When Blaine Anderson was a little boy, his grandmama would tell him stories of angels. Angels with ivory wings and pure, shining souls. Angels that sang with heart-breaking voices, angels that wore porcelain masks to cover their broken, sad faces. Blaine always believed in angels. But, slowly, his belief faltered. The little boy that wished for angels every night slowly disappeared behind the seemingly confident, talented teenager who never told anyone his secrets.
And he had many secrets.
When Blaine was seven, his Grandmama died. That was when he almost stopped believing. But grandpapa told him that Grandmama went to heaven, to become and angel.
Little Blaine Anderson didn’t know why he didn’t believe his Grandpapa.
When Blaine was ten, his brother turned eighteen. His older brother always protected him. Always. He was sure that he’s never leave him unprotected.
Then he left two days after his birthday.
He never came back.
At twelve, Blaine was sure that he was different. Not because he was a little bit shorter than the other boys in his class or he liked musicals and singing. But because he liked boys. Not girls, boys. Hadn’t daddy said that boy who liked other boys were wrong? He sure hoped not. Blaine was terrified. His brother wasn’t there to help, his mother was always at work and his dad would surely punish him.
Twelve year old Blaine Anderson just didn’t know what to do.
Then he was taunted. And the taunting turned into locker shoves, getting his glasses flushed down the toilet. Getting called these horrible names that he didn’t even know the meanings of.
When he was fourteen, there was the catastrophe that was the Sadie Hawkins dance. That was what made his father snap. This proved that his son was gay. He could not have a gay son. One had already run off to pursue a career in music, of all things. Having a gay son would only jeopardize the future of his company.
Then his mother snapped too.
She refused to let her husband treat their son like this. Brendon had already left; she didn’t want to lose another.
Blaine tried to pray for his parents’ marriage, he really did. But the angels didn’t help at all.
So they got a divorce, and Blaine stopped believing.
His mom had sent him to Dalton wearing a stiff blazer and suitcase with a peck on the cheek. She had this sad look in her eyes. And he felt guilty. Guiltier than when he lied about breaking his Grandmama’s vase, worse than when he fell and broke his brother’s guitar.
He wished he could just fix everything.
Where were his angels? Where was his Grandmama now?
From when he was fourteen till he was sixteen, he was sure that angels didn’t exist. He was now the lead singer of the Warblers, best in the class, earning lead roles in school musicals and extremely popular.
Angels didn’t matter to him anymore.
Until that one day he was tapped on the shoulder on the staircase.
He turned.
And all the air left his lungs.
“Excuse me?”
Clocks stopped.
“I’m new here…”
And he believed in angels again.
Kurt never believed in angels. His mummy always told him to believe in angels and God, that one day they would brush his hair and cradle him in heaven. Kurt wanted to believe, he really did. But it was like how he’d stopped believing in Santa when he hadn’t gotten those heals he’d wanted, despite his previous belief that Santa got good boys whatever they wanted.
There was just no proof. So he didn’t have to believe if he didn’t want to.
And he didn’t.
When Elizabeth Hummel was diagnosed with cancer when Kurt was only six, he started to pray. He prayed to God, to angels, to anyone that he thought would listen.
But they didn’t listen, and his mummy died. Right when he needed her.
Eight year old Kurt Hummel just didn’t understand.
But when he was ten, Kurt grew. Not only taller and thinner, but great ivory wings sprouted out of his thin shoulder blades.
Wings.
Wings that shouldn’t even be there.
But why?
Nobody knew, but dear Elizabeth Hummel was a descendant of a line of creatures with beautiful, ivory wings; pure, shining souls; voices that were heartbreakingly beautiful and wore porcelain masks that shielded their sad, broken faces.
You could call them angels if you’d like. But no one knew what they truly were.
And little Kurt Hummel knew the least.
Mr and Mrs Barton, Elizabeth’s parents, were terrified of their daughter. Terrified that they were different. She wore thick jackets to school to cover up the stumps that were left where her parents had tried to hack off the cream-coloured wings that had sprouted from her back.
She cried because she was different.
But why should she have cried because she was different?
Only the quarterback, Burt Hummel, took notice of her. He took one look at her delicate features; soft, tumbling chestnut curls, and was captivated. He didn’t even care for the strange, raw red lumps hidden under her jacket.
When their son was born, it was the happiest they would ever be in an extremely long time.
He was special, there was no denying it. His sweet, high voice and angelic features; his interest in musicals and fashion; his knowledge of musicals and fashion. Elizabeth had always told Burt to accept his son. And he did.
But why be teased for being special? Why cry for being special?
Kurt asked questions that his daddy just didn’t know the answer to.
Kurt had begged Burt to remove the wings. “Please, dad,” he pleaded.
“I can’t be a freak all my life.”
Burt’s heart had never shattered harder. But Burt just couldn’t do it. The pain it would cause his son. He wouldn’t do that to him. He couldn’t do that to him.
The next day, after a night of tantrums and slamming doors, the wings disappeared.
Ten year old Kurt Hummel was convinced he was going crazy. There was no other explanation for it. Who had wings that appeared and disappeared within the space of a few hours? But he could remember his dad crying, he remembered pleading for his dad to get rid of the wings.
Had Burt actually cut them off?
But Burt had done nothing of the sort.
Oh God he was going mad wasn’t he?
For the rest of his life, Kurt Hummel knew he wasn’t going to survive. Not only was he crazy, but he was gay, which meant daily bashings from the close-minded people of his hometown. He was bullied for having a high voice, for wearing fashionable clothes, for liking boys.
For seven years he lived like this. Seven years not believing in himself. He had spent seven years believing that he was mad.
Until he tapped that boy on the shoulder on the staircase at Dalton. The boy with the silver pocket watch and a helmet of gelled curls.
With those eyes that cracked his porcelain mask.
And he started believing in angels for the first time in his life.