Kurt sucked in a gulp of air, blinking in the dark. He was lying down, but his stiff hips and back plus the feeling of the thin carpet against his skin told him that he was half-curled on his bedroom floor rather than in his bed. There was no sunlight coming through the windows – instead the room was illuminated only by the dim glow of the streetlamps out by the road and the hallway light seeping through the cracks around the door. He glanced at the clock and quickly did the math in his head – he'd been absent for a little more than ten hours and the winter's early night had already swept in.

A chill washed over his skin and he realized that the upper half of his body was naked, but he didn't quite want to move yet. Instead of standing up, he ran through the mental routine of lining up the events that had taken place for him in the time before he blacked out – the last thing he could remember was Blaine shouting, and though he couldn't remember the exact words the thought of it made his throat hurt.

He sighed – come on, Kurt, get up already – and tried to drag himself to his feet, only to yelp and recoil when pain erupted all across his torso. His skin suddenly felt like it was on fire, the nerves shocked by his attempt at movement. Wincing and gritting his teeth, he tried again, this time gingerly pushing himself up onto his knees and waiting for the pulsing pain in his skin to subside slightly before standing up fully. His mirror was no longer there – Zack had destroyed it – so Kurt turned on his bedside lamp and looked down at himself.

The air left his lungs in a single beat.

His chest, shoulders, and stomach were peppered with fresh cigarette burns, angry and red even in the soft glow of his lamp. Taking a deep breath and trying not to panic, he silently counted the marks of puckered skin. Amidst the confusion and terror tugging at the bottom of his stomach, Kurt felt a stabbing of irritation – the two burns on his back had barely stopped hurting, and now he had to deal with these too.

Eleven.

Eleven new scars to wear.

Kurt's eyesight blurred, and he wiped his hands over his eyes.

There was a faint, hesitant knock on the door. "Kurt?" Finn called softly from the other side. He must have seen the light go on. "Are you back?"

Kurt swallowed, his throat aching. Finn sounded so hopeful. But he couldn't face Finn right now. He couldn't face anyone, not when they had to tie his door shut just to keep him contained.

He remembered with a jolt that his admission interview at Appalachian was today, and he didn't even know if it had taken place. The realization sent an agonizing shock up his spine, and his lungs contracted beneath his ribs as the room tilted and he had to sit down on the floor again to keep from collapsing. He fleetingly wondered if this is what a panic attack felt like, but he couldn't think about that for very long since he was trying to focus on just pulling air into his chest.

It proved to be much harder than normal. Kurt could feel his throat squeezing tight, and his ribs opened and closed emptily. The fresh burns seared into his skin like claws digging to his bones, and he felt ashamed as tears leaked out of his eyes, dripping onto his hands.

"Kurt?" Finn called again. "Please tell me it's you so I can open the door."

Kurt didn't answer, only pulling his knees against his chest and trying not to gasp for air.

Three more days, Finn reminded himself. Just three days. Kurt would be interviewed tomorrow, the hospital would admit him, and then he'd settle in over the weekend. Just three days until Finn wouldn't be obligated to sit outside Kurt's door while Zack threw things or Eleanor screamed. He didn't want Kurt to leave, but with Kurt home it was too crowded, and they all needed some breathing room – Kurt included.

Finn stared at the wall, his arms wrapped loosely around his legs as he leaned his head back. He listened closely to the sobs coming from Kurt's room, trying to determine just from the sound if it was Kurt or someone else, but the voice was a little too distorted through the door to be sure.

He jumped, startled out of his concentration when his phone buzzed against his leg. Rachel had sent him a text asking if Kurt was any better and informing him of her decision to add Ingrid Michaelson to the Regionals set list.

sounds awesome, he replied, having no clue who Ingrid Michaelson was.

…You didn't answer my question about Kurt.

Finn really wasn't sure how Rachel learned to text so quickly. Maybe it was because her fingers were smaller and she didn't make as many typos as he did.

Kurt's cries were beginning to sound more choked-off and uneven, and Finn paused before sending his reply.

he's fine.

Burt felt a flood of relief when Finn came down the stairs just after ten o'clock, followed by an exhausted-looking Kurt. Burt jumped up from his armchair and engulfed Kurt in a hug, feeling his heart clench at how weakly Kurt's arms returned the gesture. He looked so tired, and Burt wanted to offer to sleep in Kurt's room with him that night, but Kurt was eighteen and his pride was easily bruised, so Burt held his tongue.

He drew out of the hug, his hands on Kurt's slumped shoulders. "You're okay?" he asked.

Kurt nodded, his shadowed eyes blinking slowly.

"You're sure?"

"I'm okay," Kurt said, his voice hoarse. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I'm just hungry."

Carole immediately stood up from her spot on the couch. "I'll make you something," she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

"I… think I'll go to bed," said Finn, his hands in his pockets. "See you in the morning." He climbed back up the stairs without giving either Burt or Kurt the chance to say good night.

Burt wrapped an arm around Kurt's back, half supporting him as they went to the kitchen. He and Carole had already eaten dinner (Carole had brought a sandwich upstairs for Finn), but he sat down at the table with Kurt anyways, keeping a hand on Kurt's forearm until Carole placed a grilled cheese in front of him.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Burt asked softly as Kurt ate. He couldn't help but notice how nauseous Kurt looked.

Kurt refused to meet either his or Carole's eyes. "Uh… I remember cleaning up my room. That's it," he said, and Burt knew it was a lie. He didn't press, though. Kurt deserved some room to try and forget.

Kurt finally dropped off to sleep in his own bed around eleven, and Burt slept fitfully next to Carole, waking every hour or so for a few minutes before letting his eyes slide shut again. Dozing with his arm draped over Carole's middle, the house was quiet except for the winter breeze blowing past the windows, tendrils of frost creeping up the glass. Burt's mind constantly wavered between dreams and half-coherent thoughts, seemingly unable to decide between sleep and consciousness. Carole sighed in her sleep, rolling closer to him.

At three-fifteen on the dot, Burt's eyes snapped open. It took him a moment to register the grating, solid scratching sound that had woken him, and he sat up in bed, twisting around towards the door. For a brief half-second, Burt was worried that Kurt was suffering from one of his alters' fits again in the seclusion of his room, but he flinched and instinctively grabbed Carole's shoulder when he realized that Kurt was right there.

Carole sat up, startled awake by Burt's hand. "Burt, what—? Oh my God…"

Kurt was crouched on the floor with his back to them, his shoulders hunched as he hacked at the wall with the tip of a letter opener (he must have stolen it from Burt's desk downstairs). There were dozens of lines carved in a vaguely rectangular shape, crossing and swooping over one another randomly. Kurt's head tilted as he stabbed through the wallpaper, dragging the point of the dull blade across the wood.

"K-Kurt?" Burt started.

Kurt's head snapped back to stare at them with wide, unblinking eyes turned black in the shadows. The letter opener fell to the floor with a thunk.

No one moved for several seconds. Still crouching, Kurt silently lifted a finger to his lips.

Then he lurched to his feet, and disappeared into the hallway.