The years of my youth were years full of pain, sorrow, and most importantly death. Life has always been so very cruel to myself and to those around me. Those were years that I wouldn't look back on. Those were years of my life that I wish I wouldn't remember. At times I wish I could just start all over, forget the place that I came from and forget the ones who had brought me into it, everything would have been so much easier that way but yet I still remember those years greatly for those are the years that have changed me the most.

I was about seven years of age when my mother the person who had carried me for nine months in her womb and gave birth to me, the woman that I was a spitting image of with my chestnut brown hair and glasz eyes died from Spanish Influenza. My mothers death had shaken me to the core. The last few months of her life were not good ones, she suffered day in and day out and each sunrise she would get worst.

I never understood what was going on, I never knew why my mom wouldn't come home with us. I thought maybe she didn't love my dad and me anymore but every day when we went back to the hospital to see her she would lift my chin and say how much she loved me and daddy and I would just cling to her and cry because I just did not understand.

This went on for months and my mothers life seriously slipped through my fingers for I was holding her hand during her final moments. I wish I would of said I love her that night, but I was mad..mad because the doctors took her away from me and wouldn't let her come home.

At that time my mothers fever was way to high, her body was drenched in sweat, the area around her eyes were dark pink and purple bags, her eyes almost looked sunken in. She was highly dehydrated and couldn't keep down any food or liquids. Her body rejected the medicines that she needed. When she died the doctors said she wouldn't suffer anymore that she went off to a bigger and better place and that she loves me and my daddy very much. If she loved us, why did she leave? I didn't understand that at the time, but now I do.

After my mothers death it was only my father and me I had no brother nor sisters. We had coped in the best way that we possibly could, but the way we were living just wasn't living. Every night I would wake up screaming and crying for a mother that was never there. I know it broke my fathers heart as he would stumble in my room to comfort me. Sometimes I could hear my father crying afterward in his room and sometimes I would even sneak into my fathers bed and snuggle into his chest and sleep there. He didn't complain, he would stroke my hair and I would drift off to sleep...those were my better nights. Things slowly started going back to normal as they could be. My father went back to work and I went back to school. Everyone even the kids that have picked on me were particularly nice to me for awhile. I really didn't have friends except for this one girl, a dark colored child named Mercedes was the closest thing that he could call a friend. Her mother Shelly and my father were good friends from high school so Mercedes and I were constantly together. But people of the darker skin were frowned upon, just like I was frowned upon for no reason. It hurt, but Mercedes and I helped each other through it. But one day they packed up everything and moved away. We still keep in touch through letters but it just seemed like all of the good things in my life liked to disappear and that... that never really changed.

But I, Kurt Hummel had. I had stopped singing it used to be my favorite thing, I had stopped being happy. I was a miserable child and a miserable teen. My father would get upset.
“You have a talent Kurt, why not use it?” he would always say and he would always tell me these stories how I am a very special sort of kid with a talent beyond my youth. He told me I was touched by an angel, the angel of music and that I should not waste his talents. I had always been fascinated with the stories of the Angel of Music but I still never sang. I thought that perhaps that if I loved singing that that would be taken away from me.

I was fifteen when I opened my mouth to sing again. I had just started high school at the local public school and they had this club—a club for singing, acting, and the performing arts. I had nothing to do, I was lonely, and I didn't like to be at home.. no matter how much I love my father I just couldn't stay in that house, everything reminded me of her.

On that stage, that was the first time I heard the voice. That was also the day that my father was sent to the hospital for a heart attack. I remember clutching onto my fathers hand so...so tight when I got there just hoping and praying for him to squeeze back, only he did. The tears that I had shed for him were never ending.

My heart clenched when I looked at him, and I felt terrible because I wasn't there for him when he needed me the most. I looked around the room my father was in and it brought back nothing but terrible memories. I knew better than what I did back then. I knew being in the hospital was something bad and I also knew that there was something wrong with my father the only person I had left. I stayed by his side all night, I couldn't move from that room.

I didn't go to classes the next day, and that morning was the same as the night before, no responsiveness—just the steady beat of his heart. The doctors had said that when he had his heart attack, he had a stroke as well which caused him to be in a coma. Why did my father have to be in a coma? It seemed selfish, but I needed him, and he needs me too. After a few days I wondered why I was even praying. There still was no change, no change in my father. But the voice that I had heard on the stage grew a little louder day by day and I could almost make out what it was saying, I must be going mad..I mean why not throw my sanity in with the things that I continue to lose. Just as I started to lose hope a hand squeezed mine back and a painful gasp. I sprung straight to my feet staring at my father in shock.

“D-dad.” I had stuttered.
He gave me a very weak smile.
“I—I'm going to send you to him ” he breathed out shakily.
My eyebrows furrowed. “Who are you sending me to dad?”
“The angel.” he coughed.
“The Angel of Music.”
What?
Shaking my head I tried to get a hold of the concept.
“Dad what, what are you talking about. Doctor, doctor!.” I called, but it was to late. My fathers coughs died down and his heart monitor went flat.
My fathers life slipped away and so did my voice and soon I started to feel nothing.