Kurt Hummel wrapped his fashionable Marc Jacobs jacket tighter around his toned stomach and quickened his pace. He didn’t need the extra warmth. He was immune to the discomfort of things like weather, but he used any and all excuses to stay in style…even though no one would actually ever see his runway brilliance. Well, not unless he was watching the light fade out of their eyes. He looked down at his arm where the tattooed name had appeared just hours earlier. He only had one case tonight, odd. The neighborhood was nicer than he was used to on nights like these. Pitch black was ideal for drug deals and murders, yet the houses were larger than hotels. Dogs barked in the distance as he quickened his pace.

 As he neared the largest house, the tattooed name began to glow as red as embers. Kurt waited for the familiar and painful burning sensation that accompanied the glow, but it never came. His forearm felt relaxed, as though nature was giving him a break. Kurt scoffed. Give Death a break? Unlikely. Maybe I just don’t feel it anymore. He learned long ago not to reason with himself, for he tended to over think things, so he pushed the thoughts away and started up the gravel driveway of his client’s home.

My client…

He had never gotten used to the term. He wasn’t really taking lives (even though he had the power to do just that), he was simply assisting human beings in the transformation from living to dead. And so he nicknamed these people his clients. Kurt knew it was a bit insensitive. I mean, it wasn’t as though these people had a choice most of the time, but it was better than calling them victims. Much better. Gravel crunched under his large feet as he neared the front door.

The house was, as mentioned, the largest on the street. The hedges were cut in perfect rectangular strips and the grass was of the perfect length. These people must have a landscaper…or six. The house itself appeared to be made of large slabs of stone. The windows were outlined with black cedar. There was a long gravel driveway that led up to the house. Kurt could only imagine the vast number of cars that must have been kept in the locked garage…not that locks could keep him out, but he had business to do, after all. I wonder what Mr. Blaine did to get himself killed in this joint. Perhaps drowned in his own expensive bathwater? He chuckled at the thought. How stereotypical. Death has a morbid sense of humor.

Kurt placed one hand on the dark mahogany door and gently pushed it open, carefully stepping inside. There was no reason to stay quiet, it wasn’t as though anyone in the house (besides Blaine Anderson, eventually) would be able to see or hear him, but his time as a human hadn’t completely rubbed off. The inside of the home was, if at all possible, more extravagant than the outside. It seemed to be themed around the mahogany door. Almost everything was colored black or red. Tasteful family, thought Kurt. There was a dining room, living room, and kitchen branching off from the small hallway where he now stood. The living room held a black leather couch, several matching chairs, a bit of necessary décor, and a large flat screen. A middle aged woman with long black hair sat on the couch, looking positively grim. By the looks of her clothes, she decorated the place. A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye.

Kurt approached the woman. She appeared to be Italian.

She’s obviously not Blaine. Guess I better go look for –

His thoughts were interrupted by the ear splitting sound of a slamming door and stomping feet from the direction of the staircase.

“I didn’t raise a fag, Blaine! You are going to snap out of this whether you like it or not!”

A large man in a suit (from Tom Ford’s collection) came barreling down the stairs, briefcase in hand. The Italian woman looked genuinely terrified. She sank down into the couch, obviously hoping the man wouldn’t notice her.

Too late.

“We have to do something about him, Ellen.” Spoke the man. The woman didn’t look as though she’d heard him.

“I said, we have to do something about him. Look at me when I talk to you, damn it!”  

The woman slowly twisted her small body so that she was looking directly at the man. “W-what do you m-mean, James? As you said, it’s just a s-stupid phase. You raised him r-right. He’s just being a teenager and…rebelling.”

I can only imagine that Blaine is the son in this situation.

The man stood perfectly still for what seemed like forever. He didn’t blink. He barely even breathed. Then, before Ellen could do as much as whimper, he brought his hand back and swung at her face. She toppled backwards off the couch, her head banging against the small glass coffee table that stood close by. Kurt glanced at his forearm. Still just Blaine.

The man growled -My God. Do you think you’re a wolf? - and backed away. He snatched up what could only be car keys and retreated to the front door. Ellen didn’t stir. Kurt heaved a great sigh and made his way to the steep staircase that the man, James, as Ellen had called him, had stormed down just minutes before. One step at a time, Kurt climbed.

The second story of the house was larger than the first. Kurt explored each decorative room (two bedrooms, three bathrooms, a living room, a dining area, and an office), finding no one.

He’s on the top story, then.

One step.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Nine.

Eleven.

Fourteen.

Sixteen.

The third story of the Anderson household was a grim looking place compared to the rest of the house. It appeared to be one massive room containing a bed, a couch, a small television, and a dresser. Articles of clothing (including an obtuse number of bow ties) were strewn in every place imaginable. The floor wasn’t visible.

I think I found him.

Blaine Anderson lay in a heap in the corner. His hair was matted. His clothes were torn. His chest heaved up and down. His body shook. His mouth emitted loud, choking sobs. He looked all around miserable. Several pill bottles lay on the ground beside him. Kurt’s heart ached for the boy.

Wait…I feel sorry for him? I never feel sorry for my clients. Ever.

Several opened pill bottles lay on the ground beside him. Kurt muttered obscenities.

Oh, damn, a suicide case. I usually push those off on one of the Roys.

Blaine, acting as though he had heard the spoken curse words, took several deep breaths and used every bit of his remaining strength to push his body upwards. Kurt gasped. His face was covered in bruises.

Okay…okay. Calm down. Lots of your clients have looked worse than that. Just wait until he takes the pills, then he’ll be able to see you.

Blaine’s eyes focused. “Who are you?” he asked.

Kurt turned around; expecting to see a human face…but no one was there.

Humans are incapable of seeing Death or any Roys until they reach the point of no return. As far as Kurt was concerned, Blaine hadn’t taken the pills yet.  There was no way the boy could be talking to him. He stayed silent.

“I said,” Blaine stated, a little bit louder this time, “Who are you?”

He can’t be talking to me…but…I suppose…it wouldn’t hurt to make sure.

“Can you see me?” Kurt stammered?

“Of course I can see you. Now, who are you and how the hell did you get in my room?”

Kurt took a step backwards.

Impossible.

Blaine stood. “Answer me!”

Kurt had been Death for almost a year and this was the very first time one of his client’s had rendered him speechless. There was no way Blaine could see him…yet, he did.

His forearm glowed an unfamiliar blue color.

“This can’t be happening.”