Blaine, stop it.

My head goes quiet.

‘……’

‘……’

“Blaine?” Burt asks and I shake my head. He shares a look with his wife.

“Sorry.” I mutter quietly, quickly, and even to me it sounds despondent, forced. I look then at the barely touched pasta salad that sits in front of me. It looks nice enough but I’m not particularly interested in it. I’m not interested enough to have a whole conversation about. If I could just go back to staring…

“Would you like me to make you something else, sweetheart?” Carole tries again, impossibly softer, impossibly kinder. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I wish she’d stop being quite so nice to me.

“I’m fine.” I say robotically and silence once more crowds the kitchen. There’s yet another extended silence. They’re all still staring at me. In fact, they won‘t stop staring at me and asking those stupid caring questions. I can feel Kurt’s eyes on me especially, they’ve been burning through me for days, they’ve been slicing into my skin like a jagged knife and following my every move.

“Are you okay, dude? You do look a little pale.” Finn says suddenly and I look up at him then. Great, now he’s getting involved too.

“I’m fine.” I offer tightly and I’m looking straight through him. I wonder then if my eyes are as dark and glassy as they feel. I wonder if everyone else can feel the heat rising in the room, or if it’s just me, because my hands are absolutely sweating now.

“Sorry.” Finn says sadly, as he gives me an apologetic shrug and my skin starts to crawl, “You’ve not being your usual talkative self, that’s all. You‘ve hardly talked these past few days, dude. ” Finn continues and now he’s giving me that look. The one he likes to throw out when he thinks it‘ll get him his own way. I grit my jaw.

“It’s a little weird.” he finishes and I explode.

“Oh? And how the fuck would you know, Finn.” I begin, sick of the same questions, and the same looks, and the same sets of words that won’t help me like they’re supposed to help me, “You don’t even know me.” I spit before I stand up and slam my hands into the table, the plates and cutlery rattling, “None of you fucking know me!”

“Blaine--” Kurt gasps, confusion heavy in his voice and I spin around to look at him. My head is pounding, I can barely concentrate.

“What, Kurt?! Oh, I’m sorry, aren’t I being quiet enough for you because apparently I’m not loud enough for Finn!” I spit and I don’t even know why I’m doing this. My eyes bore into Kurt’s and he wants to look away, it’s obvious, but he wouldn’t dare.

“Blaine, I’m sorry, please, you’re scaring me.” Kurt says in a rushed breath, his hand reaching for the table like he‘s ready to jump up and run away from me.

“You don’t even know what that word means! You have such a perfect little life, Kurt, with your perfect little family! And, what, I raise my voice and now you‘re all -- you’re all scared or something?! You ought to try being strangled, Kurt, or knocked unconscious by your own fucking father! Then you‘d know what scared is!” I step forwards then and Kurt’s eyes are absolutely huge, his thighs visibly flex, he‘s about to run away from me. I see him then, so clearly, for a split second. Kurt. I look around me now and everyone looks horrified. Burt looks so distraught, and after what I just did, what I just said, he looks like he still cares and I don‘t know why. I’m shaking all over, I notice it now, I look down at my hands and they‘re absolutely shuddering.

I don’t have control of my body. I don’t have control of my mind. I don’t have control of my mouth. I feel like a automaton. I feel like a zombie. Like that night when my father brought that stranger to our house and they hurt me... when they.. they made me.. made me crawl..

I- I can’t--

I--

I stumble backwards, knocking my chair to the floor and a huge thwack resounds around me. I panic. Dread drowns me. I sprint out of the kitchen on unsteady legs, a deep tremor rushing through my body and almost collapsing me as I race towards the front door.

I start pulling erratically on the door knob. I pull and I twist. I pull and I twist. I pull and I twist. I pull and I twist.

“Open.” I plead but it won’t budge. It’s locked. It’s locked and I don’t have a key. My head feels fuzzy. My heart is racing. My lungs are deflating all too quickly. I pull at the handle again and again and again and nothing happens.

“Blaine? You need to listen to me, right now..” A careful voice says from somewhere behind me and I spin around to find it‘s body. My heart is thundering. Please. Please. Please. Burt is staring right at me, and Kurt is just behind him and he’s staring at me too because they’re always staring at me. They’re always giving me those concerned looks. Those looks that make me feel so… uncomfortable lately. I squirm. And I turn back to the door. My hands reaching out again, I need to get out, I pull and pull and pull and pull. My fingers and shoulders burning with the effort.

“Open!! Open, open, open, open, open!” I repeat, pulling impossibly harder, gasping as I hear those familiar heavy footsteps coming from behind me. As they get closer and the air gets dryer. Shadows cover my face, blacken my efforts, and I’m absolutely gasping for air now.

“Blaine, you need to stop. Kid, you‘re gonna hurt yourself.” a soft voice says somewhere in the distance but it doesn‘t, it can’t, overpower the one that suddenly screams, “You stupid fucking faggot! You come into my house and you think you own the place! This is my house! You little shit. I‘m gonna teach you some fucking manners!”

I freeze.

My cheeks are twitching and so are my legs. And suddenly I can smell him, I can smell the disgusting cigars and the bitter alcohol and the stale urine. And it’s rancid, it’s stifling, it’s overpowering, I can taste it in my mouth, down my throat. I gag. I’m going to be sick. Get it out. Get it out. Get it out! He’s not supposed to be here. A heavy hand clamps down on my shoulder and I recoil. My eyes widen.

“No.” I whisper sadly, “No, no, no, no. Please, don’t- don’t touch me.” But he doesn’t listen, he never listens, he just pushes me forward and I fall awkwardly into the door. It’s like he’s mocking me because I can’t escape. I can’t get out. This can’t happen to me again.

“Shut your filthy fucking mouth!” he hisses and I can feel his warm, unbearable breath in my hair. He pulls me backwards then, before he slams his hands into my shoulders and once more I crash into the door. My head smacks violently off the wood and I want to raise a hand to see if I’m bleeding but I’m too scared to move. I’m too scared to breathe.

“I-I’m so sorry, I’m sorry--” I mutter desperately, too frightened to turn around and look at him and show him how sorry and scared I actually am. My knees give way and my legs start to buckle.

“Show him. Show him what you let me do to you.” he spits violently and his breath is heavy on my face now. It’s stench is filling my lungs. My heart is hammering out of my chest. I’m going to suffocate.

“P-please--” I start, and my lip starts quivering, my teeth catch it and I bite down and it spills open. Pain shoots through me. He grabs me again, he puts a heavy hand on the side of my neck. He presses his fingers in. He’s pressing so hard that I feel dizzy. I’m seeing stars.

“Ask me. Ask me to hit you.” he bites out coldly and the slur of his voice slides into a slither.

“No. I- I c-can‘t. P-please.” I say hopelessly before my head is once again pulled back and slammed into the door.

I fall to my knees then and that’s when I see the stranger’s feet. They’re too close to my face. He moves them a little. Mockingly. Then he lifts one up and I flinch violently. I close my eyes tightly. A sob bursts out of my mouth.

I pass out.

When my eyes flutter open I find myself staring at a patch of insignificant wallpaper. The soft floral scrolls repeating themselves again and again and again and I can’t help but trace one with an outstretched finger. My father isn’t here, I tell myself. He was never here, I say. It was just a memory, I enforce. But I’m not sure that it works because my body is still shaking, so, I just focus on the pattern in front of me.

I catch a flash of movement then, out of the corner of my eye, and I turn my head just in time to watch Burt Hummel run towards me. He looks absolutely mortified and I can understand why. Because just look at me. I’m crouched by his front door, with my body leaning against the wood for support and my face pressed into it for who knows what reason. I must look so awful. I must look like a mess.

I frown. I don’t want Burt to think of me like that. I feel a trickling of warmth run down and under my chin then. I move a hand to my face to meet it on it‘s way down, and I follow the path of the liquid all the way back up to my lip and when my fingers meet the wound, I wince. The sting makes me hiss. I pull my hand away instinctively and there are bright, crimson dashes of blood on my fingertips.

“Blaine? Son?” Burt asks softly, interrupting my thoughts, as he crouches down next to me. He’s close enough so I could reach him from here, if I wanted too, but he’s obviously left a gap between us in case I need space. And, even though I am not myself, that invisible boundary Burt just laid down means a lot to me. But I just can’t handle this right now. There’s something really wrong with me.

“Do you know where you are, Blaine?” Burt asks and it’s then that I notice that Kurt is standing in the doorway behind him. His hand is clutched tightly over his mouth and tears are slipping down his face, he looks so terrified and so heartbroken. I try to process it, I try to find something to say to him, but I can’t think of the right words. Then, I remember shouting at him in the kitchen. I shift uncomfortably. Why are they still helping me?

“Blaine, look at me. Please.” Burt tries again and I do, I look straight at him and his red eyes are staring right back into mine.

“Mr. Hummel, I’m so sorry.” I say instinctively and everyone looks so sad. But I don’t feel sad, I don’t feel anything, except maybe guilt, yeah, I think I can feel that. I need to get up off the floor.

“Hey, none of that, not now. That doesn’t matter. Right now I need you need to tell me something very important, Blaine. You need to tell me if this has ever happened to you before?” Burt asks and I look at him then because does he know what’s happening to me? Why I feel broken, why my father just.. attacked me… when he‘s not even here?

“No.” I say quietly, hoping he can tell me what’s wrong with me now. But he just looks at me makes an dreadful sound and I wonder if that’s what a heart breaking sounds like.

“Okay, we’re gonna need to take you to a doctor, Blaine.” Burt says more to himself than to me and I shake my head because I don’t want them to tell me I’m officially crazy.

“I’ll-- I’ll be fine soon.” I say unconvincingly and Burt is giving me look of absolute devastation.

“I know you will but we need to make sure you’re okay for a long time, kid.” he says softly and Carole is walking towards me now, a small bag of ice and a washcloth clutched in her hands. Her mascara is everywhere. Finn emerges from the doorway too and he throws an automatic arm of comfort around Kurt, who quickly turns into his chest and clings to his brother. I look away.

“I-I’m not crazy.” I say then.

“No. I know that, Blaine. And I‘m pretty sure that what you’ve just experienced was a flashback.” Burt says reassuringly, whilst taking the ice and washcloth from his wife- who then backs away.

“So, that means I’m not crazy.” I say and I know that I’m repeating myself but if Burt’s right I might be able to get better, even if it’s just a little bit.

“No, Blaine. You’re not crazy.” He says and he holds the wash cloth up in question. I nod and he reaches out to me, wiping the blood off my face.

“You don’t hate me now? Because what I said in- in the kitchen- it was wrong.” I mumble and I wince as he ghosts the wash cloth over my lips. He gives me the ice then and I press it onto my mouth.

“I could never hate you. I care about you too much, remember?” Burt says as he takes my hand and wipes the blood off my fingertips. I look behind him then, at Kurt, he’s still buried in Finn’s shirt. Do they hate me now?

I just stare at them.

I stare and stare and stare and stare and stare.

My head goes quiet.

‘……’

‘……’