Kurt Hummel is dying. It isn’t something to fret over, or try to run from in the hopes that the end result will be escape; it just is.

            The winds of the storm howl against the windows like death itself and the branches of a sapling scrape their way across the glass with agonizing slowness. Kurt coughs lightly, feeling his old and cracking bones rattle in protest, and he can’t help the small noise of pain that escapes his dry lips.

            “Dad?” Elizabeth hurries to his side, strands of her brown hair drooping sadly from the messy bun at the nape of her neck. “Are you okay? Do you want me to get the nurse?”

            Kurt shakes his head weakly, even while pain crouches heavily on his chest, hovering like a vulture as Kurt struggles for air.

            “No, no, I want to… I want to stay awake,” he wheezes, for he knows that the pain meds will send him drifting off, away from the reality that’s slipping so quickly from his grasp. This close to the end, Kurt wants as many lucid, living moments as he can bargain for.

            Elizabeth looks uncertain and she glances worriedly at Kurt’s many beeping, whirring monitors, blue eyes glazed with exhaustion. Kurt knows only too well what having family in the hospital is like, and he reaches out a veined, wavering hand to comfort his daughter. She takes it immediately, clinging on like her grip alone will save him from the fate Kurt knows has been a long time coming.

            “What can I do, Daddy?” she whispers, perching on the edge of Kurt’s hospital bed. “Are you sure you don’t want the pain meds?”

            Kurt nods his head once and fights for an inhale, arranging his words in a way that will make as much use of his remaining oxygen as possible. “Will you… read to me?” He lifts his other hand, grimacing against the weight of it. It’s as though a ball and chain has been attached to his wrist since the last time he looked down at it.

            Elizabeth’s eyes follow Kurt’s finger and she turns, hands hovering questioningly over the faded, leatherback journal on the table at the end of Kurt’s bed. It’s conspicuously distressed beside Kurt’s folded clothes and the keepsakes that Elizabeth will be taking home with her – more than likely before the day is done. Kurt nods, eyes fluttering briefly closed at the dull throb of pain that blossoms from his temples to the base of his skull.

            “Never… I never read it. This might be my… last chance. If you would, sweetheart…”

            Elizabeth takes the journal carefully into her hands but doesn’t open it. Instead she scoots closer to Kurt’s bony knees and whispers, “Oh, Daddy,” tears pooling in her tired eyes.

            “Shh,” Kurt breathes softly, grasping at her hand. He doesn’t want tears; Kurt has already accepted the inevitable with dry eyes, which means he’s unable to bear any tears from his only daughter. There’s enough water present already, flooding the streets and coming in waves down the sides of the hospital – they don’t need to add to it.

            “I’m sorry,” Elizabeth stammers, swiping at the tears with the sleeves of her gray sweater. “It’s just… ever since Rachel –”

            “I know,” Kurt interjects gently, and Elizabeth nods, taking a deep breath and offering a watery smile. The muscles in Kurt’s face have long since slackened and refused most commands, but he manages a crooked grimace that surely looks nothing like a smile but hopefully conveys the same emotion.

            Elizabeth pats Kurt’s knee and turns her attention to the journal, thumbing over the waterspots and cracks in the faded leather. “How long have you had this, Dad?”

            “Too long,” he answers, fighting past the dryness in his throat. A whole world of water just outside the window, and his throat decides it wants to become the Sahara desert. He would sigh, but he fears he would become nothing but dust. Oh, how time breaks you down; it’s recycling, that’s all it is. In a very short amount of time, Kurt Hummel is going to become soil to some unsuspecting family’s gardenias, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

            “You really never read it?” Elizabeth asks, standing to pull the nearest lounge chair closer to the bed.

            “I never even opened it. I… I couldn’t bring myself to even read the first page…”

            Elizabeth’s brows furrow slightly but she says nothing as she settles herself in the chair. Kurt focuses on the pounding rain, trying to keep his heart steady as Elizabeth unwinds the frayed ribbon from around the journal and lets it fall open in her lap.

            “There’s a lot of stuff in here, postcards and letters… this receipt has your name on it,” she adds, holding up a yellowed credit card receipt that dates back to the 1960s. Kurt tries for a frail smile but this time his face refuses to cooperate whatsoever and he has to clear his throat painfully several times before he can speak.

            “Just start with the entries, I think…”

            Elizabeth carefully moves the stack of papers to Kurt’s bedside table and oh, Kurt recognizes that postcard, he wrote that postcard, back when his body was young and strong and he did not yet know what love was –

            “Dad? Dad!” Elizabeth’s bent forward, one hand on the edge of Kurt’s bed, eyes fixed anxiously on Kurt’s heartbeat, rising in a frenzied zig-zag on the monitor. The beeping resounds in Kurt’s ears and he tries to calm himself, taking in a shaky breath that feels more like a lungful of razorblades.

            “’M all right,” he mumbles, waving a weak hand. “Go on, Lizzy, please…”

            Elizabeth hesitates before sinking back into the chair and clearing her throat, eyes flickering down to the yellowed page.

            Hurricane Katrina roars outside the hospital and Kurt closes his eyes, ignoring the pain that’s started to hum inside him like a beehive as Elizabeth begins to read.

            “This is my last will and testament. I have nothing to leave but my story, which I’m trying to get down before the details become too fuzzy.

            My name is Blaine Anderson-Button, and I arrived here under some very unusual circumstances.”