He can remember what it was like before the fear got to him. Before that cold, creeping dread would gnaw at his stomach, twist his guts and send tremors racing through his entire being. At one point in his life this all consuming terror would make him feel safe. Protected. Loved. Like nothing could reach him if he made himself that little bit smaller, small enough to squeeze into gaps between furniture in his room and the space under his bed.

He'd looked it up once. A few years ago when it all started, when everything was getting tothatpoint.

Claustrophobia -Noun - an abnormal/extreme/irrational fear of being closed in or of being in a confined space.

He spent hours barricaded behind his bedroom door when he was fifteen looking up symptoms until his eyes blurred and he felt faintly ill. Because all the websites said the same thing, it's a phobia that develops mainly due to 'traumatic events'.

And apparently it develops.

Which Blaine muses from the cold tiled floor of his en-suite, makes quite a lot of sense. He's gone from never blinking over if he could fit under his desk for hide-and-seek, to feeling mildly uncomfortable, to this.

The inability to breathe isn't an experience that liked to avoid Blaine Anderson.

The first time he can recall he was six, and his father had back handed him into their coffee table for trading his Action Man for a Beanie Baby at school. He ended up only being winded (now that looks like a fucking blessing), with a bruise along his back and the knowledge that next time he was in trouble and daddy threatened to'smack you into next week, boy'he'll probably attempt it.

At eleven he'd dived a little bit too enthusiastically off of the side of their Grandparents pool in the Hamptons, smacked his head and fallen into the water. Thankfully, Cooper had been on a sun lounger critiquing and dived in right away, forcing the chlorine flavoured water out of his lungs with the heel of his hand.

At fourteen he'd gone to a Sadie Hawkins dance and been left unconscious and bleeding as his lungs struggled to expand enough to inhale oxygen.

Sitting with his back rigid against his bath tub, Blaine dug through the extensive First Aid kit to his left one handed, his right arm cradled protectively against his chest, as he sucked in deep breaths of not-nearly-enough air. He'd been let out just under an hour ago, falling to the floor and refusing to cry, (crying was a weakness in the eyes of his father) and scrambling away on pure adrenaline lest his dad decided to come back and have another go.

Now though, trying to stay upright long enough to wrap his aching bones, clean the cuts and ice the bruises, he'd given up on trying to wipe away the tears when his arm hurt from banging on the closet door, throat raw from begging, screaming, pleading to be let out,"I'll be good I promise, I promise dad."

His old boxing coach probably had no idea how useful the information about instant ice-packs for sports injuries would be, he thought bitterly as he gingerly picked himself up, packed away his supplies making notes over what needed to be replaced, avoided the mirror (he'd deal with the damage done to his face tomorrow) and stumbled back into his bedroom.

Checking the lock on the door was secure (if his dad couldn't get in, he wouldn't break down the door, he'd loose interest and find something other than beating the shit out of his youngest son to do so at least he can sleep properly) Blaine undressed slowly, crawled into bed in just his boxers and reached for his phone.

Kurt:
Airports suck. So do the assholes on power trips who make you take off your shoes to go through security.

Rubbing under his eyes gently and sniffing Blaine smiled tiredly over the new text from Kurt, Blaine tapped out a reply, wincing every now and again at the strain it caused his arm.

ToKurt:
I'm going to assume that your flight is at a ridiculous hour?

Kurt:
3 am. Who the hell decided middle of the night air travel was a good idea? I'm running on pure coffee now.

Kurt:
Rachel has no off button, Blaine! She will not stop texting me.

To Kurt:
You love Rachel

Kurt:
Doesn't mean I don't want to strangle her most days. I'll let you sleep...I'm surprised you're even awake actually. I'll talk to you tomorrow...or later today I guess? Night x

The 'x' is a new development. The guy that Kurt was seeing at the start of the year is long gone now. Blaine still doesn't know why, Kurt won't tell him anything other than"it wasn't right"and Blaine's not really sure he'd even want to know any details if he had the chance anyway. But ever since then Kurt had been putting little kisses, never more than one or two, but always there when they said goodnight. His heart flutters stupidly over it every damn time too. Because he'll take anything, anything Kurt is willing to give if it means he can have that beautiful, untainted part of his life back in some way.

After wishing Kurt a safe flight Blaine snuggled down under his thick duvet, praying to a God he couldn't bring himself to believe in that he'd sleep through the night and wake up in less pain.

The dark was slowly closing in on him. Reaching out with smoke-like fingers that taunted him, pulling at his clothes and stroking fleetingly against his skin. A constant game of cat-and-mouse.

Throwing his body at the solid door he grew more desperate. The skin of his hands slowly turning black and blue from pounding on the walls, fingernails shredded from trying to claw his way free, throat raw from screaming for someone, anyone to help him. To let him out.

"I'll be good daddy! I'll be good! Please, please let me out...I won't do it again!"

His heart felt like it was trying to beat it's way out of his chest, slamming relentlessly against his rib cage as he became more and more frantic in his attempt to escape.

"You should have stayed in the fucking closet, faggot!"

Shaking his head back and forth, eyes screwed shut as if it would block out the voices, the sneers and insults, as if it wasn't pitch black already in here. His hands scrabbled at everything they landed on, scratching at wood, pulling at door handles and banging on concrete, tugging his collar loose, tearing the buttons off because it would not stop tightening no matter how much he pulled.

"No! Dad, DAD PLEASE."

This was his life now. More so now that his mother had up and left at the start of the year. "Couldn't handle a fag for a son. THIS IS YOUR FAULT."

"I'm sorry dad."

He could feel the walls moving, feel them getting closer with every breath until he wasn't breathing. Wasn't moving so much as shaking, vibrating with fear and clutching at his neck as those fucking walls moved towards him, following after the darkness.

Spots invaded his vision, distorting the already tunneling images and confusing him more as he screamed despite the dwindling amount of oxygen in his lungs.

Screaming, Blaine jerked awake with his heart hammering and body trembling in terror. Forcing himself into a sitting position, Blaine scrambled for his nightstand, ripping open the top drawer and shoving things aside until his hand recognised the inhaler, jamming it into his mouth and pressing down as he tried to swallow enough air to calm down.

He should be used it. Nightmares always came after a beating where he ended upthere. Memories and his imagination morphing into a single, twisted event, coming to consciousness just before it felt like his heart was going to stop, only to realise that he couldn'tbreathin the real world either.

Because it was real, wasn't it?

That all consuming, mind numbing fear from his dreams wasn't fabricated. It was a product of 'traumatic events'. Of when his dad got angry and smacked him around as a kid for dropping a glass. For a bad grade on his report card. For being gay.

Blinking back tears he tugged the covers over his head, trying and failing to block out the memories. Last night wasn't the longest he'd ever gone locked in that closet; he'd been in there for over a day before, but it was one of his longer 'visits'. Five hours.

Five fucking hours of crying, and screaming, and begging to be let out after his dad all but jumped him when he got in from a school council meeting, yelling at him for something. It never really matters what it's about, the result is always one or the other. He'll get smacked about before his dad will lose interest and disappear into his office, these, along with being ignored completely, are the days Blaine crosses his fingers for when his dad is actually home.

Because he'd take that, take feeling worthless over the chance of being beaten and then locked into that closet. The small, narrow, tiny one that his mother had used for her coats before she left. The one that caused Blaine to shiver every time he so much as glanced at it, that came alive when he closed his eyes and helped pave the way over the years since coming out to his'irrational fear'.

How he made it to school Blaine didn't know. His head was throbbing despite the extra dosage of pain pills he'd knocked back. The black eye was hidden under a mountain of cover-up; his ribs, right wrist and hand were wrapped tightly; he had emergency ice packs in his bag and walked stiffly to avoid putting too much pressure on his sprained ankle and bruised thigh.

He was running a few minutes late by the time he hobbled through the main entrance, concentrating so hard on not collapsing from sheer exhaustion, physical and mental, that he never even heard them until it was too late.

Rough, meaty, too large to be safe hands grabbed him from behind, another set gripping his most injured side while a different set covered his eyes and mouth. A scream attempted to rip through despite the hand muffling it and the ripped feeling his throat still held from yesterday.

A sharp jab was delivered to his stomach in response. Adrenaline burned it's way through his veins, running along side the fear that gradually building from the second their fingers landed on him.

He was all but thrown through a door, hitting the floor hard enough that the breath was knocked out of him in a wheeze, choking his ability to cry out at the pain that radiated through his body.

"Time to go back in the closet, fag."

"Back in the closet faggot."
"It's where you belong."
"This is your choice."
"Be a real man."

Ice cold hands gripped his chest, squeezing his heart and lungs as the door to the tiny, rammed janitor's closet slammed shut and the lock clicked into place. He knew it was futile but Blaine couldn't stop himself from crashing into the door, frantically pounding at the wood, bordering on hysterical now as the jeering voices faded.

Gasping, Blaine alternated between clawing at the door, his throat and chest, sobbing as the door remained stubbornly shut and the walls began to close in.

I'm going to die.