FIC: Wristcutters, A Kurtofsky Love Story (1/?)
Title: Wristcutters
Author: tessisamess & wherethewind
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Dave Karofsky/Kurt Hummel
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,978 // 1,978 total
Warnings: Suicide
Spoilers: Canon up to s2e10
Summary: I like to think he cried about it. After I died. I know that's fucked up, but I'm just saying...
Based heavily on the idea of Wristcutters: A Love Story. But you don't need to have seen it.
o n e
I like to think he cried about it. After I died. I know that's fucked up, but I'm just saying... It's not that I wanted him to be in pain, even if what happened was partly his fault. I guess I just needed him to know. Otherwise I probably woulda been cool with him never knowing why I did it. But, like, the need for him to know sort of shadowed the need to not hurt him.
I guess love makes you do weird shit.
Dave shut the mailbox. Walked back inside his house. His mom was with some douchey client for the day who couldn't decide if he wanted his office gray, gray or gray. Dave didn't know. They all looked the same to him. Dad was at some conference in Columbus.
He cleaned all day. First, the mess he'd left in the kitchen that morning after breakfast. Then his bathroom. Then his bedroom, making sure to organize as he went.
When he was done, Dave took out the three bags of trash he'd accumulated, then went back inside, cleaned himself up, and went to the bathroom to finish what he'd started.
He didn't know how long he stood there, staring at his reflection in the spotless mirror. Finally, Dave straightened his tie, then carefully rolled up his sleeves.
He picked up the razor.
"Oh, yeah, every straight guy's nightmare, that all us gays are secretly out to molest and convert you! Well, guess what, Hamhock? You're not my type."
Took a breath.
"I don't dig on chubby boys who sweat too much and are gonna be bald by the time they're thirty."
Let it out.
"You are nothing but a scared little boy who can't handle how extraordinarily ordinary you are!"
And just did it.
It was easier than he thought it would be. But maybe that was just because he wanted it. He kept himself upright for as long as he could but, soon enough, he was sliding down the bathroom wall. He watched as the floor he'd just cleaned turned red, red, red.
Fuck...
...He'd missed a spot by the bottom of the tub.
--
The letter arrived at the garage on the day of the funeral, but Kurt didn’t see it until his dad came home for dinner. By that point, Finn’s black suit (“I know he was a douche, but he was still on the team.”) was back in the closet and Kurt was preparing the evening meal with Carole.
“Smells good,” Burt said, striding into the kitchen and kissing Carole’s cheek. “What are you guys making?”
“Salmon fillets and pasta,” Kurt said, peering into the oven to check on the fish. It already looked -- and smelled -- delicious.
Carole gestured at her pile of vegetables with the chef’s knife. “And salad,” she added.
“Can’t wait,” Burt said. “Letter came for you at the garage today, Kurt.” He pulled a slightly creased envelope out of the pocket of his coat and handed it over. There was a grease smudge along one edge.
“Huh,” Kurt replied. “I don’t recognize the handwriting.” He folded it and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans, intending on reading it after they’d eaten.
“Honey, why don’t you go and read it now? I think I can handle dinner,” Carole said as she reached for a cucumber.
Kurt left the kitchen feeling distinctly like he’d just been shooed. He loped down the stairs to his bedroom and flopped down onto his bed, pulling the envelope from his pocket. Frowned at the handwriting again. Then shrugged and wedged a finger under the flap, tearing the envelope open.
Even after everything, you're the only person I still feel like I can tell shit without worrying about you hating me. Probably because you already do.
I'm sorry. For hurting you. Scaring you. For turning what I felt for you into something ugly before I could really even figure out what it meant.
Mostly though I sorta just feel sorry for myself, you know? I mean, what kind of guy can't even tell someone he loves them. You. I love you.
You probably think I killed myself because I wasn't strong like you. Couldn't handle being gay. And, yeah, that's part of it. But I think if I'd handled shit better. If I'd had you. Maybe I could've figured my shit out.
So maybe it was just about you. I don't know.
Anyway, if you're reading this, you know what happened. But you probably don't know I did it right after I put this in the mailbox. Or I will. Whatever.
You're the only person I bothered writing to. I'm sorry for everything I did and I'm sorry for doing this, now.
Kurt stared at the words written carefully on the sheet of notebook paper for so long that they started to blur together. I love you. He wanted to scream at the unfairness of it -- that the one love letter he’d ever gotten was from a boy who’d tormented him since he’d started high school. That the one love letter he’d ever gotten was actually a suicide note. That the boy was dead.
He blinked at the page until the words became legible again, and re-read it. Then again, and again, and --
Carole called down the stairs that dinner was ready. Kurt quickly folded the letter up and stuffed it in his pocket and stood up, wondering for a moment why the room had gone blurry, too. Then he haphazardly wiped away the tears that had pooled in his eyes and crossed his room to the stairs, leaving the torn envelope lying on the floor next to his bed.
--
Dave wasn't all that surprised to find that there was no God --fag hating or otherwise. No, when Dave died he found himself ...well, pretty much in the last place he'd expected. A dingy skeleton of a city. It was dirty and hollow. Full of people, but devoid of any real spark of life.
A whole population of the walking dead, in a way. Every last one a suicide.
Dave got a job at a dive bar --called The Dive Bar. He wasn't sure if that fell under "ironic" or just "sort of clever," really. He'd never quite got a hold on what was and wasn't ironic. The owner, a hanging named Thom, found him an apartment down the street. It was small and crappy. One small room with everything shoved into the tiny, awkward space. The bathroom was curtained off haphazardly with a mismatched set of sheets (one was blue striped and the other was faded paisley) and the tap didn't like to get hot most of the time, but... Oddly enough it was home before long. Even without a bed.
--
Kurt couldn’t sleep more than an hour at a time before the dreams would start. They were all variations on a theme: he’d be sitting in class, or watching TV, or walking down the hall at McKinley, and suddenly there he’d be, hulking and intimidating in his red letter jacket. And Kurt would flinch back, away from the punch or shove into the lockers he knew was coming, but it never did. Instead, he was hauled in for a hard, desperate kiss, and before he could regain his bearings, he’d hear the words, “I love you,” and know, know it was too late. He’d watch the razor descend, watch skin split in its wake, and be helpless to stop it.
Kurt liked to think that nobody knew about his recent insomnia. That nobody knew that even the over-the-counter sleep tablets he’d bought out of desperation weren’t enough to hold back the dreams. School was a cycle of going through the motions. He tried to keep up with his homework, pay attention in glee, but God, he just needed to sleep.
He pulled the creased, smudged letter out of his pocket and read it again, although by now he’d read it so often that he could see the words without looking at them. Somehow it just wasn’t the same without that careful print on the sheet of lined notebook paper.
--
Dave missed lots of shit. He didn't try and kid himself about that. He missed his mom. He missed hockey. He missed his room. Being able to smile (something he'd tried to do a million times in the past however many weeks, even when Thom told him, "Hey, kid. It just ain't gonna happen."). Sometimes he missed Az, but that was a little different. He really missed that sense of ...urgency that came with life that was nowhere to be found in this new place. He missed having things to look forward to, even if those had disappeared long before he'd done it.
The last few months of his life had really been nothing more than moving from one day to the next, with a dull throb that could've been called dread in someone more alive following him with every step, every second, every breath.
So, yeah, Dave missed shit. But not enough to actually regret it. Not fully, anyway. Not enough to really want to be back at home, back in time.
Here, he could be whoever he wanted to be. With his death came a sort of freedom he'd never expected. Not the release he'd been looking forward to so much as a new start. Not that it made him any happier. That aching hole, that missing piece that he'd needed to be able to carry on, it had followed him to the grave and beyond and it stuck fast like an angry disease. Got bigger. Rotted inside him.
Sometimes he thought about getting a car. He didn't need it, though. He never went anywhere and when he did it was just the two minute walk down to the Dive. So, ultimately, Dave decided against it. It wasn't like he really made enough to cover it anyway.
Dave remembered thinking that he'd never know what it was like to grow up and live his own life. Before, that was. Now he was doing just that. Sort of, anyway. He adjusted quickly to it, but had a new found respect for his mom. He didn't know how she always got shit right. When he did the grocery shopping he always forgot something and had to go back. Getting what he needed for day-to-day routine when he'd first moved in, the most ridiculous shit came up. He'd buy a pan and forget that he'd need a spatula, or get plates and silverware and not cups, then wound up drinking out of the milk jug until he had enough money to get them.
He still didn't have a bed.
--
When Kurt woke up, he was in a waiting room filled with people. There was a clipboard in his hand, and the letter was clutched in the other. He folded it carefully and stuck it in his pocket, before turning to the woman next to him to ask, “Um, excuse me -- what is this place?” in a tone that sounded much calmer than he felt. Obviously he’d been abducted and brought here, along with all these other people.
The woman turned to look at him. Half of her face was gone.
“O-oh my God,” Kurt exclaimed. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. It’s just -- are you alright?”
The woman turned back to her clipboard without a word.
Kurt looked down at his own clipboard. “Name: Kurt Hummel. Date of birth…” He filled in his vital statistics, until he reached one that had him staring at the paper. “Date of death. What? But I’m -- “ He tore his eyes from the paperwork, finally getting a better look at the people who surrounded him. And then up at the sign above the receptionist’s desk. “Bureau of Suicide Registration..?”
Author: tessisamess & wherethewind
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Dave Karofsky/Kurt Hummel
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,978 // 1,978 total
Warnings: Suicide
Spoilers: Canon up to s2e10
Summary: I like to think he cried about it. After I died. I know that's fucked up, but I'm just saying...
Based heavily on the idea of Wristcutters: A Love Story. But you don't need to have seen it.
o n e
I like to think he cried about it. After I died. I know that's fucked up, but I'm just saying... It's not that I wanted him to be in pain, even if what happened was partly his fault. I guess I just needed him to know. Otherwise I probably woulda been cool with him never knowing why I did it. But, like, the need for him to know sort of shadowed the need to not hurt him.
I guess love makes you do weird shit.
Dave shut the mailbox. Walked back inside his house. His mom was with some douchey client for the day who couldn't decide if he wanted his office gray, gray or gray. Dave didn't know. They all looked the same to him. Dad was at some conference in Columbus.
He cleaned all day. First, the mess he'd left in the kitchen that morning after breakfast. Then his bathroom. Then his bedroom, making sure to organize as he went.
When he was done, Dave took out the three bags of trash he'd accumulated, then went back inside, cleaned himself up, and went to the bathroom to finish what he'd started.
He didn't know how long he stood there, staring at his reflection in the spotless mirror. Finally, Dave straightened his tie, then carefully rolled up his sleeves.
He picked up the razor.
"Oh, yeah, every straight guy's nightmare, that all us gays are secretly out to molest and convert you! Well, guess what, Hamhock? You're not my type."
Took a breath.
"I don't dig on chubby boys who sweat too much and are gonna be bald by the time they're thirty."
Let it out.
"You are nothing but a scared little boy who can't handle how extraordinarily ordinary you are!"
And just did it.
It was easier than he thought it would be. But maybe that was just because he wanted it. He kept himself upright for as long as he could but, soon enough, he was sliding down the bathroom wall. He watched as the floor he'd just cleaned turned red, red, red.
Fuck...
...He'd missed a spot by the bottom of the tub.
--
The letter arrived at the garage on the day of the funeral, but Kurt didn’t see it until his dad came home for dinner. By that point, Finn’s black suit (“I know he was a douche, but he was still on the team.”) was back in the closet and Kurt was preparing the evening meal with Carole.
“Smells good,” Burt said, striding into the kitchen and kissing Carole’s cheek. “What are you guys making?”
“Salmon fillets and pasta,” Kurt said, peering into the oven to check on the fish. It already looked -- and smelled -- delicious.
Carole gestured at her pile of vegetables with the chef’s knife. “And salad,” she added.
“Can’t wait,” Burt said. “Letter came for you at the garage today, Kurt.” He pulled a slightly creased envelope out of the pocket of his coat and handed it over. There was a grease smudge along one edge.
“Huh,” Kurt replied. “I don’t recognize the handwriting.” He folded it and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans, intending on reading it after they’d eaten.
“Honey, why don’t you go and read it now? I think I can handle dinner,” Carole said as she reached for a cucumber.
Kurt left the kitchen feeling distinctly like he’d just been shooed. He loped down the stairs to his bedroom and flopped down onto his bed, pulling the envelope from his pocket. Frowned at the handwriting again. Then shrugged and wedged a finger under the flap, tearing the envelope open.
Even after everything, you're the only person I still feel like I can tell shit without worrying about you hating me. Probably because you already do.
I'm sorry. For hurting you. Scaring you. For turning what I felt for you into something ugly before I could really even figure out what it meant.
Mostly though I sorta just feel sorry for myself, you know? I mean, what kind of guy can't even tell someone he loves them. You. I love you.
You probably think I killed myself because I wasn't strong like you. Couldn't handle being gay. And, yeah, that's part of it. But I think if I'd handled shit better. If I'd had you. Maybe I could've figured my shit out.
So maybe it was just about you. I don't know.
Anyway, if you're reading this, you know what happened. But you probably don't know I did it right after I put this in the mailbox. Or I will. Whatever.
You're the only person I bothered writing to. I'm sorry for everything I did and I'm sorry for doing this, now.
Kurt stared at the words written carefully on the sheet of notebook paper for so long that they started to blur together. I love you. He wanted to scream at the unfairness of it -- that the one love letter he’d ever gotten was from a boy who’d tormented him since he’d started high school. That the one love letter he’d ever gotten was actually a suicide note. That the boy was dead.
He blinked at the page until the words became legible again, and re-read it. Then again, and again, and --
Carole called down the stairs that dinner was ready. Kurt quickly folded the letter up and stuffed it in his pocket and stood up, wondering for a moment why the room had gone blurry, too. Then he haphazardly wiped away the tears that had pooled in his eyes and crossed his room to the stairs, leaving the torn envelope lying on the floor next to his bed.
--
Dave wasn't all that surprised to find that there was no God --fag hating or otherwise. No, when Dave died he found himself ...well, pretty much in the last place he'd expected. A dingy skeleton of a city. It was dirty and hollow. Full of people, but devoid of any real spark of life.
A whole population of the walking dead, in a way. Every last one a suicide.
Dave got a job at a dive bar --called The Dive Bar. He wasn't sure if that fell under "ironic" or just "sort of clever," really. He'd never quite got a hold on what was and wasn't ironic. The owner, a hanging named Thom, found him an apartment down the street. It was small and crappy. One small room with everything shoved into the tiny, awkward space. The bathroom was curtained off haphazardly with a mismatched set of sheets (one was blue striped and the other was faded paisley) and the tap didn't like to get hot most of the time, but... Oddly enough it was home before long. Even without a bed.
--
Kurt couldn’t sleep more than an hour at a time before the dreams would start. They were all variations on a theme: he’d be sitting in class, or watching TV, or walking down the hall at McKinley, and suddenly there he’d be, hulking and intimidating in his red letter jacket. And Kurt would flinch back, away from the punch or shove into the lockers he knew was coming, but it never did. Instead, he was hauled in for a hard, desperate kiss, and before he could regain his bearings, he’d hear the words, “I love you,” and know, know it was too late. He’d watch the razor descend, watch skin split in its wake, and be helpless to stop it.
Kurt liked to think that nobody knew about his recent insomnia. That nobody knew that even the over-the-counter sleep tablets he’d bought out of desperation weren’t enough to hold back the dreams. School was a cycle of going through the motions. He tried to keep up with his homework, pay attention in glee, but God, he just needed to sleep.
He pulled the creased, smudged letter out of his pocket and read it again, although by now he’d read it so often that he could see the words without looking at them. Somehow it just wasn’t the same without that careful print on the sheet of lined notebook paper.
--
Dave missed lots of shit. He didn't try and kid himself about that. He missed his mom. He missed hockey. He missed his room. Being able to smile (something he'd tried to do a million times in the past however many weeks, even when Thom told him, "Hey, kid. It just ain't gonna happen."). Sometimes he missed Az, but that was a little different. He really missed that sense of ...urgency that came with life that was nowhere to be found in this new place. He missed having things to look forward to, even if those had disappeared long before he'd done it.
The last few months of his life had really been nothing more than moving from one day to the next, with a dull throb that could've been called dread in someone more alive following him with every step, every second, every breath.
So, yeah, Dave missed shit. But not enough to actually regret it. Not fully, anyway. Not enough to really want to be back at home, back in time.
Here, he could be whoever he wanted to be. With his death came a sort of freedom he'd never expected. Not the release he'd been looking forward to so much as a new start. Not that it made him any happier. That aching hole, that missing piece that he'd needed to be able to carry on, it had followed him to the grave and beyond and it stuck fast like an angry disease. Got bigger. Rotted inside him.
Sometimes he thought about getting a car. He didn't need it, though. He never went anywhere and when he did it was just the two minute walk down to the Dive. So, ultimately, Dave decided against it. It wasn't like he really made enough to cover it anyway.
Dave remembered thinking that he'd never know what it was like to grow up and live his own life. Before, that was. Now he was doing just that. Sort of, anyway. He adjusted quickly to it, but had a new found respect for his mom. He didn't know how she always got shit right. When he did the grocery shopping he always forgot something and had to go back. Getting what he needed for day-to-day routine when he'd first moved in, the most ridiculous shit came up. He'd buy a pan and forget that he'd need a spatula, or get plates and silverware and not cups, then wound up drinking out of the milk jug until he had enough money to get them.
He still didn't have a bed.
--
When Kurt woke up, he was in a waiting room filled with people. There was a clipboard in his hand, and the letter was clutched in the other. He folded it carefully and stuck it in his pocket, before turning to the woman next to him to ask, “Um, excuse me -- what is this place?” in a tone that sounded much calmer than he felt. Obviously he’d been abducted and brought here, along with all these other people.
The woman turned to look at him. Half of her face was gone.
“O-oh my God,” Kurt exclaimed. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. It’s just -- are you alright?”
The woman turned back to her clipboard without a word.
Kurt looked down at his own clipboard. “Name: Kurt Hummel. Date of birth…” He filled in his vital statistics, until he reached one that had him staring at the paper. “Date of death. What? But I’m -- “ He tore his eyes from the paperwork, finally getting a better look at the people who surrounded him. And then up at the sign above the receptionist’s desk. “Bureau of Suicide Registration..?”