The car stood there untouched and unmoving for almost ten minutes before the fire department, police and ambulance got called to the place.

  There was only one car; a hit and run.

 The first passenger of the smashed car, the driver, had gotten away lucky – escaping the crash with two broken ribs, a badly bruised left shoulder, concussion, and a cut and bruising on the left side of his head and face where he'd hit the car's window.

  The second passenger hadn’t been as lucky.

  Being on the side of the impact, the right side of his body had gotten crushed, and his spine had snapped. He'd died instantly.

When Kurt woke up he was yet again in a hospital bed, but his first thought was,

  "Blaine." 

  He said the word quietly, uttered in a horrified whisper. It was more than just a name that time. It was everything he never got the chance to say, everything he never got the chance to do, everything he’d lost and more. Because he knew.

  He knew Blaine was gone. 

  It was strange, but he could feel it inside him that Blaine wasn't with him anymore, that he'd left even after all the times he'd assured him he wouldn't.

  Blaine was dead. No one had to tell him.

  Once the nurses arrived, he guessed they told him, but he didn't hear. He couldn't hear anything they said, actually. Either the shock made him unable to register the sound, or he was temporarily deaf. Or maybe it wasn't temporary.

  Kurt didn't care. Now when Blaine wasn't there anymore he couldn't imagine anything worth hearing.

  He was never going to hear Blaine's voice again.

  He was never going to hear Blaine's voice again.

  He was never going to feel Blaine's touch again.

  He was never going to see Blaine's smile again.

  He was never going to see Blaine again. 

  He was never going to see Blaine again. 

  He was never going to see Blaine again. 

  He was never going to see Blaine again. 

  Maybe he started screaming and they put him to sleep, maybe he blacked out. Either way, he lost consciousness. He'd never wished harder to never wake up again. 

He had no idea for how long he got kept at the hospital. 

  He didn't care. 

  He didn't really remember much of it.

  He got put to sleep a lot, and there were lots of people coming into his room that talked to him and wanted him to talk to them. 

  He never did.

  He wasn't sure if it was because he didn't want to or because he couldn't. 

  He didn't check. 

  Why should he?

  Quinn came to visit him during one of the first days. She looked very tired and very sad. 

  She'd been crying. A lot, from the look of it.

  Kurt hadn't.

  How could he?

  How did you cry?

  He didn't know.

  Quinn sat by his bed for hours, not saying a word. 

  Kurt was thankful for that. 

  He didn't like it when people who weren't Blaine spoke to him.

  Some time after she left, an image of a much flatter stomach entered his mind and he remembered that Quinn had a child now.

  He wasn't sure he cared anymore.

  When Kurt started to feel like maybe he'd finally be able to become one with the bed and never do anything ever again, Santana and Quinn came to his room and told him that they were going home.

  Kurt wasn't sure he had a home anymore.

  The car ride was silent, to which Kurt was thankful. He didn't like it when people who weren't Blaine spoke to him.

  They followed him inside and changed his bedsheets and the water in his water container. Then they hugged him long and hard and he guessed lovingly too, but he wasn't sure. He didn't hug them back.

  When they left he remained standing. Four hours later his legs folded under him and then he was on the floor.

  He stayed on the floor for seven hours. Then Quinn came back and helped him take a shower and made him drink a glass of water. Then she gave him an apple and he threw up when he tried to eat it.

  After she'd cleaned it from the floor she led him to his bed and put him under the covers. She stayed for another hour.

  After a few days Kurt locked the door because he didn't want Quinn to take care of him any more. He wanted to be alone.

  He wanted to die.

  But he didn't.

  Somehow, of some reason, he didn't. 

  He never really decided if that was good or not.

He remained still, quiet and generally numb for another three weeks. Then the rages began. And then the crying. And the screaming. And the hitting. And the drinking. And the crying and screaming and drinking and hitting until he bled and couldn't breathe or stand up or see straight. 

  After a week of screaming and crying his voice was gone and his throat so sore he could barely breathe. He started hitting more then, and sleeping even less, lying curled into a ball in his loveseat, hugging The Book Thief close to his chest, staring blankly in front of him, wishing the memories would kill him.

  He went 73 hours without sleep and then slept for 22 hours straight.

  He spent half his days bent over the toilet, dry heaving because he wasn't eating. 

  He lost 20 pounds during the next three months.

  He didn't go back to highschool.

  He didn't go back to work.

  And he had no plans of changing anything ever again.

However, as November was coming closer and closer, change came despite everything. 

  He had one of the worst yet best dreams he'd ever had.

  He saw Blaine again.

  He saw Blaine again and there was no mention of his too-sudden, too–early, and way-too-fucking-painful-not-forgetting-unfair death.

  He saw Blaine again and in his dream he smiled and he was happy and he was home. 

  He saw Blaine again and he woke up because he was crying so hard he couldn't breathe.

  After that, somehow, he started taking care of himself a little. He wasn't sure why. But he slept and when he woke up he drank water instead of the first alcohol he happened to find in his mess of apartment.

  He took showers and he opened the blinds of his windows, nearly starting to either scream of cry when he remembered him and Blaine nodding proudly at a job well done not at all long ago.

  In early November he started collecting the mountains of empty alcohol holders of every kind into big black plastic bags. 

  He didn't have a car anymore, so he just dragged the plastic bags down to the road when they were full. The trash–collecting people would surely take them away, he thought, whoever they were.

  He would never drive again, of that he was sure. Eighty percent of the time, he was convinced it had all been his fault.

  He’d driven the car.

  They’d gotten into an accident.

  Blaine'd died.

  Kurt’s fault.

  He would never drive again.

One day, somewhere in the middle of November, there was a knock on the door, and of some reason he opened it. It was Quinn, of course. She’d been coming over every now and then, knocked on the door, and then left when Kurt wouldn’t let her in. 

  But now, finally, he did. It was almost nice to see her. The only faces he’d seen for so long now were just in his dreams, and 99 percent of the time, those faces weren’t friendly. Quinn’s was. There was a hint of sadness and guilt in her eyes, however, and for a moment he had to wonder why she was feeling guilty. She had a kid now – a real kid, so she really should stop worrying so much about Kurt. 

  And he had to stop acting like a kid, so she wouldn’t worry so much about him.

  She didn’t have anything with her, except herself. Though, in that moment, nothing else was needed.

  It took him a while, but that day, finally, he talked again. He hadn’t spoken to another human being for months. The words tasted unusual in his mouth, and his throat got dry quickly. She was patient with him, ignoring it when his voice broke or when he fell over the words, or forgot what he was saying mid-sentence. The last few months had been hard enough for her, she couldn’t imagine what they’d been like for Kurt.

  “I just really hate everything a lot right now.” he said finally, and it was almost like he stopped hating some things a little only by saying it out loud.

  After a while neither of them could handle speaking of Blaine, or anything related to him even a little, anymore, so Kurt asked her to tell him about her life, because that must have changed drastically the last months.

  It had. She told him that she’d named her baby Lucy, of no reason in particular except that she liked the name, and that she was working as a cashier in the supermarket five days a week. She had just enough money to get by with her and the baby, and she was renting a little one-room apartment in town. At the time being, Santana’s parents were still helping her out a little, now with money instead of a place to live. She was grateful, but wanted nothing more to soon be able to stop relying on anyones help. She missed having Kurt around a lot, and hoped he’d be ready to come and visit her soon. Visit her and Lucy, in their new home.

  It actually helped, if only just a little, hearing about Quinn’s new life, because, even though they were weird together, it still worked out really well, somehow.