I wake up in the hallway when my father slams the front door and I’m gasping, I’m gasping and my whole body is shaking. I thought I was dead, I thought it was over. I turn my head, with a huge amount of effort, and catch sight of the clock on the wall. I only walked through the door fifteen minutes ago.

I’m supposed to phone Kurt tonight but I don‘t know how much longer I can stay awake for. I feel so tired, I could just drift off into a dream world, a world where I’m not lying beaten and abandoned on the floor.

I should phone him now, while I still can, but I don’t trust my voice at the moment because my neck is throbbing and I don’t want to distract him while he’s driving. So, I out of safety, I decide to send him a text message. I extend a shaky hand into my pocket and pull out my phone. I bring up Kurt’s last message and hit reply.

I don’t know what to say to him and I feel like I’m letting him down by not talking to him in person but I can’t think of another solution. I could phone his house but I’m pretty sure Finn’s Mom and Kurt’s Dad are still at work and Finn is probably waiting with Noah outside McKinley for Kurt to pick them up. And I can’t leave a message, not when I have no idea what to say or if my voice will even work. It has to be a text message.

HEY, KURT! I start, lifting the phone above my face so I can supervise the predictive text function. The message has to make sense, I don’t want to make him think I was too busy to spell his name right.

I CAN’T PHONE YOU LATER, I continue and I feel that it’s important to get to the point. Though, I struggle to think of what to say next because my head is washed in waves of discomfort and more importantly because I hate lying to Kurt. In fact, I down right despise it.

Eventually, I settle on I’M TIED UP WITH FAMILY STUFF. I choose those words because it’s the truth but at the same time it doesn’t sound as sinister as it probably should.

Guilt still rushes through me regardless and I feel like I need to apologise to him for bailing on our nightly discussion but I don’t know what else to do and my eyes are starting to flicker.

I type out the last part as fast as I physically can: I’M SORRY, I’LL SPEAK TO YOU AT SCHOOL TOMORROW. B. X

I quickly read over my message before I press send and my hand falls to the floor.

I close my eyes and fall asleep.

Fresh sunlight is coating my face, I’m still in the hall and I’m still in a lot of pain. But I have to get up, I have to move and so I cautiously drag myself on to my knees before I stand on unsteady feet. I’m practically clinging to the wall as I straighten myself up. My body is tolerable for the most part- my shoulders are killing me, my head is pounding, my neck is burning but the rest of me is okay. It’s going to be okay. I’m going to be okay. Breathe, Blaine. You’re okay. Breathe. You’re still alive.

I compose myself and turn my entire body around so I can look at the clock; I’m doing this because I can‘t move my neck without jolts of pain pulsing through it. It feels like I’m being choked all over again, I can almost feel his hands on me for a second time. I focus my eyes on the clock’s hands instead. It tells me what I need to know- it’s six in the morning. I have two hours until I need to leave for school. I have the time. I have the time to clean the house. I have the time to take a shower. I have the time to look over my homework. I have the time to calm myself a little.

I rotate once more and glance at the wallpaper, searching for the spot where my skull collided with it, it doesn’t surprise me when I find small red spatters dashed across the green. I lift a hand to the back of my head and my fingers meet dry blood. I should have time to clean that too. Breathe. Focus. I’m better than this. I’m bigger than all of this. Stay calm.

I start by taking my uniform off and bundling it up before I move it to the laundry room. It takes me longer than I’d like to admit but eventually I do get there and that‘s what matters. When I walk into the kitchen, wearing nothing but my underpants, the gentle sunshine warms my skin. My body tingling slightly. It’s then that I remember the smashed bottle, the light illuminating it through the window.

I bend down carefully and pick up every single insignificant shard I can find; like I do it everyday- which isn’t too far removed from reality. Though, as I pick up the final splinters of glass I can’t help but wonder if people can smash apart like that too. Can they just burst apart and be beyond repair?

When I’ve ghosted my fingers over the floor, enough times to believe that all the glass is gone, I walk over to the sink and wet the light blue dishcloth that lies in waiting. I add the tiniest amount of soap before I walk slowly back into the hallway and begin removing my own blood, easing the stains out with neat, circular motions. I hope my Mom is pleased with the job I‘ve done. After it’s done with I commence with the general cleanup and by the time that’s done with a whole hour has past.

I pick up my school bag as I head up the stairs, I’m about to throw it over my shoulder and then I change my mind, I realise that it’ll hurt, and it just kind of bounces off my thigh. The stairs feel like a mountain.

When I get to my room I dump the bag on my bed and start rooting through it for my homework. I’m supposed to have a completed essay plan for my Classics class this morning, so that’s what I’ll have. When I eventually find it, sandwiched between a few pieces of paper covered in swirling notes, I lay the paper carefully on my desk. Collecting the stray pages of music that litter my room I delicately lay them on top of a tower of school textbooks.

Music is very important to me. Making music is important to me. Making music that touches people is very important to me. Humility is very important to me. My friends are very important to me. Kurt is very important to me. For all the weaknesses life presents me with those things are my strength. They make me believe in myself and the world. They give me courage. So much courage.

I sit down at my desk and pull a sharpened pencil from my pen pot, I move it to the paper but I can’t do it, I can‘t start. I don’t have the time to sit here hoping it’ll happen; so I decide to take a shower first. I peer around my door and creep across the landing, even though I know that my father’s probably still out, just in case he’s not out though I need to be careful. I won’t have enough time to clean myself up again if something happens. I can’t afford to have another day off school because I got caught too close to leaving. It’s happened three times this term and that’s enough.

I run the shower, throw my underwear in the wash basket and step under the water. It’s invigorating- I wash away the grime, the blood and the bad feelings that I have in my chest.

By the time eight o’clock arrives I’m heading out of the door, my homework completed and in my bag and my bag strategically placed over my shoulder. I breathe in the crisp morning air and it makes me smile, not only do I have an excuse to wear my scarf today but I can taste liberty. It’s so remarkable and watching the lives and energies of those I pass in the street fills me with such a sense of joy I have to fight off forming tears. Life is overwhelmingly beautiful today. Life could be so beautiful.

My confidence grows as I edge closer to Dalton Academy and I begin to feel much more like myself. I start passing the same people that I pass everyday and they all smile at me, some of them even say hello and those who do also wish me well. It’s oddly overpowering that so many strangers know me, that so many strangers care. I wonder if they know how valuable they are to me; it feels incredibly profound.

It’s then that I notice Mrs. Hiller sitting serenely at the bus stop, trusty handbag in arms. I walk towards her without hesitation and take a seat next to her. She’s so glamorous, so beautiful, regardless of her old age and she always smells divine. Like a mix of home baking and sweet perfumes. Homely and exotic.

“Good morning Mrs. Hiller.” I chime softly, leaning into her with care and bumping our shoulders lightly together. She jumps a little before she smiles at me and reaches out a slightly frail looking hand- patting my thigh.

“Blaine, dear! Always so nice to see you!” She beams and part of me can’t help but be reminded of my mother. I don’t remember much of her but I do remember feeling like this. Feeling loved.

“And on such a nice day.” I reply, once again sucking in the crisp air. My voice wavers slightly but thankful talking doesn’t seem to hurt my throat or my neck too much. It’s going to be fine. It is okay.

“I’ll get you a soother for that sore throat.” Mrs. Hiller offers, her fingers ready to dart into her handbag. I reach out to stop her, I want to tell her that my throat isn‘t the worst of it. I want to show her the purple marks on my neck but I don‘t.

Part of me needs to tell her so that maybe she‘ll help me, so that maybe things will ease up a little. Part of me needs to keep quiet because I can do this by myself. This is temporary and getting her so worried, at her age, wouldn’t be ideal. I don’t want to hurt her or see her upset over me and she would be. She’d be broken hearted, just like I would be if she had bruises, of if Kurt had bruises or if any of the strangers that walked past me this morning had dirty purple and blue marks on their skin.

“No, thank you, I’m fine Mrs. Hiller, I have soothers in my bag. How are you today?” I ask, smiling at her fondly. Hoping the conversation will move on and it does. Her hands settle back on top of her bag and she’s looking me over again.

“I’m as good as I can be.” she smiles, “Good as it gets.”

“I’m so glad. You’re my favourite elderly lady, you know?” I offer and a tiny chuckle escapes her. Like she hasn’t laughed in a while. I’m touched that I made it happen. I’m full of pride.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, dear.” She meets my eyes with a grin and even though her eyes are fading they’re still so bright. I want to touch her face, I want to see if I can absorb her optimism and love through my fingertips.

“I’m working on a new song.” I report, “It’s for you.”

“Oh, Blaine. I‘d be so honoured, dear.” She confesses, her hand moving to cover mine. I think that this is another one of the beautiful things about the world. Every touch like her’s tries to erase the heavy handedness of people like my father.

I’m about to awkwardly accept her compliment when I notice that her bus has emerged at the top of the road. I move my free hand on to the hand that holds mine, in a bid to get her attention and because I feel safe and able to. I don’t get many opportunities in my life to show my affection physically. I wish I had more, I really do. It helps me to be happy.

“Your bus is coming, Mrs. Hiller.” I say eventually, knowing that it takes her a while to stand and gather herself.

“You’re such a good boy.” She says and I help her to stand. We walk arm in arm to the curb and she seems so tiny in stature compared to me, in fact, compared to most people.

I wait until the bus pulls up, until she climbs onboard and is seated before I begin walking the final two blocks to Dalton.

I hope that I will be happy today amongst my friends. I hope the breeze lingers so I can stay wrapped in my scarf.