Stepping On Broken Glass

He slammed onto his bed face first, not caring about the tears that fell from his eyes. He wasn’t sobbing; Sebastian Smythe didn’t sob, but merely let the tears flow silently down his cheeks, not seeing any purpose in stemming them. It didn’t matter. No one was here to see him. Energy was rapidly building within him, and the boy slammed his fist against the headboard of his bed, hard enough to crack the frame and produce a painful-sounding crack from his hand. Normally it would have hurt.

This was shit; everything was shit. It had taken all of his strength to walk out of McKinley High, head held high, before the full weight of his situation crashed down onto his shoulders with resounding force. He was alone. The Warblers wanted nothing to do with him, his parents were in France with his sister until the end of the year, not that they wanted to see him anyway, and his numerous attempts to apologize to Blaine and the rest of that club were a lost cause. He had no one, and it was completely his fault.

Frustrated, Sebastian pulled his laptop in front of his face, attempting to distract himself from all of the emotion that was suddenly pushing on his chest, wrapping themselves far too tightly around him as he gave up trying to force them back down. He was a 16-year-old boy; he should be able to find some sort of console in the mind-numbing world of the internet. But opening his Facebook page and taking in the complete lack of any notification only made the tears fall a little more swiftly. Everyone seemed so excited about the day, excitingly discussing Valentine’s plans and dinners and romances. Everyone was so happy, and here he was, alone. Normally it wouldn’t bother him. Normally, he would go to Scandals and sweep some poor lonely kid off of their feet, charm and disarm, hit it, quit it, and move on, just like usual. But he didn’t want to do that now. He just wanted to sleep.

Something had snapped in the last hour; the realization that no one truly cared for Sebastian had brought back all of the hate, the cutting words, the pent-up emotions, all rushing back into his head at the same time. Overwhelming. Suffocating. He just wanted to make it vanish; there was too much to handle.

This entire fucking world just wasn’t working the way it was supposed to, and Sebastian was sick and tired of it. Tired of Blaine Anderson, tired of the competitions, tired of himself, tired of things never seeming to go his way. He needed a release, an escape, just some way to get all of this noise out of his head.

But he was too proud to try anything on himself. He loved himself too much. Except, that was a damn lie. He fucking hated himself so much right now, more than he had ever hated anyone. And everyone else seemed to agree. If nobody else wanted him around, and he didn’t want him around, then what was the point?

He slowly pried himself off of the bed, wiping his tears away clumsily with his jacket sleeve and stumbling towards his desk, where his mini fridge was stashed underneath. Sebastian yanked the fridge open with more force than necessary, rooting through bottles. If this was going to happen, he wasn’t nearly drunk enough.

He only got a few shots into his bottle of Schnapps before it was too much. In the course of a half hour, Sebastian had managed to empty the entire contents of his stomach into the waste basket next to his bed, mostly just alcohol and stomach acid. This wasn’t worth it. Nothing was worth it. If he had any sense, he would end it all right now. All he would need was a gun. But guns were messy. As much as Sebastian hated himself right now, he didn’t want to do anything to harm his face. Sighing, tears still falling consistently, the Warbler shuffled to his en suite bathroom and tugged open the medicine cabinet. Nothing. He could always drink himself down. But his normally tolerant stomach was in fits, and there was no way he could hold down enough liquor to do any real damage. He could only think of one
alternative that sounded decent. Not pleasant, but at this point it didn’t matter.

No blood, no mess, nothing. All he needed was a rope and a tree, and he’d be free.

It was only when everything was prepared, and he was standing under the oak in his backyard, that the real sobbing started. He was going to do this. Sebastian Smythe was going to kill himself. He ran through his mind, thinking of anything, or anyone, that needed to be taken care of. But he could only think of one person. Just one single text.

‘I really am sorry, Blaine. I hope you know that. Just, so sorry.’