My heart pounds in my chest as I rummage through my bedside table drawer. I'm searching for something, but where is it?
A drawing of a tree from sixth grade? No.
An "I love you" bracelet? Ha! No.
A Katy Perry CD case? No, no, no, no, NO.

My fingers finally close on what I'm looking for. I caress the cool metal as a schoolboy would his pet.
My most valuable possession.
My X-Acto blade.

I race to my bathroom and sit on the cold tile floor, my mind racing in loops. So close. My mouth begins to water as I feel the anticipation build up in my stomach. I can taste the cool familiarity on my tongue.

I roll up my sleeve and hold out my left forearm, which is marred completely by beautiful, beautiful red scars. Some are faded o white, almost transparent, while others are still scabbing over, waiting to become the lifelong reminder of my actions.

And I love it.

I hold the knife to the spot right above the crease in my elbow and press down gently. Red droplets peek out from the small line. Not enough. The voice in my head is screaming at me now: More. I need MORE.

"You're a failure," I say to myself, and that's all the motivation that I need. I press harder now, making neat little slashes to cover the damages already been done.

The blood joins together in a lovely waterfall of red, red, red.

I drop the knife and smile at the little clink it makes when it hits the tile. I dip my fingers in some of the blood pooling on my arms, reaching down to trace patterns in the lovely, pristine white tile.
White: The color of purity and innocence and then-

Red, red, red.

~~~~~

This is my secret, you see. My one thing I have that I and I alone can control. People could tell me to stop, if they actually noticed and/or cared.

But it doesn't change the fact that they cannot control me. I am in charge of my own life and what I choose to do with it.

People used to push me around constantly, calling me violent names, pushing me into lockers, they even tied me to the flagpole naked once with FAG written on various places of my body. These accusations are not false, but still hurtful.

I have no control over my sexual preference. Dicks. I love dicks.

But there's that word again.
Control.
I can't control other people, everyone tells me. Just because you're always right doesn't mean that you can shove it in other people's faces, they say.

So, I'm at Dalton. A place where you blend into the group. An endless sea of faceless, blazer-clad boys.

And the Warblers, oh the Warblers. I'm a part of Dalton's a capella glee club. And, get this, I'm the lead singer. At every event, I'm the one standing in the spotlight, drawing people's attention. They all have to look at me, because I'm giving something to them.

I love the attention. I love being in control of he group, having every decision made based on me. It has to stay me forever, I have to have that spotlight. I need it more than my life.

Well, today, we had yet another Warblers meeting. It was decided by the council hat I am taking up too much of the energy of the group, and that we should think about giving another person a shot. In my head, I screamed no. NO. NO! But I can't let that show to my fellow Warblers. They might lose all respect for me. So I kept quiet, smiling and nodding at the appropriate times.

I even suggested that Nick take the next song instead of me, because that's who Blaine Anderson is. He is a team player who loves life and thinks everyone and everything is great.

They just don't understand that I'm dying beneath that perfect facade.

And so, I ended up here, bleeding on my bathroom floor.

This is so common for me. I look down at my arm, stained with the dark brown that is my own dried blood. I gently finger one of my most protruding scars, an old one that runs directly across the crease of my wrist. I think back to the day that it was done, a terrible day in the life of Blaine.

~~~~

It was a cool November day when I waltzed through the front doors of my house, splattered in bruises and cuts.

My father is standing the living room, beer in one hand and a phone in the other. I creep around the corner to catch the tail end of the conversation.

"-It's gotta happen fast or he might try something!"
I accidentally sub my toe on the crown molding and let out a yelp of pain. Shit.

"Who's there?" My dad demanded, throwing the phone down on the table.

I step forward with a large gulp and hold my breath.

"Why are you all beaten up? Did you fall out of a tree? You always were a clumsy little bastard."

My heart stops as I shake my head roughly. "A-actually, dad, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"What is it, son?"

"These g-guys a-at school, um, they, um, threw me into a dumpster and shut the lid so I couldn't-"

"Why didn't you defend yourself? I thought I raised you right! God DAMN it, you're soft! I warned your mother that if we didn't put you in lessons-"

I took a step back at the harshness of his tone. "Don't you want to know why?" My inside voice is screaming N. Now is not the time for that. Say it when he's sober.

"Stop playing these games and just TELL me, boy!"

I took a deep breath to calm myself and stated as clearly as I could, "It's because I'm gay."

SMACK.

"Don't you DARE say those words under my roof, boy! We'll send you to another school. You WILL NOT act upon these abnormally freakish urges of yours. We can't have the town gossiping. I'll be a laughing stock!"

Tears sting my eyes as I rub my stomach tenderly. "What if I say no? I didn't choose to be this way! It's not my--"

SLAM

My father pinned me up on the wall like a poster, sneering in my face. "You. Are. A. Disgrace." He accented each word with a punch to the gut. "One more word and I will disown you. Is that clear?" I could smell the alcohol drifting around his mouth, blowing in and out with his ragged breathing. I nodded and he let me down.

~~~~

Tears stung my eyes as I ran to my room, searching for something, ANYTHING to reduce the pain.

I grabbed some tweezers that were sitting by my bedside table, jamming them fast and hard into my wrist, drawing blood.

I then scoured my room looking and looking until I found a pair of scissors. I held the blade against my skin and sliced and sliced until red, red, red.

I marveled at the adrenaline pumping through my veins, exciting and thrilling me.

And then, it was over, and I was left with a craving, an itch for more.

"I'm a failure."

I climbed into my bed and sobbed into my pillow, both for my father's rejection and my failure to please him.

"I'll try to be a better son for you dad, I will."