For all those who have a morbid imagination. I hold no rights to anything.

An Elegy for one David Karofsky

I always knew what they would say at my funeral. "A Mr. David Michael Karofsky, beloved son, dies on the 12th October 2011 from the common case of heartbreak by the uncommon Kurt whatever-his-middle-name-is Hummel."

No, scrap that. 'Uncommon' is too...common a word for him. Too ordinary. No: Unrequited, unusual, un...able to take bullshit from anyone, are probably better adjectives.

The bell rings and I pack my thesaurus in my bag and head out of English.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, the 12th October is today, or Kurt and Blaine's 6 month anniversary to be more specific. I'm not stalking him or anything, it's just that I heard Kurt talk about it in English; how Blaine is going to pick him up once school had ended and how his "bestest boyfriend" has something sickeningly romantic planned. I thought I was going to barf.

As I was walking through the corridor, I spot Kurt by his locker, gushing about his boyfriend, no doubt, to his glee friends. He's got his head leaned back on the inside of his locker next to that stupid, cheesy faced grinning idiot picture with the word "commitment", "courage", "condoms" or something like that written underneath.

I grit my teeth at the thought of my rival. Okay, I know you wouldn't class me as a proper, full blown rival, but I am a secret one. Okay, okay, fine: more like a non-existent rival. Jeez, when a man knows he's 50 points down with only 20 seconds left of play; you don't need to rub that fact in! I sigh and space out, contemplating my beautiful lack of mortality again.

They would say that I died of heartbreak. And yeah, that would be right; my heart would have broken into tiny little pieces unrecognisable to the eye. Only it wouldn't be caused by something ridiculous like spontaneous combustion from excessive grief, but from the cold click of the gun as I set the trigger off to release the bullet down the pipe. It wouldn't be a cheap gun though. No, I have far more theatricality and style than that. After all, this would be my 'performance of a lifetime', so to speak. Not that I've thought about this much, but I've always thought revolvers were classy.

Ah! I can just imagine the light glinting off that thin shiny slate barrel. The elegance of those smooth angles and straight lines; how the light changes and bends, caressing the curves of its chamber. I love that you are able to see how death works; nothing is hidden. You can see the chamber rotate as you pull back the latch and ever so gently squeeze the oh-so obliging trigger.

Plus, the relative speed of a bullet from a low calibre weapon like a revolver is slow, so that means that when I press the cool barrel to my heart, it won't make too much of a mess. It's just the heart that I'm after; I have no vendetta against the other organs. It wouldn't even look like I'd done it except for, you know, the blood that plumes in my chest and is mopped up by my crisp, clean shirt.

That's the other thing too. I wouldn't just wear anything, I'd have to dress up, make an effort for those who found me. I was thinking white shirt, black tuxedo. Extravagant yes, but appropriate. Shoes should be shined as well.

My backdrop would be my bed. Dark red sheet so you wouldn't even notice the blood- it makes the whole show look cleaner, sharper. But here's the best part: I have a double bed. So the pillow I'm not lying on will be totally vacant. But don't worry; I'm not so morbid as to imagine Kurt lying next to me. No. That pillow case would be white and have one of those red, almost black funeral roses laid on top of it, the thorns still attached. The scene would be so rich that Guillermo del Toro couldn't have done a finer job.

Then once the setting is all to perfection, it just leaves the final act. Technically I would only need one bullet because, well, a shot directly to the heart does seriously affect your motor skills. But one bullet is such a lonely number. It must have company. One more bullet added would suffice. And what's more, the great thing about a revolver is that it leaves the shell casing in the chamber. A hollow empty vessel next to a full, voluptuous live one. I think that sums up our relationship well. Poetic almost.

A locker slamming shut yanks me by my hair to reality. I am fooling no one. I'm not so theatrical that I'd be able to commit suicide in that way. Or suicide at all. And besides: to die because of Kurt? And for Kurt to live with the knowledge that I'd killed myself for him? That kind of guilt is suffocating. It's that horrible, heavy, languorous kind of guilt that hangs on every air molecule you breathe in. I can't leave him to drown in the air. Not even in my worst hours of bullying did I do something that bad, that inconsolable. And for all that its worth, I suppose it's better to feel pain than to inflict that pain on to someone you love, right? Right.

N.B: I, David Michael Karofsky really, really, really don't condone suicide and I know this story is just drabbling about nothing but comments are always nice.