Back, sorry if i scraed you about another two mouth wait. BUT HAVE NO FEAR! I love writiing to much, i just have school, and lifey issues. ok before I start quick rant. Whos has seen the first ep of the second season... whos fallen mad in love with Sam. I have. First..., he so thinks Finns flirting with him... tehn the ball mouth thing ( priceless) did he not sound hopeful? Can't wait for him to meet Kurt. Oh Oh , ... if anyone wants to fan girl with me abotu him, just PM me. Fun to be had.
"Yo, Puckermen!" The foremen hollered over the heads of the gathered crew. There was a good reason why they were gathered, "You forgot your pay!"
He was already half way to his truck, taking off the only extra weight he could. His tool belt. But turning around and walking back to his co-workers, seeing them watching him, with those stupid, yet all knowing eyes. Everyone knew there was something not quite right with Him.
He always forgot to pick up Puck's pay, almost like he didn't even want the money.
Driving home...It took more than forever. Each rotation of the tire could be felt through the car, carrying into the steering wheel, passing into His fingertips. He felt his damnation, all three of theirs. Or was it four. No he shouldn't think. He doesn't think.
He parked in the drive way, climbed into his room, changed and left. That's what he does, and only that.
And He reminded himself by drawing back his shoelaces as tight as possible. Having the shoe constricted around his feet, reminded him what he was to do. Keep moving.
Moving was good, that's what it all boils down. He's muscle mass more condensed, wirier under the lack of body fat.
But he was boiling away, his muscle mass more condensed, wirier under the lack of body fat.
He didn't sleep much, mainly because when he did, the nightmares made sure he didn't sleep well. He didn't eat much; one bowl of soggy cornflakes was all he ate That day, all he planned to eat.
And then, moving was good.
That day, and That night. He ran in Puck's body. From a slow jog, to a sprint. All depending on the music blasting in his ear.
He never sang anymore. He didn't know he could, because singing took feeling, and he didn't feel.
Of course He did. He won't exist if he didn't feel. He felt a lot. But he only allowed himself to feel indifferent, to be apathetic... and that was completely working.
His knee buried and ached, creaking as he pushed them faster with the rapid, unforgiving beat of the aggressive nameless rap song. His shirt was soaked with sweat from running under the hot sun, but it was half dried, clammy from running through the cold night.
Lyrics... they either muffled with His heart pounding in his ear, or pieced through an internal silence. And when it did, He had an easy fix. Push the skip button on his MP3 and run faster, pushing off his toes, launching him from the small square of land that was now tainted with a memory.
Each little square piece of land was avoided after the incident. He never returned to it. He would actual run around it. He didn't realise he was doing, but it sure looked odd to others.
Seeing the man swerve where there was nothing. Of course, after seeing him run, and run for day after day, they already thought he was nuts.
The sheets of rain hammered from the heavens and the streets were empty, but He was still going. There was still juice on his IPod. But there was something else on his IPod, a song.
A song that he doesn't usually skip. It was just a song, a slow jog song at that... but the same thing can happen over and over again, and it can still be different. Hence the chaos theory and if anything was chaotic, it was His and Puck and Noah, hell even Eli's shared mind.
The one word, that one syllable was an explosion. And like an explosion, so many things happened so quickly. He ripped out the ear buds as he was gobsmacked, his jaw hanging loose as if He was slapped. That slap was crumbling him, his dense impregnable walls, destroyed by one line, one word, one syllable of a Beatle's song.
Like the last time he heard the word, it was too much. It tarnished that one persona, and let out some of the others.
The others felt his body, the deadly tremor of his tormented muscles, the clammy coat of rain and sweat, the chill living in his bones. But the worst was the emptiness in his chest filling with desperation.
Desperation was a great fuel.
I need somebody. Help!
Not just anybody. Help!
You know I need somebody.
His sneakered slapped the wet pavement, splashing, as more and more was thrown into the paces. More of a push. He got to where he was going with his headphones wiping behind him. The song still playing, the meaning chasing him.
When I was younger, so much younger then today
I never needed anybody's help in anyway
No These days are gone and I'm not so self assured.
The other, or Him, or Puck or Noah, WHOEVER THE FUCK HE WAS turned onto a street he avoided more than those small squares of land. It was Kurt's street.
He (they?) found the Hummel's house with his (their?) vision blurred with more than rain. But he dropped to a basement window, his knees in the mud. In the filth He was living in.
Whoever started to tap at the window, did it with a grieving hand.
Where He didn't work for money, Kurt did work for money. He (Kurt) worked long sweaty hours in the shop for his pay. Where he worked for hours he spent it in an instant, in a click. The whole week he would suffer on Amazon, or EBay. Finding treasure he couldn't live without.
Kurt's wardrobe had grown four times as large. With boxes and boxes of cloths he bought online... only maybe a third of them fit.
And that was because of the Caramilk bar's he hid everywhere. He hid, them thinking maybe Burt won't notice the half a dozen candy bars his son would inhale... but he noticed.
Burt noticed many things. Like there was a radio in every room, that each one playing. Thankfully on the same station. Like Kurt hadn't actually gone physical shopping in months and he stopped getting invitation after the month of refusing them. Like he was getting pimps... but working even harder to get a perfect compilation.
Chocolate will do that to you.
The shopping Kurt was doing, the clicking and the searching ate away the hours of night. Sleeping wasn't a good thing for him. The nightmares still had him screaming.
With sleep he won't dream and without being able to dream he couldn't have the nightmares. And if there weren't nightmares, there was nothing wrong.
But Burt noticed the wrong, and he was helpless, to right it.
So with the warm glow of his laptop, Kurt sat in a trance. The tapping at the window broke it.
With only the warm glow of his laptop, Kurt couldn't see what or who it was. Should he have been scared? He wasn't. He felt needed.
Kurt slipped out bed, his feet touching the cold floor with a more then chilling effect. The short walk to his window dragged out, timed out by the tapping. But he got there and unlatched it. It was a man; he was opening the window for a man.
Now he started to feel scared. Kurt backed away.
The man shifted off his knees and stuck a foot into Kurt's bedroom, his safe room. Kurt's hands formed fist. The man stuck in his other foot, and started to awkwardly descend himself. Kurt bit hard on his teeth, getting ready to scream.
But the scream died in his mouth as he saw. The man dropped to his knees, his arms dead at his side.