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The World Never Stopped Loving You

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“What Karofsky did was selfish. He didn’t just wanna hurt himself, he wanted to hurt everyone around him. I went through the rigour but I never got to that place-“

“Quinn please,” a soft voice cut her off. Quinn turned in her chair to see Kurt standing at the doorway. He was wearing a slightly oversized sweater, a much simpler outfit than usual, and his shoulders were slumped, defeated. He had a tired expression on his face. His eyes were unfocused, and his voice sounded thick with emotion.

“Sure, you had a baby when you were sixteen, and you had a bad dye job for two weeks, but seriously?” Kurt made eye contact for the first time, and Quinn was shocked at the emotions that she saw in his tired, weary eyes.

“The world never stopped loving you.”


 

Kurt slumped onto his bed. He closed his eyes, and allowed a single tear to slip down his cheek. He brushed his hair out of his face, wincing slightly as his hand nudged against the blossoming bruise on his forehead. He opened his eyes and looked mournfully at his ripped bag. His daily run in with the meatheads before school began had ended badly that morning, and led to his bag being torn apart and his school books scattered around the car park. He was also nearly run over by his history teacher as he was attempting to retrieve his essay. Even worse, his dad hadn’t even noticed as he walked in the house, greeting him with “hey buddy” and a hair ruffle, inadvertently knocking the bruised part of his head. Kurt sighed. He felt invisible to everyone except the people he most wanted to be untouchable to. The world worked in fickle ways sometimes.


 

“And you’re going to Yale,” Kurt continued, almost incredulously. “You have no idea what Karofsky was struggling with.”

Quinn felt uncomfortable. She knew what pain was. She had lived through it and god, was it hard. She understood. But she couldn’t understand how someone could do that to themselves, and the people around them.

She thought of how much she had lost, her place on the cheerleading squad, her reputation, her father, her baby, and she looked Kurt in the eye and let him know her pain.

“You really wanna try to compare-“ she was cut off as she began to challenge him.

“The despair...” Kurt trailed off slightly, looking at the floor. Quinn froze. She saw Kurt’s emotions written on his face.


 

Kurt cried silently, clutching his pillow to his body. He had finally broken down after hours of staring at his ceiling, tired eyes burning in the dark room as they refused to sleep. He dreaded waking up in the morning. He dreaded picking himself up out of bed and greeting his father who didn’t notice anything. He dreaded having to drive himself to school, knowing the hatred that greeted him there. He dreaded the way that no one seemed to care. He dreaded the fear and misery he felt every day. 


 

“The self loathing,” Kurt continued, his voice breaking slightly at the end. Quinn stared at the floor, shaking her head.


 

Kurt sobbed as he stood in the shower. He wrapped his arms around his body too small, too skinny, too girly and slumped against the wall. He grabbed at his fat, feminine, pear shaped thighs, and clutched his razor. This was one time he was thankful for his father’s inattentiveness, so no questions were asked when he bought a pack of straight razors. He looked down at his damaged, destroyed, disgusting body, and began drawing trails of red. He wanted to control the damage. Have it on his own terms. He couldn’t control anything else in his life, he was too weak, but he could control this. If his body was going to be damaged by other people, he may as well damage it more himself. 


 

“It doesn’t matter,” Quinn said, looking away from those eyes that held years of pain. “I just can’t imagine things getting so messed up that you would consider taking your own life.”

She looked up at him again, and felt a pang as she looked into his face, his features seemingly crying out that they could, that they understood it all too well.

“That is so harsh and reductive,” Kurt said, pushing away the memories that Quinn’s sentiments brought to him.


 

“Faggot!” “Fucking queer, just go jump off the roof already!” “No one wants you around anyway!” 


 

“Have some compassion!” Kurt exclaimed, staring into Quinn’s face, the face that seemed to harbour so much derision.

He turned to address the rest of the god squad. Joe was looking at him as if he was a charity case, Sam was staring at him calculatingly and Mercedes just looked as if she was about to cry.

“You know, they’re still writing on his Facebook? ‘Better luck next time’ and ‘try try again.’”

Something seemed to shift in Quinn’s face, something that told Kurt that she finally understood. She understood why Kurt felt the way he did.

“Why are you even here, Kurt? I thought you didn’t believe in God,” Quinn said, turning away from him.

Kurt looked at the floor.

“He asked me if he could come, and I invited him,” said Joe, speaking quietly.

“I heard you guys were praying for Karofsky, and after everything that we’ve been through...I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”


 

Kurt finally lost any faith he may have had in God when he was sat in the shower, blood trickling down his legs, praying to someone who wasn’t there to make it end. Make all the hatred, the suffering, the self-loathing, the emptiness end. He just wanted it to end and he didn’t care how.

His prayers went unanswered.


 

Kurt sat down, and allowed himself to break a little. Just enough to make people understand.

“I feel responsible.”

There was silence as everyone looked at him.

“He asked me out,” Kurt took a deep breath. “And I said no.”

Kurt stared at the floor, not wanting to look at people, to see the pity in Joe’s eyes, the sadness in Mercedes’, the serious look on Sam’s face, the way Quinn always seemed to be judging him.

“And he kept calling me.”


 

Kurt stared at his phone from across the room. It kept vibrating, letting him know when yet another vile message was tweeted about him. When another meathead tagged him in a post about a gay kid getting killed. Maybe it would be him next time. They hoped. He hoped. 

The phone began to ring. Kurt eyed it warily. No caller ID. Against his better judgement, he picked it up and answered the call. 

“Faggot.” 

The man on the other linen hung up. Kurt rolled his eyes. His phone buzzed again. It was a text. Unknown number.

“Duck.”

Kurt stared at it, confused, before there was an almighty crash behind him. He spun around, and saw a rock land on the floor. He edged closer, avoiding the broken glass-he wasn’t going to bleed on his carpet, thank you very much, he’d save that for the bathroom-and saw words scrawled on the jagged stone.

Die, fag, die.

Kurt never thought he’d see a rock that knew his inner thoughts that well.


 

“If I’d just answered one of those stupid calls...” Kurt brushed a tear from his cheek.

“We’re taking an edible arrangement to the hospital,” Mercedes’ voice was soft. “Do you want to come with us?”

Kurt looked up at her.


 

Kurt stared at the bottle of pills. His father had forgotten about the co-codamol he’d had stored in his bathroom after he broke his hand at the garage. It made it much easier for Kurt to take it from his dad’s cabinet.

It would be just like going to sleep. Peaceful. All the hurt would stop. It would all go away.

But...it wouldn’t for his dad. 

Besides, by the time his dad bothered to look for him, his body would be in no state for an open casket funeral. And that would put a wrench in his designs. He was too tired to plan another funeral now. 

He looked back at the pills. He’d save them for another time he decided. When there were more favourable funeral prospects.


 

He nodded.