Yeah, so my previous Multi-chapters have always remained unfinished but I'm going to try with this, I swear. General trigger warning for most psychiatric things (Most will be set in a psych ward, so, you know), so be warned.

I wish I'd been a teen, teen idle,

Wish I'd been a prom queen, fighting for the title

Instead of being sixteen and burning up a bible

Feeling super, super, super suicidal

The wasted years, the wasted youth

The pretty lies, the ugly truth

And the day has come where I have come where I have died

Only to find I've come alive

There's blood.

It drips, ebbs, flows until covers his eyes and his heart and his soul and fills every hole in his body. Every pore, every nook and cranny, until the blood is all that is. His skin and bones and fat are eaten and forgotten by the seeming endless warmth; the relief and reprieve of the end.

There's silence.

He doesn't know what he expected. A group of little Lucifers, playing discordant violins and trumpets, following him down to a non-existent hell? There's just the ticking clock, the slowly growing gravity as his bed pulls him down, the empty bottles of Advil and Absolut lying at the beneath the bedside table and the note on the pillow.

He stings.

His wrists and arms and ankles all sting and throb. His thighs and hips and stomach burn. He shouldn't be feeling this. He shouldn't be feeling. This pain was supposed to be gone. Finished. Done. He wasn't supposed to hurt anymore.

'Hold on, buddy.' There's pressure on his chest, a series of bumps until the monotonous beeping and the muffled sobs become two more notches on his list.

He aches.

His bones and stomach and head all pound subtly, until he feels like a marching band. His mouth is fluffy, his bones are stiff. His knuckles click as he stretches, the blood flowing back into his limbs as he takes a deep breath.

'Sebastian?' a man asks in the distance. No, no, no. He isn't supposed to be breathing.

'Take me back,' he demands, the words coming out in small mumbles, his tongue curling on the vowels. Seeing the man's blank stare, he repeats. 'Take me back!'

'Sebastian, please-'

'Take me back!'

He throws one punch, two, until he feels the pressures in his elbows and wrists pull back with a short snap of pain. He sees his mother in the corner, sobbing into a handkerchief, piece of paper in hand.

'Maman!' he calls, pulling the chords and gauges off his body, aching for her touch. There's a sharp pain in his back as his vision clouds and he falls to his knees.

'Level three,' the man says. 'Keep him stable for a few days, then bring him down to two. Mrs Smythe, if you would.' And the room is quiet, four strong hands pulling him back onto the bed.

Oh, Seb, the voice says. You always have to make a spectacle.

'Kurt?'

'Hmmmmingresdad?' Kurt asks, raising his hand to brush away the hair in his eyes. Another hand latches onto his forearm, causing the stinging to return with a gasp.

'Sorry, Kurt, but you can't move that hand,' a man says. 'It's attached to a fair few things you don't want to go awry.' He smiles softly at Kurt. 'I'm Dr Newman. Now what did you say before?'

'How's my dad?' he slurs, trying to force the cotton feeling out of his mouth. 'Is he okay? Oh my god, did I-how's his heart?' he tries to raise his head, but it's heavy, so heavy.

'You dad's fine, Kurt,' the man murmurs. 'It's actually you we're worried about. Care to tell me what happened?' Kurt glanced down at the bandages on both arms, moves his legs and feels the gauze running down both thighs, right down to his ankles.

'You're the doctor,' he replies softly. 'Shouldn't you be telling me that?' Dr Newman chuckles once.

'I can tell the result, not necessarily what put you there,' he says, leaning against the bed frame. Tall, blonde and soft, his voice weaves its ways into Kurt, pulling at the memories he tried to hard to block out.

'I guess…I guessed I slipped over,' he tries, biting the inside of his lips as the tidal waves behind his eyes build up. 'I'm clumsy, you know.' Dr Newman's face falls slightly.

'Kurt, we both know that's not true,' he says. 'It looks like you tried to kill yourself.' Kurt flinches. 'And it looks like it was a pretty decent try.' Kurt takes a deep breath.

'But not good enough,' he stutters. 'Never quite good enough.' Dr Newman looks down at the boy, flaked out on the bed with red tubes coming out of every orifice.

'Kurt, you're going to Adolescent's Psychiatrics for a while, you can see your dad there.' Kurt nods, playing with the end of one bandage. 'I hope you get better soon, Kurt; the world's a much better place when you paint in colour.' Kurt looks up briefly and smiles.

'It's a bit hard when you've already been painted.'

Dr Newman smiles softly again, nods and turns to the door. 'Take him to level two, get him a proper assessment, then maybe to level one if he's all clear tomorrow night,' he whispers to the two orderlies by the door. 'Try to avoid the other suicide.' He turns to look at Kurt, who pretends to be fiddling with his bandage again. 'Two teens in one night? I don't get it.' He shakes his head.

'At least Kurt was quiet,' one orderly shrugs. 'That Sebastian kid gave John a black eye, apparently.' Kurt freezes.

Then he relaxes. Why would perfect, snarky, 'I wanted your boyfriend so I had him' Sebastian kill himself?

But there's an uneasy feeling in his stomach as he remembers the looks on the Meerkat's face when Kurt was yelling at him-screaming-, and Kurt feels sick again.

But there's no way. None at all, right?

I wish I'd been a teen, teen idle,

Wish I'd been a prom queen, fighting for the title

Instead of being sixteen and burning up a bible

Feeling super, super, super suicidal