Welcome to the Glee Angst Meme again! You know how these things work. You can come here and prompt your most angsty prompts, and write stories filling those angsty prompts to let our characters suffer
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Re: -FILL- Limits 1c/?haicrescendoOctober 23 2011, 21:29:13 UTC
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The nights were awful.
The physical pain only came in the daytime because no one in the world could be scared off by Burt Hummel anymore and Sue Sylvester couldn’t be around all the time, but Kurt much preferred it to the nights, where the shadows were so deep and dark. Sleep was always far away and always restless. Peace never came, only fear and anger and bad dreams where nothing went right. He’d give anything, absolutely anything he owned for a dream in which Burt Hummel had opened his eyes.
Kurt was so tired of being angry.
Sometimes he thought that he hurt so much that he thought that there couldn’t possibly be any room left for anger, but it was always there anyway. It was always there, bubbling just underneath the surface, just under his skin, just under him and what was left of Kurt.
But Kurt Hummel always had a backup plan.
Whenever the anger got just a little too potent, he’d reach under his pillow and pull out a jewelry box. It had once held his mother’s wedding band long ago but he’d buried that with his father; he'd deserved it much more than Kurt ever had or ever would. Now it held a tiny, unadorned straight razor.
Kurt had never used it on himself, not like most people who had razors did, but he used it in another way. Sometimes he’d just sit there on his bed and run long, shaking fingers over the sides and think. If he hadn’t cut into himself yet, that meant that he was still strong enough. Strong enough for what he wasn’t sure, but strong enough. As long as he was bearing his fangs to the world around him and not taking them to himself, he could still do it. He was still Kurt.
He still wanted to make the world burn, long and slow and hot, because he didn’t know for how much longer he could stand the cold.
The nights were awful.
The physical pain only came in the daytime because no one in the world could be scared off by Burt Hummel anymore and Sue Sylvester couldn’t be around all the time, but Kurt much preferred it to the nights, where the shadows were so deep and dark. Sleep was always far away and always restless. Peace never came, only fear and anger and bad dreams where nothing went right. He’d give anything, absolutely anything he owned for a dream in which Burt Hummel had opened his eyes.
Kurt was so tired of being angry.
Sometimes he thought that he hurt so much that he thought that there couldn’t possibly be any room left for anger, but it was always there anyway. It was always there, bubbling just underneath the surface, just under his skin, just under him and what was left of Kurt.
But Kurt Hummel always had a backup plan.
Whenever the anger got just a little too potent, he’d reach under his pillow and pull out a jewelry box. It had once held his mother’s wedding band long ago but he’d buried that with his father; he'd deserved it much more than Kurt ever had or ever would. Now it held a tiny, unadorned straight razor.
Kurt had never used it on himself, not like most people who had razors did,
but he used it in another way. Sometimes he’d just sit there on his bed and run long, shaking fingers over the sides and think. If he hadn’t cut into himself yet, that meant that he was still strong enough. Strong enough for what he wasn’t sure, but strong enough. As long as he was bearing his fangs to the world around him and not taking them to himself, he could still do it. He was still Kurt.
He still wanted to make the world burn, long and slow and hot, because he didn’t know for how much longer he could stand the cold.
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