Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.

The mantra replays in his head until even he starts to believe the voices. They follow him like a trail of breadcrumbs wherever he goes, whispered in passing down the corridors, crooned in his ear when the other boys think no one is watching, screamed at him as he walks home alone. Behind the voices are the faces, the sneers, the gritted teeth and the clenched fists. The people who wrap their fingers around his clothes and his bag and his throat.

He doesn't even know what half of those words mean.

He had never had many friends, the boys in kindergarten had never wanted to play with him because he looked like a girl and spoke like a girl and liked girl songs and girl things and girl clothes, and he'd been perfectly happy to play with the girls back then. Then there had been that dark time, when his mum was ill and his parents cried all the time and he was allowed days off school to go visit her, too much time spent in hospital playgrounds and not enough spent in school ones. But now it's middle school and even the girls and the people who felt sorry for him don't want to be seen with him.

None of them want to spend time with a fag, a homo, a Freak.

 It's not that he particularly wants to be friends with them; it's just that he doesn't want to be alone any more. He doesn't want to eat lunch alone and walk home alone and spend every single weekend alone. He's tired of reading his books and watching his TV, the one his Dad installed with a sad look and a barren silence that said far more than comforting words ever could. He just wishes he had a friend, someone who would actually want to be partners with him in lessons and someone who would let him join their team in gym class and someone who would care when he's thrown to the ground.

But he doesn't. All he has is a Walkman that as of this morning and a run in with Tommy Fletcher is broken beyond repair, an extensive collection of music that was left to him by his mother and an impeccable taste in men's fashion. None of these things will give him a hand up from the floor, or a comforting hug at the end of the day. None of these things will protect him.

Because Kurt Hummel is stuck in small town Ohio with a father who doesn't understand him, teachers who don't care about him and peers who thinks it's their god given right to make his life the kind of unimaginable hell he didn't think he'd ever have to face again after his mother died. He can't even go in his Dad's garage because the other workers look at him like he's one of their cars, something useless and broken that needs to be fixed. He spends half his time avoiding the crowded school hallways because he could quite easily be the next obstacle to throw out of the way or the cleanest mat to wipe your feet on, and the other half avoiding his Dad because if there's one thing his father needs it's less trouble and less heartbreak and less time spent looking into his dead wife's eyes.

Today hadn't been so bad, more terrible days had come to pass and no doubt would again so for now he's glad that it was only his Walkman that had been broken earlier. It's cold, the winter months drawing in, bitter and harsh with the promise of sanctity, warm and crooning with the guarantee of longing. Christmas always makes him a little melancholy. It's his favourite time of the year, endless days spent singing in his room rather than begging from the floor. Nights spent curled up contentedly by the fireplace rather than curled up in terror on his bed. Nothing fills him with more joy than knowing he doesn't have to go back to school. And so what if he never gets any Christmas cards? So what if sometimes he is hit with such consuming pain, with such a demanding hollowness that he can't see straight? So what if every snowflake and every decoration and every note of every song reminds him so unbearably of his mother he doesn't know how he can possibly spend the rest of his life feeling like this? And maybe Christmas isn't all that great when its filled with badly cooked dinners and silence at the table, maybe a little part of him breaks off every time his father gives him that look, the one that is an irrefutable mix of pain, guilt and disappointment, and maybe it can never stop reminding him of making snow angels with his mother, of baking cookies late into the evening, and of sitting snuggled close between his parents while they all watch It's a wonderful life. But it could be worse.

He pulls the sleeves of his sweater down past his hands, trying to conserve as much heat as possible as he walks home in the quickly fading light. He'd forgotten his coat, his mum always used to remind him about it. The sky is white and the street is grey and everything's a bleak shade of depressing. He walks a little quicker, pulls his scarf a little tighter and holds his bag just a little stronger. He's almost home when the voice invades his thoughts, scattering a pair of painfully familiar blue eyes, the words to a song he can never remember the name of, and the hollow ache he feels every time he's alone.

‘Hey fag.' He keeps his head down, speeding his foot falls up minutely and keeping his breathing even. The voice catches up to him, the face just as tormenting as the tone, the smile sickeningly sweet and the eyes determinedly dark, he's brought some friends, a sinister joy on each one of their faces as the four boys surround him.

They close in around him, an impenetrable fortress on every side, a wall of threats with faces, the living manifestations of the monsters under his bed. He's sure that by the time you're thirteen you're supposed to stop being afraid of the metaphorical big bad wolf, of the monsters that hide in the shadows and come out to play when the lights are out, he's sure that you're not supposed to be afraid anymore. And what he wouldn't give to be a monster, to be feared by everyone, to lurk beneath a bed and never have to leave, to be able to defend himself. He would give anything to be one of them, for the roles to be reversed. To be a monster. But he isn't.

He's a victim.

One of them threads an arm around his shoulder. He flinches, tries to shake it off and shivers when the other boy laughs. They all laugh. It's the kind of laughter that sends prickles down your spine, like fingertips jabbing at each vertebra, and that makes even the air around you feel uneasy, it's the kind of laughter that claws its way under your skin. They're bigger than him, not surprising since he's always been small, but they outnumber him in both height and muscle. He shrinks in on himself, never missing a beat as he speeds up even more and continues his path to safety. He doesn't say a word.

‘My Dad works with yours, feels bad for him, he says he'd hate to have a son who's such a fag. Does your Father know what you are? I bet he'll hate you when he finds out, might beat some sense into you. That's what my Father says you deserve.'  Kurt doesn't even know what they're talking about, the words they keep throwing at him mean nothing more than the vicious tone that fuels them, but he can't help but believe them, has believed them for months, his Dad must hate him. Why wouldn't he, everyone else in this town does, and the things they're saying must be true, he must be a fag and his dad must hate him and quite frankly Kurt has lost all the energy to even care. Never in his most disturbing nightmares (and there'd been quite a few) had he imagines his father would hit him, but never in his most disturbing nightmares had he imagined he'd be such a disappointment either.

The tears prickle behind his lids, a raging war with himself- to cry, to give up, to let go, to go down with every bad thought he's ever had about himself and slowly let his breath slip away beneath the salty sting of tears in a wound, or to hold on, to show no weakness to them and to bite back the cascade that is about to fall even if it hurts him more than the landing would. He can slip into the easy oblivion of hatred, of resignation and he can learn to hate himself just as much as everyone else does. Or he can fight, tooth and claw, brutal, unadorned rage that rips at his flesh and claws at his skin, hurting him until he can't even tell the difference between agony and apathy, he can cling on and fight back and show them everything he's got, even if it isn't very much.

For a second he's not sure he has the courage. But after all, his father's always telling him no one pushes the Hummels around.

The first push takes him by surprise, it wasn't meant to come, he was supposed to bare his teeth and the monsters would go running, it lands, square on his chest and he stumbles back into unwelcoming arms. They rip at his clothes and his belongings, scratching away his skin and peeling off every part of him that makes him special, he is jolted forwards. There's a tangle of legs and arms and sneers and then the ground, cold and hard, gravel and blood and open wounds, dirt under his fingernails and tears in his eyes and school books scattered along the pavement. The fuzzy cloud of pain and confusion and bitter, hateful acceptance twists into his mind, whispering sweet obscenities and prying away at his self-belief. A kick lands to his ribcage, the increasing frenzy of symbol hits. The contents of his bag falls around him like falling ash, the scattered notes of a hurried keyboard. Fingernails drag him to his feet, the incessant plucking of a guitar string. A fist lands, and then again and then again and then again,  that last note of triumphant crescendo as both music and pain climax around him and he's thrown to the ground once more.

He presses his face into the concrete, breathing raggedly as he comes down from the sudden jolt of adrenaline and fear slicing through his body. His skin prickles in an unpleasant way, making him want to itch and scratch and scream with frustration. The cold comes back, biting at him where he lies useless on the ground.  He is alone, but the fear still rampages through his body, his heart beating fast and his arms curled protectively around his head. Humiliation rips through him as the wind whips at his cheeks and the tears sting his eyes. This isn't a regular occurrence, but it isn't unheard of either. It's happened enough times for Kurt to know that an adult finding out is the worst thing that could possibly happen to him.

The boys are gone quicker than they came, a sinister laugh carried away in the wind, a dark thought planted at the back of Kurt's mind, and battles scars left for the world to see. He knew who they were, he wishes he didn't. No one would believe him anyway. He collects up his things, wincing where he's sure his ribs are bruised and his lip is split. His jeans are torn at the knee where his skin is grazed and bloody, gravel mixing with it and causing sudden stabs of pain each time he takes a step. 

He stands precariously on legs that feel like giving in, his whole body is shaking, a terrifying mix of rage, adrenaline and panic. He's okay though, aching all over and sure to be bruised but it's nothing new to him. He staggers the rest of the way home, trying to get back quickly but also hoping to avoid as much pain as he can. It doesn't take him long, no more than a minute and he berates himself for not being quicker, if he had just taken a few extra steps, just sped up a little more, none of it ever would've happened.

The door is unlocked, his Dad must be home. He takes a deep breath and walks inside. The house is eerily silent in a way he shouldn't be familiar with but is. There isn't much to be said within these walls anymore. He's almost made it to the stairs when his Dad calls out.

‘Kurt? That you?'

‘Yeah Dad, I'm home, I'll be back in a m-'

‘WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU.' He knows his dad isn't angry at him but he still jumps at the sudden shout in the endless silence, he flinches and curls in on himself, trying to hide the ripped bag and the bloodied jeans as best he can.

 ‘Nothing I'm fine, really. I just fell.' His voice sounds strangled and strange and he realises it's the first time he's spoken all day.

‘Doesn't look like you just fell.' Kurt turns to face his dad, exposing his red rimmed eyes and his muddied clothes and his torn possessions.

‘I was rushing to get home, forgot my coat, guess I'm clumsier than I thought.' Kurt laughs awkwardly and recoils under his father's gaze, he doesn't look him the eye, can't take the pain there, can't take knowing that hid Dad knows he's lying, can't take the way his father is pleading with him to tell the truth. Kurt is far too aware of the throbbing in his chest, of the way a single trail of blood is making its way down his leg, of how broken he looks standing there at the top of the stairs.

‘Kurt-‘

‘I'm okay!' There is a pause, a vacuum of silence in the light of the house when Kurt thinks his Dad might yell, might beg and might shout and might call him out on every one of his half conceived lies. He doesn't and Kurt doesn't know whether he's relieved or disappointed by that.

‘Be more careful next time, okay?' Kurt nods silently and turns away to walk down the stairs. He hopes the way he winces with each step goes unnoticed by his father. ‘And Kurt?'

‘Yes?' he hesitates for a split second but doesn't turn, his grazed knee held somewhere in the air and throbbing with every quickened heartbeat.

‘I love you, don't forget that.' Kurt shakes his head and bites back the tears and carries on walking without turning around.

The mantra replays.

Fag. Homo. Freak.  

He puts his bag back together.

Fag. Homo. Freak.  

He throws away his ripped clothes.

Fag. Homo. Freak.  

He cleans off the blood and the mud and the tears.

Fag. Homo. Freak.  

He cries.

Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.

He spends the hour before dinner doing his school work, he always does his homework but he's taken to not handing it in, that way he gets detention and doesn't have to worry about where he'll spend his lunchtime alone. The time passes far too quickly, like he's on a treadmill that won't slow down, like a freight train rushing towards him, like the sudden impact of the ground when it feels like you've been falling for days.

‘Hey Kurt, dinner's ready.' His Dad lingers on the stairs waiting for him to catch up and looking at him with an inscrutable fascination. He doesn't want to eat.

‘Come on cheer up, it even has vegetables in it. Just for you.' His Dad grins, chuckling at himself and patting Kurt on the back; if he notices him flinching he doesn't say anything. Kurt smiles back, making sure that it reaches his eyes and slips into his seat. Perhaps he should be an actor when he's older, he's pretty good at convincing people he's something he's not.

They eat in silence for the most part, Kurt forcing each bite down and his Dad's eyes fixed on the TV screen. There's the occasional comment directed to the players on the screen and the words replaying in Kurt's head.

Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.

‘Dad... what's a fag?' The minute it's out of his mouth he immediately regrets it, he was thinking it might just be another name for a girl or a teacher's pet or something but the look on his Dad's face tells him it's something much worse.

‘WHO CALLED YOU THAT?' he jumps again at the almost-shout and the way his Dad's fist subconsciously slams against the table, he's been very jumpy recently.

‘N- no one. Boys at school just use it a lot and I didn't-'

‘Don't say it Kurt. Promise me you'll never use that word.'

‘Okay, I was just--' He tries to sound nonchalant, smiling at his Dad and pretending his heart hasn't sunk just a little lower into his stomach.

‘Good.' His Dad cuts him off and that seems to be the end of the conversation until about 10 minutes later when he looks up with a pained expression on his face. ‘Look Kurt, if something was wrong, you'd tell me wouldn't you?'

‘Of course.' He answered too quickly, he knows it, his Dad knows it, hell even the roast chicken probably knows it.

‘So...' Burt waits expectantly, one eyebrow raised and a forkful of food hanging precariously in the air.

‘So what, nothing's wrong.' Kurt takes another bite of his food to cover up his frown.

‘Nobody hurting you? Nobody saying anything?'

‘No, I'm perfectly fine.'

‘Don't lie to me Kurt!' His dad's angry, he's really angry, that vein in his neck is throbbing like it does when his team loses or someone tries to screw him over at the garage. His eyes are burning dark and serious, glaring at Kurt as he throws his cutlery down with a resonant clatter. Kurt jumps again.

‘I'm not I-‘

‘you come in here, bruises all over your body, limping about like some kicked puppy with this look on your face, like you've just... given up on everything, and all I want to do is help you. I just want to make it better for you kiddo but I need you to start talking to me.' Burt's face softens but Kurt's heart is still hammering in his chest. His Dad reaches his hand out, trying to find Kurt's but he just continues eating, staring intently at his plate and swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat.

‘Honestly Dad I'm fine! I just fell.' He smiles again, smiling is good, maybe smiling can get him out of this.

‘You fall every day?'

‘I was rushing and it was cold and I just fell. I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of this!' Kurt's voice raises at the end, annoyance shining through as he almost spits the last sentence out, his eyes narrow in a petulant way as he stares his father down.

‘Because I care about you Kurt. I want to protect you, and if we start lying to each other now we aren't going to have anything left.'

‘Can I be excused please?'

‘Fine... just go.'

Kurt all but runs down the stairs to his bedroom, throwing himself on the bed and pressing his face so hard into the pillows he starts to feel dizzy from lack of oxygen. He's useless, he can't even be nice to the one person in this world who actually likes him. His Dad keeps giving him disappointed looks, Kurt sees it, hidden behind the pain and the sympathy and the helplessness his Dad is disappointed in him. He's let down the one person he really wishes he wouldn't. He screams into the pillow, making sure it's muffled so his father won't hear, and bites down on his lip until he can taste blood.

He's angry, he doesn't know when he stopped being sad and pathetic and mournful, but those feelings have definitely gone. He's fuming, he's vibrating with rage and he doesn't know if it's at himself or the boys or his Dad, but he wants to hurt something, he wants to break something. He screams one more time, getting a mouthful of pillow and pounding his fists into the mattress. Then he sits up, trying to make his breathing even out and trying not to throw anything. He reaches for his laptop, another thing his Dad had bought him to make up for a lack of social entertainment, and jams the on button with his finger. He types the things he's been ignoring for a whole year now, three letters keyed aggressively into Google and what comes up makes his breath hitch, his eyes focus in on the thing on the screen as the rest of his vision goes blurry, the whole world seems to stop moving around him as the blood pounds in his ear and his heart tries to rip its way out of his mouth. He feels like he might throw up.

Because Fuck if he isn't a fag, if they aren't right if he isn't everything they said he was. Because he may never have sat down and said it to himself, he may never have revealed it to anyone, but it's always been there-dating right back to his Prince Charming fantasies in kindergarten, and all the way through to this year with his slight (okay major) infatuation with Mitch Douglas in the year above- in the back of his mind, and even if everyone else at school seemed to figure it out before him that doesn't undermine the fact that he still is. He's still Gay, he still likes men no matter how much he was in denial about it and he guesses that makes him a fag. And that makes everyone right about him.

Hot tears burn in his eyes, obscuring his vision and running fast and hard down his cheeks, his throat burns form screaming and crying and not saying anything at all, his nose runs and body aches and he claws furiously at his eyes.

‘Stop it stop it stop it stop it.' He fists his hair into his hands and pulls, working his already split lip between his teeth yet again and lapping at the salty taste of tears and blood. He pushes his laptop away from him, curling into a ball on his bed and wrapping his arms around himself. The words come back to haunt him.

Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.

Then he lashes out at his ears too, pulling and hitting and repeatedly thrusting his head against the mattress in an attempt to make the voices stop.

‘Stop it stop it stop it stop it.' His fingernails dig into his skin, he can't hurt anyone else so he guesses he has to hurt himself. He wails, he can't help himself, a sob escapes from his wet lips as he gasps in for air that won't come, his lungs desperately trying to get a grip on some oxygen and his head swimming with rage and pain and a dizzying amount of self-hatred. His body shudders under the weight of his sobs and clutches at itself in a desperate attempt to stay calm.

He doesn't know how long he spends, rocking and sobbing and clutching and maiming but by the time his Dad walks into his bedroom he's too exhausted to even try to cover up the state he's in.

‘Kurt, I'm sorry I shouldn't have yel- kiddo what's wrong?' the panic in his father's voice does nothing but make him sob just a little longer and at first he doesn't even feel the hands closing in around him, the fingers pulling his own away from his skin and holding them in a vice like grip away from his body. He doesn't even notice when he's pulled into his father's lap, his head burying itself deep in a soft plaid shirt and his legs still curled up underneath him. His Dad holds his hands away from him, curling them into fists so they can stop scratching at both of their bodies, and his arms wrap protectively around Kurt, rocking him back and forth until he calms down.

‘Kurt Kurt calm down what's wrong calm down it's okay I'm here.' Burt tries to lift Kurt's head up, trying to look into his son's eyes as if they hold all the answers but Kurt only buries his face in deeper, rubbing the tears and the blood from his lips harder into his Dad's shirt. He can't take staring back into his father's eyes.

‘I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so so sorry. I'm sorry.' The only words Kurt can get out in between his half sobs and hiccoughs. ‘I'm so so sorry.'

‘You have nothing to be sorry for, you hear me Kurt, stop apologising just stop it.'

‘I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.'

‘What's wrong?' His Dad grips at him, clutches at him, his face and his hands and his tiny body that fits so neatly against his father's bulking frame.

‘Please don't make me go back. Please don't make me go back there, I can't- I'm sorry- please.'

‘Kurt you know you have to go to school, if someone's hurting you, if someone's bullying you-‘

‘I can't I'm sorry please please Daddy please don't I can't oh god don't make me go back. Dad please.'

‘Kurt I don't know what you want me to do?' His Dad is near hysterics too, he'd never show it but it's the one thing Kurt never fails to miss, his voice is high and panic stricken, his hands are stroking at Kurt, rocking them both and trying to calm his son down to a manageable mess, trying to get some sort of sense out of him.

‘Please I‘m so sorry.'

Eventually Kurt's sobs decrease until he's just mewling into his Dad's chest. When Burt tries to get up to get Kurt a drink his son just hangs on for dear life so he ends up walking them both upstairs and keeping his arm around Kurt's shoulder the whole time he makes him his warm milk. He passes the cup to Kurt, who silently latches onto it, holding it close against his body and staring forlornly into its depths with a hopeless sort of embarrassment. Kurt doesn't remember being led downstairs, doesn't remember being sat on the edge of his bed with his steaming cup of milk, he barely registers his Dad's rough hands and the soft wash cloth held between them, doesn't pay attention as it wipes at his face. He doesn't notice the blanket being draped around his shoulders or the strong set of arms wrapping around him. His mind is still listening to the voices.

Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.

‘Kurt?' His Dad's voice is quiet, like those times when he was little and his parents would check in on him, they'd whisper, trying to be quiet and make sure they didn't wake him up but he was a light sleeper at the best of times. Those nights usually ended up with Kurt tucked into the middle of their double bed, a protective arm slung over him on each side and the promise that everything would be the same in the morning hanging over them.

‘I'm sorry I'm not good enough.'

‘Kurt you are good enough, far too good for me. You are so like your mother, beautiful and clever and talented.

‘No. I'm not, I'm a disappointment, I'm defective and if she could see me now she wouldn't even want me.'

‘Now you listen to me. I don't know who's told you this or what has led you to believe this, but you, are the single most important thing in my life, you could never disappoint me Kurt, and you could certainly never disappoint your mum. We used to wonder how we could be so lucky as to have you, I still do most days, and I may not understand everything you love or what you do, I may not be able to spend as much time with you because I'm always at the garage trying to provide for us, but do not think for one second that I don't love you. It's just you and me buddy, and I will love you forever.' Kurt just shakes his head, feeling a new wave of tears build up at the way his Dad's face falls. A look of pure despair crosses Burt's features as Kurt shies away from him, he'd never been very good with words. ‘Come on kid, talk to me. Please.'

‘I don't know what you want me to say.' Kurt's face crumples, his breath hitches and eyes burn. He's caught not knowing whether he wants to fall into his Dad and never return or run so far away from this place he could never look back.

‘Explaining the tears would be a good start. What's brought it all on? It wasn't because I yelled at you was it.'

‘No no' Kurt shakes his head rapidly, enjoying the way it jumbles his thoughts for a few seconds and leaves him feeling light headed. ‘I just- it's everything, I just don't want. I can't- I just... I want to go to bed.' A sob wracks Kurt's whole body, leaving him trembling and looking even smaller than he really is at the foot of his bed.

Burt stares at him for long time as if contemplating what to do. In the back of his mind he's knows he should push it, but Kurt's already broken enough as it is, he doesn't need any more pain for one night.

‘Okay, but in the morning we talk.' Kurt nods his head emphatically, going to wipe away his tears and blushing when his Dad does it for him. ‘Here get changed.' Burt hands him a pair of pyjamas and leaves the room, returning a few minutes later with a hot water bottle and a blanket. He tucks Kurt into bed, pulling the duvet and the blanket around him despite Kurt's protests. ‘Don't think you're getting out of this in the morning kiddo, we're still having that talk, but if you're lucky I'll let you make pancakes. I love you okay.' But Kurt can't help but wonder what those words would be if only his Dad knew the truth, if he would still be getting tucked into bed with a whispered I love you and a kiss on the cheek. He can't help but wonder what his Dad would really think if he knew what a fag, a homo, a freak he was. And that is how he falls asleep.

Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.   Fag. Homo. Freak.