Cut. Cut.
Each mark to his pretty, pale skin goes straight to his heart. The cuts aren’t deep. They aren’t that big and sometimes don’t even draw blood. To others they may seem insignificant, but to him they mean the fucking world.
Kurt’s been sitting on his bathroom floor for the better part of an hour now, carving away at his porcelain wrist. He’s right-handed, so his left takes the brunt of the damage.
Kurt wants to cry. But he also wants to shout; to jump up and down in chaotic jubilation. He’s losing his fucking mind.
It’s been a month – a month since everything good in his life up and disappeared. Too good to be true and not meant to last, his Cinderella-esque love story set to vanish at midnight, leaving nothing but painfully sparkling memories behind.
A month ago he had been so in love he thought he’d explode with happiness. His grades were stellar, his mood and attitude were top-of-the-line and the love of his life was planted firmly at his side.
Blaine.
Kurt takes another swipe at his wrist, this one drawing blood; deeper in the onslaught of the memory.
He watches the red liquid trickle down his wrist into the palm of his hand, grinning slightly as it does. It glistens and glitters in the light of the bathroom.
Only when he hears the distinct voice of his father calling him to dinner, does he move to clean up the mess. He stands and makes his way to the sink, turning on the faucet. He runs the blade of his pocket knife under the stream of cold water and neatly folds it, placing it far in the depths of his medicine cabinet. Buried beneath container after container of facial creams, his secret is safe from detection.
He then proceeds to clean his wrist, gently scrubbing away the dried blood and drying it off on the hand-towel. He opens the cupboard under the sink and removes the small First-Aid kit. He pops open the lid and removes a small role of bandage and couple pieces of gauze. He wraps his arm and pulls his sweater sleeve all the way down, covering the blemish.
After checking himself in the mirror – tears dried and eyes no longer red – he opens the bathroom door and heads upstairs.
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Burt Hummel is no idiot, and he suspects something is wrong with his son.
Admittedly, the breakup between Kurt and Blaine was rough, and Burt fully understood Kurt’s heartache. But it had been a month and Kurt’s grades still continued to slip, and he had even landed himself in detention a few times. He lashed out a lot more as well. His once good-natured quirky attitude no longer meant to tease, rather, meant to harm; to offend.
Burt tried to ignore it for the first week or two. He gave Kurt his space and time to adjust to his new situation and cope with his pain. But all these weeks later and no improvement, if anything, things becoming steadily worse, Burt was at a dead end.
Send him to a counselor? Confront him?
He was at a loss. He just knew that something needed to be done – and soon.
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Dinner that night is tense and awkward, both participants quietly wrapped up in their own thoughts.
Kurt eats as fast as he dares, not wanting to be impolite or give his father any reason to suspect anything.
After the dishes are clean, and the left-overs are put away, Kurt heads back to his room. Just as he is about to head downstairs, his father calls him from the living room.
As he approaches his dad, Burt mutes the TV and sits forward in his chair.
“Kurt, I’m worried about you.”
In that moment, Kurt’s insides are a jumble of panicked worry. What does his father know?
“What exactly are you worried about, dad?” he chokes.
“Your grades have slipped lower and lower the past few weeks. And you can’t tell me it’s because of extra-curriculars – if I’m not mistaken, you told me you quit both Glee Club and the Cheerios. Is that correct?”
“Yes sir,” Kurt replies quickly, voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. He’s panicking big time now.
“Well then?” his father continues. “What is it?”
“I-I don’t know but I’ll fix it, dad. I promise. I’ll fix it.”
“Promise?” Burt asks gruffly.
“Promise,” Kurt responds, trying desperately to keep his voice from shaking.
Burt’s features visibly soften, and when he speaks again, his tone is gentle.
“You know I love you, kid and I just want what’s best for you, right?” Kurt nods, unable to say a word.
“Well, come here then. Give your old man a hug.”
Kurt shuffles over and allows himself to be pulled into his father’s gentle, comfortable, and loving embrace, breathing in the familiar scent.
“Now go get some sleep. You look exhausted and you have school tomorrow. Love you, son. Night.”
“Love you too, dad. Night.” Kurt turns on his heel and all but runs back to the safe confines of his bedroom.