Broken Bird

It's five a.m., and I'm watching the sunrise when I finally make peace with (or at very least become resigned to) the fact that getting better is a day to day process. Some days are simply better than others, I suppose. Still, I can't help but wonder and worry if this is gonna be the rest of my life. The thought of that is like a cage closing in on the future I once looked forward to.

I try to shake such grim imagery as I head to the kitchen to make some coffee. The silence of waking up just before everyone else is actually more peaceful than unsettling. I can't help but sigh; today's gonna be a good day.

I'm in my new usual state of being both tired and restless. I pace the floor and find myself contemplating my immediate future. I'm officially able to go back to school next week, and I'm trying to decide just how I feel about that.

Physically speaking, I should be fine as long as I'm relatively careful. I'm gonna be sore or have that wrong feeling at times no matter what I do. My bruises have faded. All in all, if nothing stupid happens I can handle it.

There's more to it than that, of course. From there, I weigh the pros and cons. On the one hand, returning to my normal life could well be the last push I need to get back to my former self. On the other, I can't quite imagine that normal life or self right now.

Just thinking about leaving this house sends an odd shiver through me. When did the mere act of leaving the house become such a big deal? Maybe I really have become agoraphobic after all. I shake my head. No, of course not. I could totally leave if I wanted to, if I had to. Probably. Whatever, I'll deal with that in whatever form it actually exists later. I try to come up with more pros.

Well, whether I'm normal or not I'll have more of a life. I'll be able to see my friends and Blaine in a more regular fashion, which will hopefully lead to more normal interactions. Being treated like myself instead of some weirdly fragile thing is gonna be nice; I'm hoping that happens soon.

There is an obvious con that I am trying to avoid. It has settled itself in the pit of my stomach and threatens to make me sick. I'd have to go back to where it happened and somehow feel safe.

And I know I will be safe. Well, I guess I don't know that for sure, but really it's not likely anything bad will happen. I mean, it happened once and it could happen again, but that doesn't mean it will.

It's more than that though. That parking lot will always be the place where it happened. The fear it inspires isn't as literal as really thinking something else will happen. It's just the thought of it, the remembering, the inescapable association of that spot with past fear and pain.

It's going to be difficult and scary, but I'll get through it. I know I will; I have to. Maybe I'll even manage to get over it, hopefully, soon.

The coffee's done; I wonder if I should drink some and stay awake or attempt to go back to sleep. I'm not tired- well, not especially tired- and don't have interest in sleep. I can hear signs of life stirring in the house. "I made coffee," I tell someone behind me that I can reasonably assume is Dad. I don't have to turn around to know I'm right; Finn isn't up yet and won't be until the last possible minute, and Carole has a different air about her entirely.

"Thanks, kiddo," Dad says. He pauses because it takes him a moment to process information this early. "How long have you been up?"

"Long enough to make coffee," I reply. This isn't completely accurate, of course. I've been awake since sometime around four, but I don't feel the need to go into details about how I can't sleep properly anymore when I suspect Dad already has some idea.

Dad grunts and busies himself with the coffee. After a moment of stillness, he adds, "Yeah, and then some right?" He turns back to me with a knowing sort of look.

I yawn in spite of myself. "Not too long."

Dad just gives a dismissive laugh. "Yeah, sure." He sips his coffee.

"I think I might have made that a bit too strong," I comment, halfway out of genuine concern and halfway out of a desire to change the subject.

Dad shakes his head. "It's good actually." He drops his voice. "Don't tell Carole I said this, but she never makes coffee strong enough."

I reflexively glance over my shoulder, but there's still no evidence of her. I smile. "Yeah."

"So," Dad says, "school's next week." I roll my eyes because it's expected. "You ready for it?"

"I don't know." I use the equally expected dry tone, but the truth is I really don't know. I'm ready because I have to be, because I want to be, but if I'm honest with myself I have no idea how I'm gonna feel when I leave this house or when I'm back there at the place where it happened.

"Well, if you don't think you're ready for it, we can look into homeschooling ya for a while or something."

I don't know if he's referring to my physical or psychological capacity, but I think he knows my answer before he finishes speaking regardless. "No," I shoot him down, "C'mon, it's my senior year I've missed enough of it over this."

"Well, alright, if you're sure," he says. He puts down his cup and busies himself preparing Carole's.

A minute or so later Carole comes into the kitchen. It's like clockwork, these two. Now, I was never one to sleep as late as Finn does, but neither was I ever previously up quite early enough to observe such rituals. I imagine whoever gets up first makes the coffee (I ruined that part, I guess.) Then, they just sort of know when to expect the other. It's sweet, and it's an oddly comforting thing to behold. I guess my new brand of insomnia comes with its perks after all.

Once they are more or less done being ridiculously married, Carole greets me. "Morning, Kurt. Thanks for making coffee." She doesn't say it's too strong because she's nice.

"No problem," I say. I stop myself from intentionally drawing any more attention to the obvious fact that I was awake anyway, but I can't stop myself from yawning again.

Dad and Carole have this sort of silent conversation again about how I haven't been sleeping. I'm not stupid; I notice them, and I know that's what those looks they exchange mean. I don't call them on it though.

I debate whether I should drink coffee and stay awake or take pills and go to sleep. I need to become less dependent on those pills anyway. I sigh, get up, and fix myself a cup.

Besides, I'm kinda enjoying the peacefulness of the moment. I'm tired, but I feel alright. Dad and Carole are both calm presences as they quaintly chat over coffee. I join in occasionally as is appropriate, but I've reached the point of this long morning where focus is incredibly difficult.

Then, Dad has to go to work, and it's just me and Carole, which is fine but awkward since I have to contribute more to conversation in his absence. Mostly we don't talk about anything important.

Carole's perceptive though, so eventually certain questions can't be avoided. "Are you sure you're okay? I know you've been up for a while."

"Yeah," I say, "I'm fine." It's an automatic response, but I'm suddenly hit with the powerful realization that at this very moment I actually mean it.