Wrong. Chapter 9
9.
Days go by slowly, measured by meals, showers, and Kurt’s calls and texts that never fail to push Blaine deeper into the dark, numb place inside, because Kurt shouldn’t waste his time on him, shouldn’t have to pull his focus from the important things - studying, work, friends - to check if his joke of a boyfriend isn’t slashing his wrists again.
On the surface, however, he does a surprisingly good job of pretending that things are better instead of worse.
He talks with his mom more than he has in years now that she’s working from home, and even goes out with her a couple of times this first week, feigning interest in shopping, eating out or going to the movies. Her honest concern and worry for him move him, but also make him feel guilty; he doesn’t deserve it. He acted stupidly and selfishly; he isn’t worth their care - Kurt’s, his mom’s, Tina and others’ from New Directions who sent him get-well cards when he was in the hospital.
In an effort to pretend he’s getting better, Blaine makes his room look like he’s actually doing something when sitting there for hours - a stack of his favorite books by the bed, a DVD put on right when his mum usually comes up to call him for dinner, music playing loud enough for her to hear. It’s all pretend, of course - the books lie untouched, he doesn’t pay attention to the music or the movies; he just sits there looking into space, lost in his head, feeling like he’s dissolving into nothing until only his body remains, with some basic functions needed to survive. Every morning he tells himself that this is the day to start actively removing Kurt from his life, and each evening that week he admits to failure - yet another in a long line of them.
That Wednesday, he starts therapy and is again surprised by how easily the mask of a polite, slightly lost boy and some of his acting skills can fool a trained specialist. Of course, this is only the beginning of his therapy, the first hours dedicated to getting comfortable with each other, establishing some sort of rapport; keeping up his façade may get harder with time, when the therapist gets to know him better, but for now it’s enough.
Sunday brings a break in Blaine’s new routine. First, his mom informs him over breakfast that she has to return to work tomorrow. It doesn’t surprise him - she loves her job to the point of obsession, and the last two months of the year are always the busiest, most frantic time at the company. He couldn’t have chosen a worse time for his breakdown, really - a mean little voice in his head whispers. It would probably be easier for her - for everyone - if he succeeded.
He feels guilty for even thinking that, though it’s most likely true. They’d bury him, grieve a little and go back to their lives, without all the additional mess. He’s alive though, and the mess is his reality, so he has to deal with it. What his mom’s return to work means in practice is that he’ll have the house to himself most of the time - no need to pretend, to act like he’s fine. It’ll be easier.
Tina calls after lunch. She tried before, left a message when Blaine was in the mental hospital, but he hasn’t gotten around to calling her back even though she’s the best friend he has in Lima this year. But now, when people at school already know he’s back home, he feels obliged to answer; besides, he has an image to uphold - if he was really recovering, he would want to hear from his friends, right? They talk for some time and it’s only slightly awkward. When she says the New Directions flattened the competition at Sectionals despite his absence, Blaine cheers, but inside it feels like another confirmation: I don’t matter; they don’t need me. Life goes on just fine without me.
In the evening Kurt calls and proposes a Skype date because they haven’t seen each other for two weeks, and Blaine, ever the people-pleaser, can’t say no. Kurt seems more beautiful than ever, even in the grainy webcam image, and seeing him somehow prevents the usual, familiar numbness to descent upon Blaine. And fuck, it hurts - every smile, every warm word of care that should soothe like balm is sliding into Blaine’s brain and over his skin like acid instead. He can’t take it, can’t have it, Kurt’s not his to love and cherish and take comfort from. He can’t be, not anymore.
When they disconnect after an hour, Blaine’s whole body aches, every muscle tensed to the extreme. Even his face feels stiff from keeping up the forced smile. He gets up from his chair, hands already shaking hard; everything hurts like a reopened wound. Without much thought he reaches to the corkboard by his desk and takes off his favorite picture of them together, happy and carefree during the summer before Kurt left. Well, he has to start somewhere, right? Why not now, by destroying this photo? Surely nothing can hurt any more than it already does, can it?
Minutes later, Blaine’s still standing by his desk, the picture in one hand, the pushpin that held it in the other, unable to make himself rip the image of perfect happiness the way he’s about to rip apart their lives. It isn’t until sharp pain in his hand shakes him out of the stupor that he realizes what he’s done.
The red plastic head of the pushpin is sticking out from the fleshy part of his palm, right under the thumb - only the head; the whole metal pin embedded deep in the muscle.