Blaine stares down at the pool of blood on the floor, built by the thick trickle coming out of the slit in his thigh. He can't remember how he got like this. He can see the knife beside him, handle and blade stained rich scarlet, inches away from his fingers. He can feel the stickiness covering his left thigh; he can feel the deep gashes sting as he moves. He can smell it, the strong, metallic odour hitting his nose.

Half an hour ago, he told himself this would take five minutes. Five minutes, then he'd stick a plaster on and go to dance.

Five minutes can take an awfully long time.

He remembers the first cuts. The hurried, ‘draw blade over skin, wipe away blood, make a new cut.' But the more he did, the less he could remember. The panic has been washed from his body, replaced with a new, calm sensation, in which all his limbs relax, brain focussed on the simple movements of his wrist. The calmness separates him from the pain. It's there, somewhere, but in another dimension, the stinging separated through a wall in his brain.

He wishes he could go to sleep. Here, in the bathroom. In his and Kurt's bathroom.

He wishes he could sleep forever.

Without thinking about it, he picks up the knife for what feels like the fortieth time, and traces over a dark, fleshy slit, letting the tip of the blade slice the wound open again.

He winces in relief. He needs this.

His hands are stained scarlet, cutting and cutting as they've been taught to do. Practice makes perfect, and Blaine likes to think he's got this activity perfected.

He cuts again.

Another.

Once more.

This one's his last.

Okay, this one.

One more for luck.

Fuck it, never stop.

Just more pain.

This one will make it better.

Maybe this one.

It will never be better.

Eleven cuts later, his thigh's unrecognisable. What used to be tan, dark skin with only the echoes of scars neatly etched at the top, is now an untidy wreck of slashes, each one with the same story, the same emotion, to tell. But Blaine's not sure what that is.

There's so much blood.

Kurt's going to kill him.

He could probably clean it up in time. Pretend he spilt aftershave on the bath mat, and that's why it's in the wash.

Kurt.

He wonders what Kurt's doing right now. How he feels. If everything's still normal for him. If he hasn't broken like Blaine.

Blaine: Kurt

Somewhere in New York, Kurt apologises to Rachel s he digs his phone out his bag. He's puzzled when he sees the text is from Blaine. Blaine should be in class right now.

Kurt: yeah? :)

The reply makes Blaine falter. Does Kurt really deserve being brought into this? He'd be happier not to know. Not to have to worry. But then Blaine can't hide what he's done from Kurt. If his eyes won't tell, his body will. Kurt will find out just when Blaine doesn't want him to, stop what they're doing and make Blaine tell him what happened, demand Blaine to show him if there are any more, force him to go get help. Blaine remembers the last time Kurt saw. They were just about to have sex but then Kurt discover it. Saw the red, scabbing lines inside his thigh, Blaine's own body deceiving him. Kurt had cried at once, making Blaine retreat back into his shell with guilt. Blaine can't go through that again.

But it's Kurt.

His Kurt.

Blaine: what are you doing?

Kurt: Just having coffee with Rachel. Shouldn't you be in class right now?

Blaine glances at the clock. Yes, he really should. But dance seems so unimportant right now.

Blaine: I guess

Kurt recognises the tone is Blaine's texting, but he's not worried. He jokes with Rachel about it, more to reassure himself than anything else.

Kurt: you okay?

Blaine glances down at his phone as the words pop up. He rereads them again and again, not leaving time for his own mind to answer.

Are you okay?

Are you okay?

Are you okay?

He smiles.  Is he okay?

Looking down at the knife, he traces over his cuts with his finger, pressing harder and harder, testing how much pain he can take.

He does this again and again. After four minutes, he's forgotten about the text.

Kurt: Blaine

Blaine doesn't hear the buzz of his phone. He's lost, lost inside his own head, stuck in his own pain.

Kurt: honey, please reply

Kurt's scared now. He has a right to be. If anyone can remember the last time, he can.

Kissing Blaine, again and again, the taste of wine still in their mouths, hungry hands exploring over each other's bodies. Blaine had pulled back as Kurt snuck his hand down Blaine's pants, warning bells erupting in his head, potential excuses overwhelming him. Kurt had pulled Blaine closer. Blaine had rammed Kurt up against the wall, ever so conveniently beside the light switch. One flick from Blaine, and they were in darkness. Kurt had thought him romantic. Blaine had thought him safe.

But thoroughness was one of Kurt's key traits, and fingers had squeezed and grasped every part of Blaine's body, tearing off clothes and groping skin, until finally, inch by inch, Kurt's palms had fallen on the rough scabs, causing him to stop and slick on the lights.

The sight that met him had killed mood immediately. Kurt had started crying, hysterical sobs, blaming himself for not talking about it to Blaine enough. Blaine has seemed lost and distant, as if slowly shutting down.  The night had ended with Kurt throwing all the knives, razors and any other sharp items into a bag, which had been ‘hidden' in Kurt's underwear drawer. Blaine had fallen asleep, locked in the bathroom fully clothed, dismayed to find Kurt had taken away the medication pills too.

Kurt never wanted to go through that again.

Kurt: Answer your phone

Blaine's getting dizzy now, head propped up against the tiled wall. Even his dark, thick curls have got traces of blood on them. He can't remember feeling this tired for ages. He's trying hard to grip onto consciousness, but everything is fading.

He's not sure he minds.

Kurt: Blaine, is everything okay???

Kurt's chugging down his coffee, ignoring the desperate streams of reassurance coming from Rachel's mouth, because Rachel doesn't understand, doesn't know what it's like to have someone like Blaine to take care of, someone who always decides to take a turn for the worse just when he thinks himself that he's getting better. Blaine had stopped this-this self harm in 9th grade, the year he transferred to Dalton, but all of a sudden in New York it had come back, the feeling of emptiness, hopelessness overwhelming him.

He had told Kurt his, but Kurt hadn't seemed to understand.

Blaine wasn't' in control. The monster inside of him was.

Slowly, Blaine moves, his joints aching as he tries to sit up. The pain isn't dying down like it should. It's getting worse. His head's squeezing tighter, his thoughts bursting against his skull. It's not meant to be like this. Everything's going wrong. The puddle- yes, it's a puddle now- underneath him is still warm, and gradually expanding as the minutes go by. Underneath the bloody marks, his hands have turned white. His arms are shaking. He's scared now. What has he done?

Kurt.

Kurt can sort it. Come home, stroke his hair as he falls asleep, tell him it's going to get better.

Blaine: I've messed up Kurt

The words take ages to type out, his mind's refusing to remember what to say, his fingers refusing to move how he wants them.

Kurt: Blaine honey, what have you done?

Kurt's already left the shop, half walking, half running, as Rachel trots behind him.

Blaine: I don't know

Blaine doesn't know. What has he done?

Blaine: there's blood everywhere Kurt

Blaine strips off a piece of toilet roll and presses it to his leg but it's soaked though in seconds, disintegrating against his cooling skin. Half a mile away, Kurt is running, across streets and through alleyways, phone discarded into hi s bag. All Blaine knows is that Kurt hasn't texted him.

Maybe Kurt doesn't care. Maybe he's had enough.

Blaine: I can't get it to stop

Stepping into a taxi, Kurt pants out the address of their apartment, checking his phone as he does so.

Blaine's words aren't a comfort to him

Kurt: I'm coming over right now

Blaine smiles. He may be a shivering mess, half unconscious, slumped against the locked bathroom door, but it's going to be alright. His Kurt is coming.

Blaine: kurt

Kurt: yes?

Blaine sends the message whilst grabbing the whole roll of loo roll and pressing it against his body. Ignoring the reply, he smiles in sickening tranquility as he watches the tissue slowly stain, simple, red blood climbing though it. He looks up at the bathroom lock, bolt slid across, defying Blaine's wishes. But Blaine doesn't think he could reach up to unlock it, down here on the floor, and getting up seems against the will of his body. His long eyelashes are sinking lower and lower, his vision fading away.

Just one last message. He doesn't want it to be goodbye.

Blaine: hurry