Dave Karofsky's journal

Like writing things down is going to help. I think about him all the time, what good is writing about it going to do?

He's dead now and I watched as they put his body in the ground. I knew perfectly well that this wasn't some mind game that everybody was playing, that this wasn't some kind of lesson and that as they started lowering the coffin into the ground he wasn't going to jump out and yell, ″Surprise,″ but when I saw his dad drop that first handful of dirt and heard it hit the top of the coffin, I really knew.

Why do we have to do that, anyway? I almost wanted to make them stop, to say that he would hate being in the ground, it would be cold and dirty.

I dream about him, too. Every kind of dream you can imagine. Ones where I manage to save him. Ones where I can't but at least he knew that I tried. Ones where he turned down the guy who came over to him because he already had a boyfriend.

Ones where he comes back and blames me. Ones where I'm helping to kick him to death.

At least they didn't rape him. I think if they had, I'd have gone crazy. But sometimes when I dream, that happens, too. Sometimes I'm the one doing it. Some of those dreams even turn me on.

Maybe I am going crazy. Because sometimes I hear a voice and I turn around but it's not him. Sometimes I even see somebody with that color hair or that build and I think it's him. But it never is.

I want him back so badly. I want a second chance. Except really, I know I had a chance every time I did something to him. I could have stopped.

I hated him then for the things he was making me feel. And now I still kind of hate him for making me so miserable except I know now that it's my fault, not his.

I know, if he'd been my boyfriend, or even if we were just friends, then I could tell somebody how I feel. I could say how much I miss him, how I keep thinking of him, and maybe, if we had been together, I could say how much I wanted to kiss him, to be holding him again, just one last time.

I even know that if I'd treated him halfway decently from the start, I'd have had a chance. It's not like he would have had a wide selection of out guys to pick from. Then I remember the dream where he said that he already had a boyfriend, and looked around to find me with his eyes, and smiled a bit .

I just wish I could talk to somebody. If we'd been boyfriends, then maybe his dad and I would be talking, we'd have those, ″Remember the time I came to dinner and knocked the water pitcher over?″ ″Did I tell you about when he was six and said he was going to be a race car driver?″ sorts of stories to tell, and it would have been for a while like he was still there with us. But now it would be something like ″Did I tell you about the day I slushied him three times?″

Dad keeps looking at me like he wants to say something but isn't sure. I heard him and Mom talking about me in the kitchen one night, really quietly, when they thought I was in my room. She was saying that it was my first contact with anybody my age dying and my first encounter with a violent death and that I just needed time. He was saying that he thought it might be more than that, but that he wasn't sure if it'd make things worse by pushing, since sometimes I get defensive. If only he knew.

I tried to talk to Ms. Pillsbury but she just gave me pamphlets on grieving. I read them but none of them helped. She said that often people feel guilty after somebody dies and that there are ways to think about it to channel that to something positive. She said that maybe I'd feel better if I participated in some of the activities like that PFLAG.

Except I'm not a parent or a friend, I am one of them.

Shit, I can't even write it down without making myself. That I'm gay. It took me three minutes to write that down, maybe more.

That doesn't keep me from thinking about him, about how much I wanted to kiss him, to be his first. I even could have seen us getting old together, me still teasing him about how fussy he is about his five remaining strands of hair, him still pretending to be exasperated because I snore, Azimio and his wife would live next door and they'd be making jokes about how they can still hear us making the bedsprings creak almost every night.

Azimio knows something's wrong but he has no idea what. I'm terrified at the thought of telling him. We've been friends since preschool. Would he throw me under the bus if I told him? Or even if he weren't mad at me for being gay, would he throw me under the bus for lying to him so long? For not trusting him?

It hurts so much and I don't know what to do.


AN: Puck next, I think, then probably Santana. I'm open to other suggestions, too.