This wasn't how things were supposed to go. He mapped out his whole life and being outed at school in such a public way was not how he planned it. His mother said they could fix him. Like he was a puzzle.
"Honey, that piece doesn't fit there."
"Mom, it's the only piece left in the box."
"But if you put it in the last spot, the picture won't make sense." Dave Karofsky was the fucked up picture. He'd had enough of this heartache. Nothing could go his way and when he tried to think of the future, everything looked cloudy. He tried to imagine a day when he'd be happy. Grey clouds. He tried to imagine his mother and father one day accepting him and loving him. Hazy smoke. He tried to visualize someone who would love him, anyone. Blurred fog. It was almost as if the universe, god, whoever, was trying to tell him something.
There's nothing there for you. You are never meant to get there. This is what he thought of as he smoothed down his tie, stood up on the chair, slipped the carefully knotted rope around his neck, and took a leap of faith. He was supposed to leave now. All signs pointed here. So why did he see the illuminated outline of a man as he kicked the chair away?

Blaine Anderson was starting to get really comfortable at his new school. He had things that a few years before were just wild dreams. He had a boy, a breathtakingly beautiful boy for that matter, who loved him. His family might not be joining him at a pride parade anytime soon, but they now understood. He wasn't the son they swept under the rug like he used to be. He had friends. Everyone in glee club had welcomed him into their open arms. Sure, he had his days where everything looked like it was covered in shit, but he was happy. This happiness faltered only when Kurt called him one afternoon and asked if he could come over. There was a weird tone in his voice and he sounded like he'd been crying. No, he had just gotten used to how good things were. He wasn't ready for this shoe to drop.  Kurt came over with red, tear stained eyes 20 minutes later. He leapt into Blaine's arms the moment the door opened. Well, Blaine thought, at least he's not dumping me. Once he got Kurt calmed down enough to walk up to his room, he finally spoke.  "Kurt, please, what's going on? Is it your dad-" "It's David." Kurt's voice was so quiet he could barely hear the two words. "Who?" "D- Karofsky. He, uhm, fuck..." Kurt dissolved into a sobbing mess again. He never really cussed. Something must be wrong. "Did he hurt you again? Kurt?" Blaine wrapped his arms around Kurt on the edge of his bed.  "No." Kurt said with a soft laugh.  "What then?" Blaine knew what was coming next. His blood was hot in his ears and everything sounded muffled, like Kurt was on the other side of a tunnel, when he said it. "He's in the hospital. He tried to hang himself." Blaine's arms went limp and Kurt fell back on the bed with a brand new wave of tears. Blaine just sat there. How could he comfort his boyfriend right now? He felt paralyzed and, without noticing, he ran his hands over his thighs. Where his scars were hidden. From everyone, even Kurt. It was the only place that he knew nobody would ever see. He hadn't even thought about them in two years. They were probably so faint by now. Suddenly he realized where he was, hyper aware of the hot years running silently down his cheeks. He felt sick. He was definitely going to be sick. Through the haze, Blaine walked to his bathroom and emptied his stomach into the toilet. As he wiped his mouth and looked at his reflection in the mirror, he realized he couldn't hide this anymore. As he studied the sudden bags under his eyes and clammy flesh, he saw Kurt standing there behind him. He looked confused. That's because you never told him about your past, idiot, his brain taunted him.  "Blaine, are you ok? You didn't even really know him..." "Yeah. I'm fine." his voice betrayed him and was strangled and cracked. "Blaine...you're scaring me." Blaine turned around to actually face Kurt now and his legs gave out a little. He braced himself on the bathroom counter and Kurt took a tentative step towards him. Kurt reached his hand out slightly and pulled it back when he saw Blaine's white knuckles on the edge of the counter, gripping like there was no tomorrow. "I-you should go. You-I don't think I can talk to you right now..." Blaine was free falling into the pit and he just needed Kurt to leave so he could think...so he could relieve some of the pressure on his wrist from his painfully pulsing blood.  "I'm not going anywhere." Kurt said visibly shaking as he took another small step forward. Suddenly Blaine was reminded why he used to never let people in. People had this rude habit of caring. Of trying to rescue you when all you wanted to do was drown. His eyes were glazed over so he only knew Kurt had moved closer when his cool hand was on his wrist, gently tearing it away from the counter. Blaine swallowed for what felt like was the first time in years.  All dark thoughts faded away and his vision cleared when Kurt grabbed his hand and started to drag him to the bed. He sat down and the tears came pouring again. He couldn't feel them though, he felt numb.  "I think I need to tell you something." Blaine said after a few minutes and turned to face Kurt.

Thirteen year old Blaine Anderson was humiliated. That was putting it lightly. He asked a boy he liked to the Sadie Hawkins dance and never expected this to be the result. The boy, Shawn, had bought him a corsage and Blaine felt like he could fly. They danced to a slow song and finally, finally, Blaine understood how someone could feel like they were floating. After the song ended, Shawn leaned in to whisper in his ear. "Meet me outside in the parking lot in 5 minutes. I have a surprise."  Just like that the boy was gone. Blaine just smiled and started counting to 300 in his head. 296...297...298...299... That's all he remembered. The next memory is him kicking his front door in. Shawn and his friends thought it would be funny for the fag to fall in love and then to beat his ass. Everything was just a joke. He felt dirty in the inside and hot and bloody on the outside. The weird thing was, he was in so much pain, was so broken, that he felt noting at all. His foot collided with the door and nothing. He wanted to feel something. Something he had control over. Not words from his parents about his "choices" that stung. Not the aluminum bat that he had no control over hitting his ribs only 30 minutes earlier. He punched the wall in his entryway. There was a hole shaped like his fist and bloody knuckles, but no pain. He was getting frustrated. Why am I numb? He smashed a lamp in the living room. He slammed his head against the wall that connected the living room to the kitchen. As he slid down the wall, feeling no throbbing in his head, he rubbed his face. It was wet. Fuck, he couldn't even feel himself crying. When he opened his eyes again he spotted something shining on the kitchen counter. A loaf of bread and a long, serrated knife. Moving slowly he picked up the knife and examined it. He pricked his finger on the sharp tip. Slowly he ghosted the blade over his wrist. No, he thought, nobody can see this. They'll only ask questions. He  glanced at his side. There was a sizable rip on the front of his left pant leg, exposing his thigh. He brought down the knife and dragged the blade against the skin. Nothing. Angry, he slashed roughly at his skin 3 more times, some lines overlapping. Finally he heard yelling and screaming. It took a minute before he realized that the sounds were coming from him. He dropped the knife to the ground and let out one last scream. "ENOUGH." He smeared the blood pooling on this thigh and walked up to his parents bedroom. He didn't know what he was doing, but his weak legs were leading him there. As he opened his fathers closet he knew why he was there. Hidden behind a rack of dress shoes was the wooden box he didn't know he was looking for. Opening it slowly, he shook as he grabbed the cool metal. He lifted the gun in the air, inspecting it in the dark room only lit by the moonlight. He sat bak on his heels in front of the closet and decided that this was the final straw. He didn't want to face his parents and say why he had a battered face, or broken bones, or why there was a hole in the wall and who was going to pay to fix that-no. He was done. Things were only going to get worse so why bother? Trembling, he lowered the pistol to his mouth. His cut lips stung around the cold barrel. He cocked it back, took a deep breath- and that's where his memory blacks out.

"Blaine?" Kurt's voice brought him back to reality. It was weird how almost no time had passed as the worst moment of his life flashed before his eyes. "I just...I knew someone who once tried...I'm fine." He lied. Telling Kurt all those things right now wasn't a good idea. Kurt would be scared and run away. Sometimes things are just better kept as secrets. Even from yourself.