Fanfic - Nothing to Lose (part three)
The writing for this part isn't my best. Sorry. I've been struggling a bit with my words the past couple of days. But I realized this afternoon while working on this and a few other stories for several hours, stuck in a jewelry store break room that smelled heavily of tobacco by-products, that this story is going to turn out longer than I originally thought. Probably a lot longer. I think most everything I say will likely be short ends up being ridiculous in length. Oh well. At least I'm having fun doing it. :P
ETA: Urgh, there are days when I hate MS Works. It ate half this chapter and I didn't realize it when I posted. Well, it's up now.
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As much as Kurt detested dirt and grime, there was nothing quite like the feel of fresh summer grass between his toes. There were bugs and dirt and little bits of dead grass that were currently clinging to the hems of his pant and the exposed skin of his ankles, but it was well worth it. He flexed his feet one more time, silently relishing the feel of the young plants against his skin. He shifted on the edge of the wooden patio and tried to get into a more comfortable position. His tailbone was starting to ache from sitting there for so long, but he was loathe to move just yet.
The late summer sun was warm through the light fabric of his shirt, and though he knew he’d be covered in even more freckles by the end of the day than the ones dotting his face and arms, it was worth it this one time. They’d be long gone before school started up again, and his nightly skin care routine would help to soften the effect of the little dark spots in no time.
He’d opted out of joining his dad at the shop today and had almost made his way entirely through the books he’d been given for his birthday. The first novel hadn’t been anything special, but it had been a welcome distraction from his utter lack of a social life, if nothing else. The second had been absolutely awful (but what else had he expected from his Aunt Mildred?), and he’d given up on it less than halfway through. It hadn’t been worth his time or his sanity. The one he had open in his lap now, however, was turning out to be quite the page-turner. He’d never been much of one for mysteries before, but this one was rather well-written, fast-paced, and far more interesting than anything else he had to entertain himself with at the moment.
A soft keening beep rose up from his left and he groaned as he turned away from the book before him, his fingers carefully laid over his exact stopping point in the text, to see what the commotion was about . It was the alarm going off on the watch set just to his side, and he frowned as he remembered why he had set it there. The old watch was an ugly little thing, one of his dad’s that he’d pilfered from his desk at the garage some time ago, but it kept the time well enough while his phone charged inside. It wasn’t as though anyone knew he had it anyway-his dad hadn’t even noticed it was missing.
Kurt leaned over and scraped it up from the wood into his hand, fingering the worn felt strap. Four thirty. He sighed. Right on time. He needed to get started on dinner. They’d been eating way too much take-out lately, and it was starting to show on Kurt’s figure. His dad could do with a few healthy meals as well.
He stuffed the watch into his pocket and wedged his bookmark into the deep crevice between the pages of his novel to keep his place. He sighed as he inspected his progress from the thin piece of cardboard sticking out between the pages. About two-thirds of the way through-right when the action was at its heaviest. He really did have the worst timing.
He threaded his toes through the grass one last time before lifting his legs onto the hard surface of the patio. He’d been sitting for too long. His legs protested as he straightened and stretched, tilting him off to the right, so he stumbled a bit before catching himself and regaining his balance once more.
Smooth, Kurt, he thought as he brushed at the smooth fabric of his pants to clear them of any debris that might have collected there. Real smooth. At least no one was around to see that.
He leaned down to pick up his book, sighing as he ran his fingers over the textured book jacket. He’d be able to finish it soon. Maybe tomorrow or during the weekend. His dad probably wouldn’t mind if he took another day off, even if it was just to read some throwaway book. It was summer vacation after all, and he'd been a pretty big help around the garage since school let out. One more day wouldn't hurt.
Kurt staggered over to the sliding glass door, and made his way inside the house. His legs were incredibly stiff and still somewhat wobbly from sitting for so long, but the hours spent reading the book in his hands had been worth it. He’d have to look this author up, see if she had any other books out.
The house was quiet and empty, and Kurt felt as though he were the only person in the universe. It was terribly lonely and more than a little intimidating, but his dad would be home soon. They didn’t really talk about much, not even the cars that they both worked so hard on, but his presence was comforting. They didn’t really have much in common, but his dad was there, and that was what mattered in the end.
Kurt sauntered into the kitchen and laid his book down on the table. He wasn’t exactly sure what to make, but then, he wasn’t exactly sure what kinds of ingredients he had to work with either. He eyed the fridge with apprehension. He should probably check and see what kind of vegetables they had. Maybe some sort of vegetarian pasta, or some fish if they had any. His dad shouldn’t protest to something like that.
He made his way over to the fridge and pulled open the door. The cool air hit his body as he sifted through the various drawers and shelves. There. A package. He picked it out and carefully read the little paper label. Salmon. Purchased two days ago. Good enough. He could bake that and serve it with some salad; his dad should be fine with that.
He cradled the package in his hands and bumped the door of the fridge with his hip to close it. Now he just needed to see what kinds of spices they had left. His dad didn’t understand much in the way of seasoning outside of salt and black pepper, which frustrated Kurt to no end, but the man did always try and keep the spice cabinet well-stocked for Kurt. He placed the little paper package on the counter and walked over to the spice cabinet. His bare feet barely made a sound as he moved across the cool linoleum.
He opened up the cabinet door and scowled at the rows of bottles lining the top shelves. Great. His dad had moved them again.
He huffed out a sharp breath of air and stomped over to the kitchen table, cursing his lack of height. Soon. He had to hit his growth spurt soon, and then this wouldn’t be a problem. Until then he was stuck dragging chairs over from the kitchen table or the dining room to give himself the extra boost. It really didn’t help that the majority of his bullies already had a few inches on him (with the exception of Finn, who had maybe a foot or more; the guy was a freakin’ giant); perhaps that was one of the reasons they honed in on him. Kill off the sick and weak ones first, then move on to bigger prey.
Some of the bottles were old; most were more than half empty. He’d need to take stock and pester his dad about buying more later. As he was debating over the pros and cons of adding dill to the fish, the shrill warble of the phone shot through the room.
He placed the bottles down on the counter and climbed down from his perch. It was probably his dad, letting him know that he was on his way home.
Kurt walked over to the phone and glanced at the caller ID. Huh. He didn’t recognize that number. Maybe it was another solicitor or relative looking for his mom. After seven years one would think that they’d get the news that she was dead. He sighed as the phone rang again. He supposed that it really didn’t help that he sounded like a woman. His tormentors had reminded him enough of that while he was at school; he didn't need anyone else to call him out on it.
He picked up the receiver and connected the call, walking back over to his chair and assorted spices.
“Hummel residence.”
There was nothing except a little bit of breathing coming through the speaker. He pulled the phone away from his ear and frowned at the phone. Who the hell?
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
“We’re coming to get you, fag,” came a deep voice that was abruptly cut off by the dial tone. Kurt froze, his breath catching in his chest.
His fingers went slack and the little bottle he was holding slipped from his hand to shatter against the kitchen floor. He carefully pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed ‘end.’
Oh god. All of the terrible things from the past school year that he’d tried to shove from his mind came rushing back, and Kurt found himself going numb with fear and shock. His hands were shaking. He looked at the phone and felt his heart seize up in his chest. He couldn’t place the voice-it hadn’t been familiar at all. It could have been anyone. Anyone at all.
Kurt wanted to sink down into the floor and disappear. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Not to him. Not now. Things like this just didn’t happen to people outside of stupid dramas on TV. He placed the phone onto the counter and stepped down from the chair. A sharp pain in his heel brought him back to reality and he hissed in frustration.
That’s right. He dropped that damn spice bottle. There was glass on the floor now. He was more careful setting down his other foot, careful of the tiny smears of blood and bright flashes of shards on the white linoleum. At least that solved my dill dilemma, he thought as he limped over to the kitchen table. Of course, now I have glass in my foot, but I suppose that’s the price I pay for indecisiveness.
Kurt chuckled as he plunked himself down into one of the chairs at the table and lifted his foot into his lap. His heel was smeared with blood, and he could see the three little triangles of glass poking out of his skin. There were probably more that he couldn't see around the little wells of blood popping up along the skin of his heel. Fantastic.
He leaned in close and carefully grasped the bloody glass between his fingernails, yanking each piece out as fast as he could. He figured this would be like a band-aid: the faster he pulled, the faster the pain would ebb.
He felt a prick of tears at the corner of his eyes and more laughter bubbled up in his chest. Of course. He’d been stupid, delusional even, to think that he’d be left alone over the summer. He wondered how they’d found the house number. They weren’t listed in the phone book (though he doubted any of the meatheads that shoved him around during the school year even knew what one of those was); maybe they could be found online. It wouldn’t be all that hard. He just hoped that they never called the shop. Anyone could pick up there.
Kurt heard the swish of the front door and his heart sunk at the soft footsteps heading toward the kitchen. His dad. He needed to come up with an excuse. And fast.
“Kurt?” His dad came around the corner and frowned at the sight of his son hunched over in one of the kitchen chairs, his foot perched carefully in his lap. “What are you doing?”
“Hey, dad.” There was no offered explanation; Kurt figured it would be obvious in a few seconds. He pulled the last piece out and set it down with the others on the hard wood surface of the table.
“Are you hurt?”
“Just a little, yeah, but it’s nothing serious. I just dropped one of the spices. Be careful. I haven’t had the chance to get everything cleaned up just yet.” He shot his dad a shaky smile, but it wasn’t returned.
His dad just walked over and scooped him up into his arms without a word. He carried Kurt over to the bathroom, though Kurt’s limbs hung out awkwardly over the bridge of his arms, and he plunked him down on the edge of the bathtub. Kurt knew hw was probably too heavy for that sort of thing anymore, that doing things like that would hurt his dad's back, but there hadn't really been any room for argument. He lowered his head and sat silently on the bathtub's rim, waiting for his dad to speak.
“Wash off your foot,” his dad murmured softly as he dug around in the medicine cabinet for some bandages. “And then slap a few of these on there.” He tossed over a little cardboard box and sighed deeply as Kurt fumbled with it in his hands. “What on earth were you doing?”
“Getting dinner ready,” Kurt mumbled. “I just wasn’t being careful, and I dropped the bottle. Nothing special.”
“All right. I’ll go fix things up in the kitchen. We can order pizza or something; I don’t want you walking around too much on that foot.”
Kurt hung his head and reached for the tap. “Okay,” he whispered, but his dad had already left. He could live with pizza for one more night. He could live with the sharp, stabbing pain in his foot. They were a small price to pay to keep his dad in the dark. The man didn’t need to know about the phone call, about the threats.
It wasn’t his battle to fight. Kurt could figure this out on his own.
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Kurt felt himself grow more and more weary as the summer drew to a close. Every day brought him that much closer to the return of school, and he wasn’t ready for it. Not by a long shot.
Ever since the phone call he’d been on edge, peering around corners, making sure his dad was always nearby. Every time he was left alone for too long, his body started to go numb, and a terrible, all-encompassing panic began to set in.
We’re coming to get you, fag.
The words bounced around in his head and haunted his dreams.
We’re coming to get you.
What if they acted out on their threat? What if this wasn’t just some high school prank or some jocks jerking him around for the hell of it? He hadn't been able to place a name to the voice. It could be anyone.
What if his dad found out?
Kurt couldn’t help but shoot terrified glances at the phone during dinner when he and his dad would draw themselves up to the kitchen table, his dad trying to reel him into conversation about the rickety old Ford that Mr. Bronson had brought in or the fancy car with an equally fancy owner that had broken down on the side of the road.
Kurt tried. Really, he did, but the threat hung over his head like a noose, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to slip around his neck and cinch itself tight. He could feel his chest tighten every time he walked into the kitchen, every time he saw the phone sitting there on its charger. There hadn’t been any calls except the one, but Kurt had no idea if they would continue, if they would escalate into something far worse, and it strung his nerves so taut that he couldn’t sit still. His book remained unfinished in his room; he couldn’t focus well enough to keep his eyes on the page, and the tension was getting worse.
He couldn’t help it, but every so often, when he lay awake at night in the comfort of his own bed, he pictured his own death. It would probably be slow, a prank or hazing of some sort gone wrong, and he’d be left to bleed to death in a parking lot somewhere. Nothing glamorous. Nothing special. Just another nameless victim to add to the statistics on teen violence. And people would move on.
As though nothing had ever happened.
Except that…except Kurt knew they wouldn’t move on. Not everyone. True, he had very little impact on most anyone’s life save for one: his dad. Kurt knew that his dad wouldn’t be able to move on if he died.
And the thought of his dad wandering about the house, listless and lifeless and just as lost as he’d been after the death of Kurt’s mother frightened him far worse than any way he could possibly imagine dying at the hands of the faceless voice from the phone. Maybe in the grand scheme of things Kurt didn’t really matter, but he was the world to his dad, even if the man never said it, and that in itself was more than enough reason for Kurt to guard his life like it was more precious than gold. His dad was worth it.
And so he watched the phone like a hawk, swooping in to grab the receiver first, no matter where he was. He didn’t know if he’d be able to stand his dad ever finding out about the call or, god forbid, receive one himself. The thought was more than he could bear.
It was a quiet August day. Not too many cars coming through at the shop, and the fixes had been relatively simple. Just a few new tires, a little brake work on an old sedan and a new suspension for a station wagon about to go back on the market. It had been hot in the garage, and Kurt had never been more thankful to sink into the air conditioned bliss of the cab of his father’s truck. Yes, he was sweaty and covered in dirt and grease, but the work was done and he was finally in a place where he could focus on something other than the way the sweat made his t-shirt cling to the skin of his back.
A shower, or perhaps several, were definitely in his near future. Followed shortly by his nightly skin care routine and maybe a little extra work for his hands. They were absolutely disgusting.
The car rumbled under him and Kurt felt himself get lulled into a light doze. His dad would be there soon-he’d just needed to lock up, grab a few minor things. Nothing big or that would take very long. Kurt sighed as he relaxed himself deeper into the canvas seat. The doors were locked. No one could reach him, and his dad was right around the corner. He was safe.
He cracked open an eye at the light tapping on the door. Speaking of his dad, there he was, waiting just beside the car for Kurt to let him in. Kurt snaked his hand over to his door and pressed the button to unlock everything, letting his dad slide into the driver's seat unhindered.
“Hey, bud. Sorry to make you wait.”
“That’s okay, dad. I didn’t mind. The air conditioner is heavenly.”
Burt chuckled lightly, and Kurt let himself relax, even as the seatbelt dug uncomfortably into the exposed skin of his neck. This felt nice. Easy.
“You did good today, kiddo.” Burt reached over and ruffled Kurt’s already messy hair. The rough fingers were warm on his scalp and Kurt found that he didn’t really care that his dad’s soiled fingers had probably just undone months of careful washings and care. He felt connected to his dad then in more than just protecting the man from the horrors of Kurt's everyday life, and that meant something. Kurt felt his chest grow warm as he settled into his seat one more time. The houses were getting far more familiar, the twists and turns of the road like the halls of their house; they were almost home.
But something wasn’t right as they turned the corner into their cul-de-sac and their house came into view. A few people, neighbors from the look of them, had gathered just outside on the sidewalk and were pointing up at the roof where there now sat four deck chairs and a table, complete with umbrella still attached.
Kurt felt his heart sink as the car pulled into the driveway. There was something painted in bright, glaring red on the front door. A message. This whole thing was a fucking message, wasn’t it?
His dad was swearing and sputtering in disbelief as he barreled out of the car to get a better look at the roof. All of their lawn furniture had somehow made its way to the top of the house, and by the looks of it, not a single piece was coming down without some sort of encouragement. It probably wouldn’t be a cheap fix either.
Kurt was far slower in making his way out of the truck. He didn’t want to see the damage. He knew it was there, and that was bad enough. He carefully opened up his door and stepped out onto the pavement, making sure to keep his eyes glued to his feet. It was easier that way; then he wouldn’t see the rage and disbelief on his father’s face. Then he wouldn’t see the confusion of their neighbors. Then he wouldn’t have to accept that this had cut him deep enough that he could hardly breathe.
He stepped up to the door and felt his heart jump up into his throat as he read the crudely painted words stretching across the door.
See you at school.
No. No, no, no, this couldn’t be real. It had to be some sort of terrible nightmare that his anxiety-ridden mind had cooked up to prepare him for the start of school. His lungs began to work again but far too fast. He couldn’t get enough air and his hands were starting to shake and why the hell wasn’t he waking up?
He shoved his hand into the pocket of his coveralls and wrenched out his keys, jamming them into the lock without a second thought. The basement. He needed to get down to the basement.
He raced in through the door, leaving his small bundle of keys hanging from the lock as he barreled down the stairs into his room, not even pausing to remove his shoes. He scrambled over to his vanity and jerked open the tiny white drawer.
Come on, come on. It had to be in there somewhere. His thoughts were racing, and he could feel sweat beading once more at his brow. Tears were dripping unbidden from his eyes to the blackened skin of his hands and the only sound he could hear was the uneven wheeze of his panting breaths.
Come on. Where are you?
He slammed the drawer shut and fell onto his bed with a sob. He couldn’t find it, and he couldn’t think of where else he might have put the damn thing. He needed it now more than ever, and…and he suddenly remembered.
Kurt fell to the carpet, his knees hitting the floor with a loud, pronounced thump. His bag. He’d stuck it into his bag before the end of the school year.
It felt almost as though he were moving through water as he pulled the bag to his body and rifled through the small pocket on its front. The tension in his body melted away the second his fingertips brushed textured plastic.
The knife.
It was still there.
He drew it out and cradled the still sheathed blade to his chest. He didn’t need to unfold it; he knew the sharp metal was waiting just beneath the plain surface of its jacket, and that was all the reassurance he needed. The tears continued to flow down his cheeks, but he made no move to stop them.
His bullies, his tormentors, had found their way into the sanctuary of his home and violated it. He wanted to scream and cry and vomit until all of the terrible feelings welling up in his chest disappeared, but he knew better. Kurt had more dignity, more self control than that.
He opened his eyes and drew in a deep breath to calm himself. He was acting stupid. This was nothing, just a stupid prank. It could be fixed. He drew the knife away from his chest and placed it back into the safety of his bag. It would be there if he ever needed it. Even if they had found their way into his home, they couldn't touch him. He had to remember that.
He sniffed and drug the back of his hand over his eyes to rid his face of tears. He needed to get a hold of himself, stop being such a whiner.
He was Kurt fucking Hummel. He was strong. And this was just one more thing to overcome.
He picked himself up from the floor and made his way over to the stairs, the knife completely forgotten. He needed to get back outside, talk to his dad. Maybe they could figure out a way to get everything down before the weather started to turn.
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Part one.
Part two
Part four.
ETA: Urgh, there are days when I hate MS Works. It ate half this chapter and I didn't realize it when I posted. Well, it's up now.
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As much as Kurt detested dirt and grime, there was nothing quite like the feel of fresh summer grass between his toes. There were bugs and dirt and little bits of dead grass that were currently clinging to the hems of his pant and the exposed skin of his ankles, but it was well worth it. He flexed his feet one more time, silently relishing the feel of the young plants against his skin. He shifted on the edge of the wooden patio and tried to get into a more comfortable position. His tailbone was starting to ache from sitting there for so long, but he was loathe to move just yet.
The late summer sun was warm through the light fabric of his shirt, and though he knew he’d be covered in even more freckles by the end of the day than the ones dotting his face and arms, it was worth it this one time. They’d be long gone before school started up again, and his nightly skin care routine would help to soften the effect of the little dark spots in no time.
He’d opted out of joining his dad at the shop today and had almost made his way entirely through the books he’d been given for his birthday. The first novel hadn’t been anything special, but it had been a welcome distraction from his utter lack of a social life, if nothing else. The second had been absolutely awful (but what else had he expected from his Aunt Mildred?), and he’d given up on it less than halfway through. It hadn’t been worth his time or his sanity. The one he had open in his lap now, however, was turning out to be quite the page-turner. He’d never been much of one for mysteries before, but this one was rather well-written, fast-paced, and far more interesting than anything else he had to entertain himself with at the moment.
A soft keening beep rose up from his left and he groaned as he turned away from the book before him, his fingers carefully laid over his exact stopping point in the text, to see what the commotion was about . It was the alarm going off on the watch set just to his side, and he frowned as he remembered why he had set it there. The old watch was an ugly little thing, one of his dad’s that he’d pilfered from his desk at the garage some time ago, but it kept the time well enough while his phone charged inside. It wasn’t as though anyone knew he had it anyway-his dad hadn’t even noticed it was missing.
Kurt leaned over and scraped it up from the wood into his hand, fingering the worn felt strap. Four thirty. He sighed. Right on time. He needed to get started on dinner. They’d been eating way too much take-out lately, and it was starting to show on Kurt’s figure. His dad could do with a few healthy meals as well.
He stuffed the watch into his pocket and wedged his bookmark into the deep crevice between the pages of his novel to keep his place. He sighed as he inspected his progress from the thin piece of cardboard sticking out between the pages. About two-thirds of the way through-right when the action was at its heaviest. He really did have the worst timing.
He threaded his toes through the grass one last time before lifting his legs onto the hard surface of the patio. He’d been sitting for too long. His legs protested as he straightened and stretched, tilting him off to the right, so he stumbled a bit before catching himself and regaining his balance once more.
Smooth, Kurt, he thought as he brushed at the smooth fabric of his pants to clear them of any debris that might have collected there. Real smooth. At least no one was around to see that.
He leaned down to pick up his book, sighing as he ran his fingers over the textured book jacket. He’d be able to finish it soon. Maybe tomorrow or during the weekend. His dad probably wouldn’t mind if he took another day off, even if it was just to read some throwaway book. It was summer vacation after all, and he'd been a pretty big help around the garage since school let out. One more day wouldn't hurt.
Kurt staggered over to the sliding glass door, and made his way inside the house. His legs were incredibly stiff and still somewhat wobbly from sitting for so long, but the hours spent reading the book in his hands had been worth it. He’d have to look this author up, see if she had any other books out.
The house was quiet and empty, and Kurt felt as though he were the only person in the universe. It was terribly lonely and more than a little intimidating, but his dad would be home soon. They didn’t really talk about much, not even the cars that they both worked so hard on, but his presence was comforting. They didn’t really have much in common, but his dad was there, and that was what mattered in the end.
Kurt sauntered into the kitchen and laid his book down on the table. He wasn’t exactly sure what to make, but then, he wasn’t exactly sure what kinds of ingredients he had to work with either. He eyed the fridge with apprehension. He should probably check and see what kind of vegetables they had. Maybe some sort of vegetarian pasta, or some fish if they had any. His dad shouldn’t protest to something like that.
He made his way over to the fridge and pulled open the door. The cool air hit his body as he sifted through the various drawers and shelves. There. A package. He picked it out and carefully read the little paper label. Salmon. Purchased two days ago. Good enough. He could bake that and serve it with some salad; his dad should be fine with that.
He cradled the package in his hands and bumped the door of the fridge with his hip to close it. Now he just needed to see what kinds of spices they had left. His dad didn’t understand much in the way of seasoning outside of salt and black pepper, which frustrated Kurt to no end, but the man did always try and keep the spice cabinet well-stocked for Kurt. He placed the little paper package on the counter and walked over to the spice cabinet. His bare feet barely made a sound as he moved across the cool linoleum.
He opened up the cabinet door and scowled at the rows of bottles lining the top shelves. Great. His dad had moved them again.
He huffed out a sharp breath of air and stomped over to the kitchen table, cursing his lack of height. Soon. He had to hit his growth spurt soon, and then this wouldn’t be a problem. Until then he was stuck dragging chairs over from the kitchen table or the dining room to give himself the extra boost. It really didn’t help that the majority of his bullies already had a few inches on him (with the exception of Finn, who had maybe a foot or more; the guy was a freakin’ giant); perhaps that was one of the reasons they honed in on him. Kill off the sick and weak ones first, then move on to bigger prey.
Some of the bottles were old; most were more than half empty. He’d need to take stock and pester his dad about buying more later. As he was debating over the pros and cons of adding dill to the fish, the shrill warble of the phone shot through the room.
He placed the bottles down on the counter and climbed down from his perch. It was probably his dad, letting him know that he was on his way home.
Kurt walked over to the phone and glanced at the caller ID. Huh. He didn’t recognize that number. Maybe it was another solicitor or relative looking for his mom. After seven years one would think that they’d get the news that she was dead. He sighed as the phone rang again. He supposed that it really didn’t help that he sounded like a woman. His tormentors had reminded him enough of that while he was at school; he didn't need anyone else to call him out on it.
He picked up the receiver and connected the call, walking back over to his chair and assorted spices.
“Hummel residence.”
There was nothing except a little bit of breathing coming through the speaker. He pulled the phone away from his ear and frowned at the phone. Who the hell?
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
“We’re coming to get you, fag,” came a deep voice that was abruptly cut off by the dial tone. Kurt froze, his breath catching in his chest.
His fingers went slack and the little bottle he was holding slipped from his hand to shatter against the kitchen floor. He carefully pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed ‘end.’
Oh god. All of the terrible things from the past school year that he’d tried to shove from his mind came rushing back, and Kurt found himself going numb with fear and shock. His hands were shaking. He looked at the phone and felt his heart seize up in his chest. He couldn’t place the voice-it hadn’t been familiar at all. It could have been anyone. Anyone at all.
Kurt wanted to sink down into the floor and disappear. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Not to him. Not now. Things like this just didn’t happen to people outside of stupid dramas on TV. He placed the phone onto the counter and stepped down from the chair. A sharp pain in his heel brought him back to reality and he hissed in frustration.
That’s right. He dropped that damn spice bottle. There was glass on the floor now. He was more careful setting down his other foot, careful of the tiny smears of blood and bright flashes of shards on the white linoleum. At least that solved my dill dilemma, he thought as he limped over to the kitchen table. Of course, now I have glass in my foot, but I suppose that’s the price I pay for indecisiveness.
Kurt chuckled as he plunked himself down into one of the chairs at the table and lifted his foot into his lap. His heel was smeared with blood, and he could see the three little triangles of glass poking out of his skin. There were probably more that he couldn't see around the little wells of blood popping up along the skin of his heel. Fantastic.
He leaned in close and carefully grasped the bloody glass between his fingernails, yanking each piece out as fast as he could. He figured this would be like a band-aid: the faster he pulled, the faster the pain would ebb.
He felt a prick of tears at the corner of his eyes and more laughter bubbled up in his chest. Of course. He’d been stupid, delusional even, to think that he’d be left alone over the summer. He wondered how they’d found the house number. They weren’t listed in the phone book (though he doubted any of the meatheads that shoved him around during the school year even knew what one of those was); maybe they could be found online. It wouldn’t be all that hard. He just hoped that they never called the shop. Anyone could pick up there.
Kurt heard the swish of the front door and his heart sunk at the soft footsteps heading toward the kitchen. His dad. He needed to come up with an excuse. And fast.
“Kurt?” His dad came around the corner and frowned at the sight of his son hunched over in one of the kitchen chairs, his foot perched carefully in his lap. “What are you doing?”
“Hey, dad.” There was no offered explanation; Kurt figured it would be obvious in a few seconds. He pulled the last piece out and set it down with the others on the hard wood surface of the table.
“Are you hurt?”
“Just a little, yeah, but it’s nothing serious. I just dropped one of the spices. Be careful. I haven’t had the chance to get everything cleaned up just yet.” He shot his dad a shaky smile, but it wasn’t returned.
His dad just walked over and scooped him up into his arms without a word. He carried Kurt over to the bathroom, though Kurt’s limbs hung out awkwardly over the bridge of his arms, and he plunked him down on the edge of the bathtub. Kurt knew hw was probably too heavy for that sort of thing anymore, that doing things like that would hurt his dad's back, but there hadn't really been any room for argument. He lowered his head and sat silently on the bathtub's rim, waiting for his dad to speak.
“Wash off your foot,” his dad murmured softly as he dug around in the medicine cabinet for some bandages. “And then slap a few of these on there.” He tossed over a little cardboard box and sighed deeply as Kurt fumbled with it in his hands. “What on earth were you doing?”
“Getting dinner ready,” Kurt mumbled. “I just wasn’t being careful, and I dropped the bottle. Nothing special.”
“All right. I’ll go fix things up in the kitchen. We can order pizza or something; I don’t want you walking around too much on that foot.”
Kurt hung his head and reached for the tap. “Okay,” he whispered, but his dad had already left. He could live with pizza for one more night. He could live with the sharp, stabbing pain in his foot. They were a small price to pay to keep his dad in the dark. The man didn’t need to know about the phone call, about the threats.
It wasn’t his battle to fight. Kurt could figure this out on his own.
---
Kurt felt himself grow more and more weary as the summer drew to a close. Every day brought him that much closer to the return of school, and he wasn’t ready for it. Not by a long shot.
Ever since the phone call he’d been on edge, peering around corners, making sure his dad was always nearby. Every time he was left alone for too long, his body started to go numb, and a terrible, all-encompassing panic began to set in.
We’re coming to get you, fag.
The words bounced around in his head and haunted his dreams.
We’re coming to get you.
What if they acted out on their threat? What if this wasn’t just some high school prank or some jocks jerking him around for the hell of it? He hadn't been able to place a name to the voice. It could be anyone.
What if his dad found out?
Kurt couldn’t help but shoot terrified glances at the phone during dinner when he and his dad would draw themselves up to the kitchen table, his dad trying to reel him into conversation about the rickety old Ford that Mr. Bronson had brought in or the fancy car with an equally fancy owner that had broken down on the side of the road.
Kurt tried. Really, he did, but the threat hung over his head like a noose, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to slip around his neck and cinch itself tight. He could feel his chest tighten every time he walked into the kitchen, every time he saw the phone sitting there on its charger. There hadn’t been any calls except the one, but Kurt had no idea if they would continue, if they would escalate into something far worse, and it strung his nerves so taut that he couldn’t sit still. His book remained unfinished in his room; he couldn’t focus well enough to keep his eyes on the page, and the tension was getting worse.
He couldn’t help it, but every so often, when he lay awake at night in the comfort of his own bed, he pictured his own death. It would probably be slow, a prank or hazing of some sort gone wrong, and he’d be left to bleed to death in a parking lot somewhere. Nothing glamorous. Nothing special. Just another nameless victim to add to the statistics on teen violence. And people would move on.
As though nothing had ever happened.
Except that…except Kurt knew they wouldn’t move on. Not everyone. True, he had very little impact on most anyone’s life save for one: his dad. Kurt knew that his dad wouldn’t be able to move on if he died.
And the thought of his dad wandering about the house, listless and lifeless and just as lost as he’d been after the death of Kurt’s mother frightened him far worse than any way he could possibly imagine dying at the hands of the faceless voice from the phone. Maybe in the grand scheme of things Kurt didn’t really matter, but he was the world to his dad, even if the man never said it, and that in itself was more than enough reason for Kurt to guard his life like it was more precious than gold. His dad was worth it.
And so he watched the phone like a hawk, swooping in to grab the receiver first, no matter where he was. He didn’t know if he’d be able to stand his dad ever finding out about the call or, god forbid, receive one himself. The thought was more than he could bear.
It was a quiet August day. Not too many cars coming through at the shop, and the fixes had been relatively simple. Just a few new tires, a little brake work on an old sedan and a new suspension for a station wagon about to go back on the market. It had been hot in the garage, and Kurt had never been more thankful to sink into the air conditioned bliss of the cab of his father’s truck. Yes, he was sweaty and covered in dirt and grease, but the work was done and he was finally in a place where he could focus on something other than the way the sweat made his t-shirt cling to the skin of his back.
A shower, or perhaps several, were definitely in his near future. Followed shortly by his nightly skin care routine and maybe a little extra work for his hands. They were absolutely disgusting.
The car rumbled under him and Kurt felt himself get lulled into a light doze. His dad would be there soon-he’d just needed to lock up, grab a few minor things. Nothing big or that would take very long. Kurt sighed as he relaxed himself deeper into the canvas seat. The doors were locked. No one could reach him, and his dad was right around the corner. He was safe.
He cracked open an eye at the light tapping on the door. Speaking of his dad, there he was, waiting just beside the car for Kurt to let him in. Kurt snaked his hand over to his door and pressed the button to unlock everything, letting his dad slide into the driver's seat unhindered.
“Hey, bud. Sorry to make you wait.”
“That’s okay, dad. I didn’t mind. The air conditioner is heavenly.”
Burt chuckled lightly, and Kurt let himself relax, even as the seatbelt dug uncomfortably into the exposed skin of his neck. This felt nice. Easy.
“You did good today, kiddo.” Burt reached over and ruffled Kurt’s already messy hair. The rough fingers were warm on his scalp and Kurt found that he didn’t really care that his dad’s soiled fingers had probably just undone months of careful washings and care. He felt connected to his dad then in more than just protecting the man from the horrors of Kurt's everyday life, and that meant something. Kurt felt his chest grow warm as he settled into his seat one more time. The houses were getting far more familiar, the twists and turns of the road like the halls of their house; they were almost home.
But something wasn’t right as they turned the corner into their cul-de-sac and their house came into view. A few people, neighbors from the look of them, had gathered just outside on the sidewalk and were pointing up at the roof where there now sat four deck chairs and a table, complete with umbrella still attached.
Kurt felt his heart sink as the car pulled into the driveway. There was something painted in bright, glaring red on the front door. A message. This whole thing was a fucking message, wasn’t it?
His dad was swearing and sputtering in disbelief as he barreled out of the car to get a better look at the roof. All of their lawn furniture had somehow made its way to the top of the house, and by the looks of it, not a single piece was coming down without some sort of encouragement. It probably wouldn’t be a cheap fix either.
Kurt was far slower in making his way out of the truck. He didn’t want to see the damage. He knew it was there, and that was bad enough. He carefully opened up his door and stepped out onto the pavement, making sure to keep his eyes glued to his feet. It was easier that way; then he wouldn’t see the rage and disbelief on his father’s face. Then he wouldn’t see the confusion of their neighbors. Then he wouldn’t have to accept that this had cut him deep enough that he could hardly breathe.
He stepped up to the door and felt his heart jump up into his throat as he read the crudely painted words stretching across the door.
See you at school.
No. No, no, no, this couldn’t be real. It had to be some sort of terrible nightmare that his anxiety-ridden mind had cooked up to prepare him for the start of school. His lungs began to work again but far too fast. He couldn’t get enough air and his hands were starting to shake and why the hell wasn’t he waking up?
He shoved his hand into the pocket of his coveralls and wrenched out his keys, jamming them into the lock without a second thought. The basement. He needed to get down to the basement.
He raced in through the door, leaving his small bundle of keys hanging from the lock as he barreled down the stairs into his room, not even pausing to remove his shoes. He scrambled over to his vanity and jerked open the tiny white drawer.
Come on, come on. It had to be in there somewhere. His thoughts were racing, and he could feel sweat beading once more at his brow. Tears were dripping unbidden from his eyes to the blackened skin of his hands and the only sound he could hear was the uneven wheeze of his panting breaths.
Come on. Where are you?
He slammed the drawer shut and fell onto his bed with a sob. He couldn’t find it, and he couldn’t think of where else he might have put the damn thing. He needed it now more than ever, and…and he suddenly remembered.
Kurt fell to the carpet, his knees hitting the floor with a loud, pronounced thump. His bag. He’d stuck it into his bag before the end of the school year.
It felt almost as though he were moving through water as he pulled the bag to his body and rifled through the small pocket on its front. The tension in his body melted away the second his fingertips brushed textured plastic.
The knife.
It was still there.
He drew it out and cradled the still sheathed blade to his chest. He didn’t need to unfold it; he knew the sharp metal was waiting just beneath the plain surface of its jacket, and that was all the reassurance he needed. The tears continued to flow down his cheeks, but he made no move to stop them.
His bullies, his tormentors, had found their way into the sanctuary of his home and violated it. He wanted to scream and cry and vomit until all of the terrible feelings welling up in his chest disappeared, but he knew better. Kurt had more dignity, more self control than that.
He opened his eyes and drew in a deep breath to calm himself. He was acting stupid. This was nothing, just a stupid prank. It could be fixed. He drew the knife away from his chest and placed it back into the safety of his bag. It would be there if he ever needed it. Even if they had found their way into his home, they couldn't touch him. He had to remember that.
He sniffed and drug the back of his hand over his eyes to rid his face of tears. He needed to get a hold of himself, stop being such a whiner.
He was Kurt fucking Hummel. He was strong. And this was just one more thing to overcome.
He picked himself up from the floor and made his way over to the stairs, the knife completely forgotten. He needed to get back outside, talk to his dad. Maybe they could figure out a way to get everything down before the weather started to turn.
---
Part one.
Part two
Part four.