Broken Bird

When I wake up, Blaine's gone. I look around the room, and I wonder how long I've been asleep.

Apparently, Dad's coming in to check on me. When he sees that I'm awake he says, "Blaine had to go, kiddo."

Right. Now that my brain is more or less awake that makes sense. It is probably getting late.

"But he said you might need some company." I don't like the way he's looking at me, like he's carefully studying me, waiting to find cracks.

Also, that means Blaine told him things. How much did he tell him? All I can manage to say is, "I'm alright, Dad."

He takes a seat on the edge of the foot of the bed. "I know you are," he says it like he's humoring me, like he's amused by my default response, "but, y'know, if you ever aren't or if you need anything, don't be afraid or too proud or whatever to say it. Okay?"

"Alright." This is one of those conversations to provide affirmations to just so it will end. Although, I guess some part of me knows Dad means well and is pretty glad to have him looking after me. "Thanks, Dad."

He's still sort of half-sitting on my bed, like he doesn't want to leave, but I can't tell what he's thinking. "Yeah," he says, probably without even realizing it. He pauses. "I know you probably are alright, or you can work it out and you will be or whatever, but I just worry about you, y'know?"

"Yeah, I know." I wish he didn't worry so much actually. It isn't good for either of us.

"I mean, hell, I worry enough about ya anyway, and then something like this happens," he adds.

"I know," I say, and I don't know what else to say. I'm not entirely comfortable with the way this conversation is headed.

"That's gonna take a heck of a lot to get over, I gotta admit," he says. It's an interesting confession, as I haven't seriously given much consideration to Dad's side of all this. I remember how freaked out he was and how angry he got at the time, but I never stopped to think about the rest. He was scared, confused, and furious, but he had to be strong and try his best to keep calm. It was genuinely traumatizing to him, but he has to be okay somehow.

We're more alike in this moment than I'd ever considered, and knowing that, if he feels even remotely as messed up as I do, and is trying as hard to get over it and be alright, just makes me appreciate him all the more. "Yeah," I agree, and it's as close as I care to come to opening up right now, but I think we both owe each other at least this much, "I totally know what you mean."

He looks at me with some concern, but he knows not to push the subject, which I appreciate more than I can even say. He stays like that for a moment, half-sitting, half-standing just watching me. It's almost like he's anxious I'll disappear or cease to be alright if he looks away or leaves me, like he's thankful I'm here and relatively okay and this is the only way he knows to show it, the only proof he has.

"Well, he says finally stirring, "I don't wanna keep you up or anything."

I almost consider asking him to stay longer, but I decide against it. I think I can handle taking some pills and attempting sleep again by myself. "Okay. Goodnight, Dad."

"Goodnight, Kurt," he says, stopping in the doorway, "I love you."

"I love you, too." I reply.

I turn on the T.V. I honestly don't care what's on I just can't let the silence sink in and tell me I'm alone and messed up. I lie back down and try to get comfortable; I swear it wasn't this hard earlier.

I stare at the ceiling and contemplate the pros and cons of painkillers in the least druggie way possible. Mostly I'm hoping they knock me out for an hour or so again. I tell myself I can deal with the rest of the night if I can just have that hour or two.

In the meantime, I have to try to police my thoughts calmly, or else I'll end up either not sleeping or having nightmares. I think mostly about Blaine but carefully. I try to recapture how it felt earlier when he was laying in this bed beside me just making everything better. I can almost trick myself into feeling like I'm not alone; I can almost get that feeling that everything's perfectly amazingly alright back. I can almost feel like there's nothing to be afraid of, like nothing can touch me, like I'm not messed up- or, well, only a little messed up, but that's not a train of thought I'm able to stay on anyway.

I get what feels like possibly two hours of peaceful oblivion. Then my brain feels the need to randomly repeat scenes of trauma. I'm suddenly pressed painfully against the pavement again, and I'm trying my best to get away. The more the scene replays in my head the more it feels like some sort of horrible critical review of what were supposed to be my best efforts.

I'm not sure what's worse: that my best efforts were a joke or that that man knew they were a joke. I think it's even worse than that. All I managed to do was give him what he wanted. He liked that I fought back, that I struggled, and, ultimately, that he still beat me. I could see it in his eyes; I could hear it in his laugh.

I lost. I lost just like I was supposed to; I gave that sick bastard exactly what he wanted. No wonder I wanted to disappear forever into the blacktop.

I wake up with my hands over my face like I'm trying to protect myself from getting hit again or trying to hide from the memories. I still wish I had somehow disappeared forever into the blacktop; I'm terrified, sick, and ashamed.

How am I supposed to face anyone now, knowing that when it really counted not only could I not take control of things and make him stop, but that by even trying I made my failure that much more satisfying for him, that much worse and more humiliating for myself? How am I ever supposed to feel strong, or brave, or even just okay and normal when I'm not even the man I thought I was?

I used to think I could handle more or less anything; I thought I'd proved it, thought I had enough attitude or confidence or whatever to back me up. Now I'm not sure I can handle anything.

I take a deep breath, partially to clear my head and partially to remind myself to breathe normally. It's got to be getting late, and I'm letting myself get way too freaked out. I tell myself this will all make way more sense in the morning, and it will probably be hilarious in hindsight. I just have to try to calm down and make it until then.

I can't help but wonder if instead I'll end up reaching a horrible compromise: that there is, in fact, some horrible truth in this particular episode.