Friday nights are the worst. That's when Blaine can hear the demons shout in his mind and can feel the fire burning in his soul. He tries to suppress it all with something, anything. Alcohol. Cutting. Sex. Something. Anything. He tries to calm his heartbeat and stop his head from spinning, but right now neither is achievable. He's too strong. He's too weak.

Blaine screams in the darkness of his room. No one is home, of course. Everything else is dead quiet. His screams bounce off the walls; the echoes ring throughout his room. He sways back and forth. It's just him. Him alone. He's always alone. From birth to death he'll be alone. His fingers twitch and his head instinctively turns in the direction of his bedside table. He can't see anything, his mind doesn't register the fact that light is even possible, but he know it's there. Blaine can almost see the silver glint of the broken shaving razor. His fingertips tingle, aching to touch the cool metal.

No, he tells himself. Don't.

The alarm clock on his dresser emits a dull red glow as the time pops up: 12 am. Midnight. The word throbs in the back of his mind. Midnight. Midnight. Midnight.

Midnights used to be so sacred to him. The promise of a new day. The promise of something better. Now it's just the minute after 11:59.

Blaine reaches under his pillow and pulls out his phone. His eyes sting as the bright light of the screen hits them. His pulse races as he dials. He's proud that he has memorized the number by now. Before he was scared to. What if this didn't work out? What if he messed things up? Then he'd be stuck with that number burned into his mind, a cruel memory of what once was. His fingers fly over the small keyboard and he hitssend as he lets out a breath. He can do this.

One ring.

Kurt, pick up, he urges.

Two rings.

Come on, Kurt.

Three rings.

Please, Kurt.

Four rings.

Kurt.

Five rings.

The phone flies out of his hand and it takes Blaine a minute to realize he's the one who threw it. His hand quivers. The force of the throw leaves it aching and Blaine hastily throws off his covers and jumps off the bed. In one swift motion he turns on the lamp next to his bed. He glances at the wall where his phone was thrown. There is a small dent on the wall a few inches from the floor. Dents in his room are common occurrences. Dents in the wall, dents in the previously smooth top of his mahogany dresser, even dents in his skull are normal. Blaine snorts. The fact that he can consider anything normal about his life is laughable.

His eyes trail down to the floor. There, in about a thousand broken pieces, is his phone. He groans inwardly. This is his fifth phone in three months. The last one was destroyed in the tub when Blaine tried to drown himself a few weeks before. The one before that was taken apart when he was having one of his episodes and bashed with a hammer when he couldn't put it back together. He doesn't even know how what happened to the one before that. All he knows is that he woke up in the hospital six hours later with eleven stitches in his head and a piece of his Blackberry's keyboard stuck in his teeth.

His parents describe moments like those as his "wild nights". Blaine thinks it makes him sound like he's partying all hours of the night and getting drunk and high with friends. Blaine wishes that were true.

Some days are normal. Some days he's Blaine Anderson, wonderful singer, great boyfriend, the picture of perfection. He hates those days. That's not him. There is no way that perfect person inhabits the same body as the demented creature he turns into when he goes off his meds.

His meds.

Blaine almost forgot. He turns and searches his dresser until his eyes fall on the small orange pill bottle. He takes a step and stops. Another step. Another stop. Move, he commands himself. Don't move, another part of him says.

Go.

Don't go.

Walk.

Don't walk.

Now.

Not now. Not ever.

It's always like this. Always the same internal dilemma; it's always the same conflicting commands. That's why he can never get anything done when he's like this. Every time he makes his mind up to do something there's always that voice yelling at him. Not now not ever not now not ever not now not ever.

He can't take his meds now; that would be ridiculous. He'll lose that voice. He needs that voice to tell him how to be good, how to function properly, how to be the person everyone wants. He needs the voice to command him to act on his desires and he doesn't desire to feel like he's crazy and should be on those stupid pills.

Blaine walks to his door, gingerly stepping over the pieces of phone that decorate his carpet, and bangs the door open. He can feel the walls vibrate and he takes a moment to just experience it. That's something the pills don't allow him to do. He's never up or down; he's just in the middle, bobbing along day by day until he finally dies.

Yeah, he definitely doesn't need those pills.

Blaine creeps into the dark hallway and gives his eyes a second to adjust to the darkness. It's haunting how eerily silent his house is when his head is filled with screams. He takes a few steps forward and nearly stumbles over his own feet when his hands touch the banister. He tiptoes down the stairs, imagining he's some sort of cat burglar or devious mastermind. Who says being crazy can't be fun?

When his toes reach the bottom of the stairs, he slides against the wall, making hardly any noise as he slinks to the little table a few feet from the front door. Curtains cover the windows on both sides of the door. It has been that way ever since Blaine was eight and he tried to set fire to his hair and one of the neighbors had seen. The woman, Mrs. Abernathy, immediately had immediately knocked on the door of the Anderson home. Of course his parents weren't home, they were never home, but Cooper was supposed to be taking care of him.

-

"Make sure he doesn't have one of his episodes," his mother had commanded Cooper in a strict tone before leaving the house that morning. Cooper had nodded and smiled down at his little brother as their mother left the house. But four hours later, Cooper was nowhere to be found and Blaine had somehow gotten the box of matches his mother had stored away in the highest cupboard in the kitchen.

Blaine was sure he didn't climb to get them. They had just ended up in his hands. And he just ended up a foot from the front door, striking the matches on the side of the box and watching in pure fascination and delight as the matchsticks burned.

A few times the fire would come in contact with his hand and he would cry out, but it didn't stop him from lighting another and another until he only had one stick left. That one had to count. Blaine struck the match and glanced around for something to light up. The plant to the left of the front door was plastic, but no matter how many times touched the match to it, it just didn't catch fire. The vase it was in didn't burn either; the fire just left ugly brown marks wherever Blaine touched with the match. Blaine had to think quickly. He couldn't just waste this match. He whipped his head around until a lock of hair fell into his vision. Perfect.

Not five seconds after he lit the end of his curl, Mrs. Abernathy was banging on the door screaming. Blaine stared dumbly at her. He didn't know what she was screaming about. He didn't like the noise. It was making his head ache. Plus the fire was making it worse and was filling his nostrils with a foul odor. Blaine curled up into ball with his tiny hands over his ears and closed his eyes. There was a shooting pain on his temples and he hoped it would go away by the time he woke up.

Sixteen hours later, he was in the burn unit of the hospital hooked up to large machine that beeped every second. Blaine looked around. To his left was his mom, face buried in her hands. To his left was his brother Cooper, leg shaking up and down as he fiddled with the neckline of his shirt. He was still in his pajamas, a plain white t-shirt and dark blue sweatpants. His dad was slumped in the door frame, eyes closed and frowning. Every few seconds he would mutter something to himself and rub his forward.

"Cooper?" Blaine said. Even though he was eight at the time, he still knew that Cooper was his only ally. His father would scream, his mother would cry, but Cooper would talk to him. In a flash, Cooper was at his side.

"Blaine!" Cooper said with a smile, but his eyes were watery. Blaine didn't understand. Why was Cooper crying? Blaine just went to sleep. It's dumb to cry over people sleeping since they do it every night.

"Are you okay?" Blaine asked his brother. Cooper was about to say something when he was shoved out of the way by his mother.

"Blaine, baby, how do you feel?" his mother asked. Her voice was hoarse and her eyes and nose were red. Blaine could see the streaks of tears on her face.

"I'm fine," Blaine replied. "I was just tired." Blaine noticed there was something white and thick on his head and when he reached up to touch it, it was rough like sand on paper. "What's on my head?"

Blaine saw something flicker in his mother's eyes. "Honey," she said softly. "Do you not remember what you did?" Blaine shook his head and his mother turned to Cooper for support, but Blaine noticed that she had first looked at his father who was still at the door as if nothing had happened.

Cooper stepped forward and covered Blaine's hand with his own. "Blaine, you tried to hurt yourself."

Blaine shook his head again and winced. All this movement was making his head throb. "It was an accident," he said.

His mother cleared her throat. "Mrs. Abernathy saw you pick up a match and light your hair on fire," she said. Stupid Mrs. Abernathy. She didn't know anything. Blaine wasn't trying to hurt himself. He was trying to play. He was bored and when you're bored you play. If you hurt yourself while you play, it's an accident. Like that time he was playing soccer with Cooper and he tripped over the ball. He fell and scraped his knee and his mom had made it all better with a bandaid and said it was an accident and he would be fine.

"Is this a bandaid like when we played soccer and I fell?" Blaine asked, pointing at thing on his head. His mother looked at Cooper, unsure of what to say, but Cooper just smiled down at his brother.

"Yeah, B," he said. "It's like a big bandaid."

"So I'll be fine?" Blaine asked. This time his mother knew what to say. She used her hand to gently turn his head toward her and stroked his cheek.

"Blaine, the doctor said that you have to take medicine. Big boy pills because your head is...you're not like other children," she said, choosing her words carefully.

"What do you mean? Am I sick?" Blaine had been sick plenty of times, but it never made his family look this worried.

"No, baby, you're just different. You're brain works differently and-"

"Goddammit, Karen, just tell the boy he's bipolar!" his father shouted. Blaine jumped. He didn't know what he did to make his father so angry. His dad is always screaming at him and sometimes he knows what his dad is screaming about, but other times it's like his dad screams just to scream.

"You're not helping," his mother spat. His father turned to her, his eyes bugged out in rage.

"And how am I supposed to help? How are we supposed to help?"

"I don't know, but yelling at him won't make things better."

"Nothing will make things better. This is his life. We're going to be in and out of hospitals-"

"Not if he's on medication."

"Good, so my son will be doped up for the rest of his life. I'm sure businesses would love to hire a maniac."

"Then he could start his own business."

"Not if he's crazy!"

Blaine covered his ears with his hands and shut his eyes tightly. He didn't like all the yelling. His head felt like someone fat was sitting on it and jumping up and down. He hadn't noticed that Cooper hand leaned close to him until he felt his warm breath on his hands. Cooper was saying something, so Blaine lowered his hands.

"Don't worry, Blaine. You'll be fine. As long as I'm here, you'll always be fine," Cooper had said.

-

But now Cooper isn't here. In the pitch black hallway of the Anderson home, no one is there except for Blaine and his thoughts. Blaine takes a few steps forward until his knees knock into table and he reaches blindly for the cordless phone that is always there. His fingers come in contact with the phone and he presses the on key. He dials the number quickly, not wanting to lose a second. One second could be the difference between having Kurt and losing him forever.

His heart thumps in his chest as it rings.

One ring.

Kurt, please.

Two rings.

Kurt, I'm sorry.

Three rings.

Kurt, I didn't mean to.

And he really didn't mean to. He would never hurt Kurt, not in a million years, but yesterday had been an accident. Kurt had screamed at him for not taking his pills even though Kurt knew, he knew, that Blaine couldn't. The pills meant he couldn't feel the flutter in his chest every time Kurt smiled at him. The pills meant he couldn't experience the warm feeling that washed over him every time they said ‘I love you' or kissed or made love.

Kurt didn't understand because he wasn't like Blaine. Kurt's normal with a normal family and normal thoughts and normal emotions. He doesn't have depressed days and manic days, he just has days.

So it was completely unfair for Kurt to shout into Blaine's face with spit flying out his mouth and say things like he hated when Blaine was off his meds because then he felt like he wasn't dating Blaine. It felt like he was dating a monster.

He had actually said that. So it wasn't Blaine's fault when his hands had moved forward on their own and pushed Kurt. It would have been a little push if Kurt was not at the top of the stairs of his house and had fallen all the way to the bottom. Kurt screamed as his body tumbled down and then there was a loud crack!then silence.

Everything after that was a blur. Blaine just remembers Burt yelling at him, Kurt's unconscious body in Burt's arms, his face covered with red and purple bruises. Kurt always bruised easily. Whenever they made out,  Blaine would get a little over enthusiastic and nibble on Kurt's neck until he bit down hard and left hickeys. Kurt would complain, but Blaine knew that he secretly loved it. It was like Blaine had marked him as his. No one else's but his. And the bruises on his face meant Kurt was his also. But there wasn't a sly smirk on Kurt's face. His lop was swollen and his usually perfectly white teeth were covered in red. Blood.

Finn had pushed Blaine out of the house and Blaine wanted to thank him for stopping him before he did anything stupid. Blaine had run home and hid under the covers in his bedroom.

But that was hours ago. Surely Kurt should be fine now.

The phone is still ringing in Blaine's ear. Blaine presses the phone closer to his ear and trends the fingers on his other hand in his hair. He grabs a hold of it and tugs lightly.

Kurt, pick up.

Another ring. Another tug.

Kurt, please, I'm sorry. I'm stupid.

Another ring. Another tug.

Kurt, don't stop loving me. Please don't stop loving me.

Another ring. He tugs hard, feeling a sharp pain in the side of his head, but he dismisses it.

Kurt, I love you. I'll change, I promise. I'll change for you. Please just love me.

Another ring. He attempts to tug again, but he looks down and realizes his hand is in front of him. With the dull glow of the phone, he sees it's covered in hair and some red liquid. He touches his hand to the side of his head again and winces, just as the door flies open.

Cooper comes in laughing with a thin, blonde woman on his arm and flicks on the light. The scream that comes from her could have woken up the dead. Cooper runs over to Blaine and Blaine drops the phone on the floor. It lands with a loud clang.

"Blaine, what did you do?" Cooper asks and Blaine is confused because Cooper doesn't know what Blaine did to Kurt. He can't know. Blaine hardly even knows and he's the one who did it.

"Kurt isn't answering his phone," Blaine says just as his knees give out and he crashes down to the floor. He doesn't know why he feels so weak or why the left side of his body is so sticky. The red liquid seems to have spread out all over the floor and now, as Cooper cradles Blaine's head in his lap, all over Cooper too.

"Allison, call 911. Tell them it's an emergency. Do it, now!" Blaine hears Cooper yell. That's all anybody does. Yell. Shout. Scream. Yell. Shout. Scream. Why can't everyone just be quiet? Blaine's quiet. He has to be quiet or everyone will be able to tell he's not like everyone else. The demons in his head would make their way out and hurt the people he loves. So he stays quiet. And everyone should be quiet like him.

Just.

Be.

Quiet.

And that's Blaine's last thought before his eyes flutter closed and he loses consciousness.