"Lying there and staring at the ceiling,

Waiting for a sleepy feeling."

His eyes glazed over, admiring the dull glow of the revolver.

Entrancing.

The cool metal soothed his pounding, sweaty hands.

He wasn't scared

(He had never felt so nervous in his life)

He felt calm; no fear

(Cold sweat dripping down fucking everywhere, he's quivering)

A few slow breaths.

There wasn't any letter, not really, save for the loose leaf resting on his bed, reading a thick, erratically written: SORRY.

And it wasn't for Dad, Mom, or Az. It should've been, could've been, but it really wasn't.

Hummell—no—

Kurt. He would know, he must

Know.

And maybe Karofsky was an ugly monster. But this would fix it

(It had to fix it!)

He had cried before. Weeping, shaking sobs still echoed in his small room.

Nobody was home.

He couldn't cry now, but his throat felt tight and thick.

He knew how this would end, how this had to end. It was just the getting there. In a strange way,

It felt like football. Like you could feel the win in your veins. Blood pumping and you knew it and then it would be go time and everything felt

Right. Like fate or some shit.

He couldn't be there when they'd find out.

And they would, he knew. Maybe soon.

Dad would've fucking kicked him out. Mom would've just stood there, and they'd be—they'd be so fucking ashamed, good God,

And maybe this way they could cry at his funeral, and they could

They could still—fucking give a shit about him. He wouldn't have to be around for the stares the glares the silence that would inevitably come…

Also, a lovely, smooth smile surfaced amidst these thoughts

That easy, sweet smile (Kurt) but it began

A churning darkness within him because—

Because that fucking kid was happy

Is happy. Would be happy and

(That's how it should be) but why

Why can't it be him? All he ever

Wanted (lusted for) was to make that kid

Smile. And he couldn't, and his fucking friends and family barred him,

Jailed him, and yeah,

Yeah, maybe he is a fucking wimp

But—there was some ache in his heart—

How could Hummell be so confident?

So—happy? Calm?

So…so lovely...

Stomach clenched

Thoughts clenched

Time clenched

Kurt would smile again, a million times again

And somehow that was worse than Kurt being

Alone or scared because of him and

Karofsky felt black and awful for wishing

That.

Hummell would know. Would understand.

(If he didn't realize, Karofsky would be

Dead anyway, long gone, Just a body)

Maybe he would, though…

Forgive a monster.

The revolver felt sturdy, resting on his palm

There was no other way.

This was the ticket

He was killing

A fucking demon—right?

So maybe…maybe he wouldn't be

So scared; and maybe Karofsky wouldn't

Ever have to feel that

Searing pain in his heart—

A flash:

Kurt, happy, free.

He pulled the trigger.