After 16:30 I shall not speak again.

It always seems worse in the afternoons - when he is tired from the day, and surrounded by people whose opinions of him he still cares about.  After the first time he heard the voice, he had been convinced that someone had set him up - or perhaps his phone had accidentally dialled someone and ended up on loudspeaker - or, perhaps, he was on the Truman Show...  Breathing heavily, his mind racing, he had attempted to rationalise.  There were no missed calls or recently dialled calls on his phone so that was not it - also, it was not a voice he knew so no way he would have their number.  He searched his room for bugs and webcams but found no sign of any.

He fixated on the possibility that none of this was real.  That he was actually the star of a television show.  That everyone he loved was actually an actor.

In the stark night it seemed suddenly so obvious.

He was cold to his ‘parents the next morning - partly because he wanted to see if they would crack, but they were consummate actors.  Instead, they seemed concerned.  He brushed them off.

His lessons flew by - for some reason, the trick to making the day go quickly seems to be to completely zone out.  What was the point in paying attention anyway?  None of it was real.

The New Directions each had their own dramas - subplots his mind provided - so barely noticed his presence at all.

 I sing without hope on the boundary...

He had no idea where that thought came from.

-+-

                At night he finds himself unable to sleep even though he is exhausted both physically and mentally.  His thoughts are like ants - in their thousands - running over his limbs, making his skin itch and crawl.  He scratches his skin until it bleeds - itching it feels good.  Itching is relaxing.

He calls Kurt - more as a distraction than a scheduled contact.  There is a small part of him that hopes that his fiancé, his beautiful, sexy fiancé, is not in on whatever game everyone else is playing with him.  The phone rings endlessly.

Blaine rings off because Kurt is at his door.

                (He is not really there)

He knows that it is not real, but it calms him to see his fiancé in the flesh.  It does not feel strange - it feels like it had with the puppets.  He is not scared.

                (You should be scared)

‘Sometimes I turn around and catch the smell of you - and it kills me.  It kills me that Im not with you.  That Im still stuck in Ohio and youre in New York.  I cant wait until Im there with you.  I cant wait until Im with you.

(Silence)

‘Kurt?

(Silence)

‘Kurt, please talk to me.  I need you.

(Silence)

‘I need you to breathe.  It hurts so fucking much.

Part of him -

(A small part)

- is glad that ‘Kurt does not speak.

-+-

‘You know, I really feel like Im being manipulated.

The rest of the New Directions stare at him like he is the one who is not real.  He laughs at them but they seem confused by his outburst.  As if it has not been lurking in the background for weeks, months.  Their voices erupt at once, buzzing, buzzing, furious hornets, and he cannot think through the tirade.  A scream pierces through the din - he has no idea whose it was, but his lungs burn and his throat is sandpaper raw.  The following silence is louder than the voices that preceded it.  It is pregnant - heavy, and unwieldy and he cannot breathe.

Hes not sure how he got home - it is only 16:30...

-+-

                He sits in the back row and listens - not to the singing, no, theres no subtlety in the messages behind the chosen songs.  He listens to what they dont say through words.  The looks.  The body language.

                You were right.

The justification feels like redemption.  He feels light.  He can breathe again.

                ‘Thank you.

-+-

                ‘Dude, somethings up with Blaine.

                ‘Hi to you too, Sam.

                ‘Seriously.  You need to get your ass on a plane, because hes losing it - or hes lost it, Im not sure -

                ‘Wait, wait, wait.  Slow down.  Whats going on?

                ‘Blaine.  Hes, like, all talking to himself, and saying weird stuff -

                ‘Like what?

                ‘That hes being manipulated.  Hes talking to himself - or not at all - and its not normal behaviour for him.

                ‘Ill call him.

‘Hes stopped singing -‘

                ‘Ill be there as soon as I can.  Im booking tickets as we speak.

                ‘Thank you - we are all freaking out.  We didnt know what else to do.  Had you noticed anything?

                ‘Hes been a little odd...  I mean, the puppets-‘

                ‘Dont dis the puppets - those things are awesome.

                ‘Theyre weird, Sam.  Right, I have to go - I need to pack and get to the airport.  Ill be there tonight, OK?

                ‘OK.

                ‘Thanks, Sam.

                ‘What for?

                ‘For looking out for him.

                ‘Hes my bro.

                ‘Thank you.

-+-

                They are all right about you.

The change in tone takes him by surprise.  He looks around the room for the source of the voice - a futile exercise, he knows, but it is a reflex - as much a part of him as breathing.

Shaking, he walks faster - out of the empty class room.  Away from the voice.

                You are pathetic.  Running away like a scared child.

How is it still following him?  His heart is racing and his vision blurred.  He darts into another class room - thankfully it is empty.  But why is it so loud?

He sinks to the floor.

                Crybaby.  Useless, good for nothing, crybaby.  Pathetic.  You really are.  No wonder they dont like you.  No wonder he doesnt love you.  Who could love you?  Who could love you?

He tries to breathe.  He puts his hands over his ears and hums loudly but nothing helps.  Nothing helps.

16:28

The clock marches time forwards, unceasing, uncaring.

                16:29

The voices fade a little - the volume turned down slowly.

                16:30

He can breathe again.  He knows he only has a little time.  A little time now until they return.  It is as if, at this time, he stumbles across some interference which messes with the signal and his reward is blessed peace.  A brief flicker of hope.  A taste of normality, of before.

Clockwork - an hour and twelve minutes of blessed sanity.  Crystal clarity when he can see how sick his mind is.  How twisted things have become.  He is terrified in those moments.  Shaking, scared, alone.  He considers seeking help - perhaps his mother, a doctor, or Kurt.  Could they still love him if they knew?

He feels as if he lives for an hour and twelve minutes a day.  His life is in sips.

                16:50

Drawing control of his limbs he stands and makes it to his car without incident - without seeing anyone he knows.  He does not have the strength today to talk.  He never has the strength to talk after 16:30.

He drives on autopilot - his mind is preoccupied with other things.

                17:20

His sanctuary, his room, is quiet.  He has long since removed every and all clocks except for one - a digital clock, silent, and unobtrusive.  The digits burn his retinas and his heart races.

                17:21

Nesting in bed, as a child creates a fort against the monsters, Blaine shivers.  His monsters are very real, but a physical fort holds no comfort.  It holds no protection.

During his brief respite from darkness he knows he is losing his mind - each delusion, each degrading thought shines false in the harsh light of his clarity.  He grabs a pen and paper and writes his truths:

                I love Kurt.

                Kurt loves me.

                The New Directions are my friends.

                They value me as a person.

                My parents care about me.

                I have a lot of friends.

                What do you give your friends that makes them so supportive?

The thought is dull but there - an echo.

                17:35

He takes a calming breath, then another.  He is dimly aware that his phone is ringing - he can hear the buzzing in the back of his mind, but he cannot talk now.  He cannot be trusted to talk now.

He lets it go unanswered.

                17:40

Two minutes.  Two minutes before his darkness takes over leaving him in fragments - a puppet               with no stings, a grotesque fool - trapped in his own half-truths and delusions.

 Why do you believe me then and not now?

                17:41

                Stop judging by appearances and make a right judgement.

                17:42

The buzzing begins again - is it still his phone?  He cannot be certain.  He was supposed to be at practice - but that was before.

                Why wont the buzzing stop? 

Why do they keep calling me?

                They dont care about you.

Its all right. You will get better.

                Your disbelief cures nothing.

Look away from me.

He pulls the blanket over his head because he does not want to see him.  He does not deserve to see the image of the one person in this mess who is worth so much more than Blaine can give.  He is not worthy.  He is not worthy to eat the crumbs from under his table.  He is not worthy...

A voice mumbles.

‘Cut out my tongue, tear out my hair, cut off my limbs, but leave me my love.  I would rather have lost my legs, pulled out my teeth, gouged out my eyes, than lost my love...

A half-forgotten chant.

He does not expect the blanket to be pulled from him.  The light is on - he did not leave it on.

Im seeing things

Im hearing things

I dont know who I am

 Kurt has never touched him before.  This time he does.  Blaine flinches away.  Kurt looks confused.  He opens his mouth but there are no words only buzzing.  Only buzzing.  Blaine presses his palms into his eyes.

                ‘Not real, not real, not real, not real...

-+-

                The room is dressed to make it feel like ‘home, but whose home he is not certain.  He sits on the couch across from the woman.  She scribbles constantly on her pad of paper and looks at him, judging, over horn-rimmed glasses.  Words have been thrown around like Depression and Schizophrenia -

                Why does everyone want to label me?  What is the fascination with labels?  Gay, straight, male, female, chair, table, orange, red, suitcase...  So many labels.

Kurt is sitting next to him.  He has not left his side since he appeared in Blaines bedroom.  Other people (Blaines parents, for example) seem to be in on it - they fervently tell him that Kurt is real.  Blaine knows better.  He tolerates his presence because he cannot bring himself to make Kurt leave.

The lady is insisting that Blaine needs help - medicinal, perhaps - and Kurt is nodding in agreement and Blaine finds it hilarious.

‘Okay, lets do it, lets do the drugs, lets do the chemical lobotomy, lets shut down the higher functions of my brain and perhaps Ill be a bit more fucking capable of living.

Hes not sure where that came from.

                ‘Im sorry.

He does not feel sorry.

Kurt looks like he is going to cry and the woman keeps scribbling.

                You cannot do anything right.

He keeps quiet.

-+-

                They sit together in his room and Blaine tries to get on with his life whilst ignoring Kurt.  Kurt is making if difficult.  Blaine does not want to talk; he cannot talk - not until 16:30.  He cannot recall why but the number is important.  He glances at the clock - there are messages in the digits - he had tried to tell that woman about them, but she had not been able to grasp the truth.

                16:20

Not long now.

It is a curious sensation - panic and excitement furiously writhing around like snakes in his gut.

The feel of a hand on his arm draws his attention.

Kurt is crying.

Blaine lets Kurt hug him.

He melts.

-+-