Don't You Leave Me
Prompt from ShadowOfDarkness101: DRABBLE! YAYAYA! If you are able to I'd love one where Kurt is still with his father and after a particularly bad beating sings a song called "Lover dearest" by Marianas Trench about how much he hates being with him but can't bring himself to leave because he's afraid and feels he still needs and wants to stay, if possible I would like flashbacks throughout him singing the song of dark times with his father, so if it's too much then it's ok because you've already blessed us with this amazing story but if possible I would literally die from happiness.
I changed the format of this slightly from what the original prompt is, because it's a pretty long song and I found it easier to incorporate this way, but I hope you still… yeah this turned out dark, I don't think 'enjoy' is the right word again… oh you guys are gonna love me so much in the sequel, I can just tell. (Who's coming with me to hell?)
You can interpret this in several ways, I guess: it can be flashes of the same beating, or snippets of different ones, whichever way you prefer, though I personally interpret it as one beating pretty near the beginning of the abuse. It's dark enough it requires warnings (thank you, ShadowOfDarkness101 :P) oh and it also contains a reference to something that happens in the sequel, so sorry if that's confusing!
WARNINGS: dark themes, depression, blood, self-harm, attempted suicide, physical abuse
"This place is a hole, and I don't want to go
I wish we could stay here forever alone
This time that we waste, but I still love your taste
Don't let him take my place, don't just sit there."
He hurt. Everything hurt. Kurt hadn't even known it was possible to hurt this much; a constant, dull, pounding ache that seemed to cover every inch of his flesh, punctuated with sharp pulses of fiery pain, that flexed in time with his heart beat.
He didn't understand.
"Why," he whispered aloud, faint breath washing over his stiff, curled up fingers where they rested in front of his face, on the floor where they'd fallen once his da- he had finished with him. Pain raced up and down his spine, setting the bruises littering his back on fire, and Kurt whimpered, scrunching up his face as he struggled not to cry.
"Why? Why am I this way? Why do you hate me so much? What did I do?" he sobbed, lifting one hand and slamming it down on the floor in a weak movement that still sent sparks of pain shooting up his fingers. His breathing hitched as he watched his fingers slip across the floor. It hurt. But it was a controllable pain; his pain. He clenched his hand, watching in satisfaction as blood trickled between his fingers from his palms, which had been sliced open by the sharp edge of a bottle.
"Well I'm not sick of you yet, is this as good as it gets?
I'll just say it, or I could slip into you,
It's so easy to come back to you."
It took him twenty minutes to drag himself into a sitting position, and even then the wall was doing more work in keeping him upright than he was. He stared at the trails of blood across the floorboards, hazy and hurting.
There were patterns. It swirled slightly where his grip had slipped around, and painted the floor in spattered streaks where his hand had slid uselessly across the floor. There wasn't even that much, and hand wounds tended to bleed a lot.
It was just.
Kurt stared. His fists opened and closed, fingers shaking.
"I stand for a while, and wait for words
Seen but not heard and struggled to try
My tongue's turning black, but I'll take you back
You're still the best more or less, I guess…
His fa-he was snoring in the living room. Kurt stayed where he was in the hall, bruised and battered and still crying into the otherwise silent house.
"I don't understand," he whispered. But he did.
He was girly. He was- he was gay, he could admit that much to himself. He liked clothes and musicals and singing and girly things, and he was a sissy boy, and he couldn't control it.
He was a sick fuck.
He was a disgusting faggot.
He was a dirty little cock-sucking slut.
He was wrong. He shouldn't be alive.
"Don't you leave me,
Well I'm not sick of you yet
Is that as good as it gets
I'll just say it or I could slip into you
It's so easy to come back to you.
It hurts me to say that it hurts me to stay
And it might be alright if you go.
It hurts me to say that I want you to stay,
But it might be alright if you go…"
Kurt put the phone down, ignoring the way it slipped against the dried scabs on his hand, and stared blankly at the wall.
She abandoned me. Just like Mama, she- he screwed up his eyes, tears leaking out even as he struggled to contain himself.
She was gone, and he was alone, and he couldn't leave.
"Stuck here," he murmured. Slowly, he turned to face the front door, wondering. Could he do it? He could leave, run away and never come back - surely anything had to be better than here?
He approached the door, his body aching and protesting with every slight movement, but he already knew that not moving didn't make it any better, so he might as well keep walking. He reached the door, and stood there for several long moments, his hand resting on the varnished wood.
He closed his eyes, and then turned to look at the back of his head, staring.
Ten minutes later, he backed away from the door.
"So leave me, well I'm not sick of you yet,
Is that as good as it gets
I'll just try to hide it, or I could slip into you
It's so easy to come back to you,
Sometimes I think that the bitter in you,
And the quitter in me,
Is the bitter in you and the quitter in me."
The cuts on his hands didn't heal for weeks, and the scars were there for longer.
The chemicals in the cleaning spray stung and burned, but they didn't have any rubber gloves, for some reason, he wasn't sure why that was - he was sure they'd had some before but-
It stung. And they bled some more, and then one got infected, though whether that was because of the beer stained glass or cleaning liquid, he didn't know. They stung. He wore gloves for months, and then had to cut the fingers off so he could carry on wearing them in the spring even though it was warmer.
He stayed in that house, and he hated, and he built up the walls, the mirrors, the defences. The crazy clothes and the make-up, the hidden bandages and plasters, all piled up on his dresser. Empty boxes of painkillers and bottles of antiseptic, piles of cheap material to cut and fold and hide, scattered around his room.
He stayed, and he hated, and he couldn't leave.
"The bitter in you, and the quitter in me,
Is the bitter in you and the quitter in me.
The bitter in you, and the quitter in me,
Is the bitter in you and the quitter in me,
Is better than the both of us."