WARNING: mentions of emotional abuse, self-harm and suicide.

Some relief writing; kind of therapy for me. Oneshot. Viewer discretion is advised.

Blaine's tears fell fast and heavy as the blade sliced his skin and blood pooled in the deep cut.

It wasn't as sore as he'd remembered, but that was two years ago. The new cut sat next to all the other scars from when he'd done it before. Some were faded; some were just as angry red as they had been when he'd first done it.

He was thirteen the first time he hurt himself. His father had yelled at him, called him worthless, a faggot. When he turned fourteen, he'd done it because of his father continuously calling him a disgrace, he'd done it because of his insecurities, he'd done it because of the bullying, the taunting. He did it so often that it wasn't even sore. But then when he was fifteen and transferred to Dalton, things got better. He did it less and less every week and he would be fine until he returned home once a month and his father would yell at him and since his blades were kept at home, he found he needed it more. Over the years he'd learnt that once the cut was deep enough, it wasn't as sore.

Besides, the deeper the cut, the bigger feeling of relief.

And then when he was sixteen he'd met Kurt. Beautiful, pure, sweet Kurt who had opened himself to Blaine and allowed himself to be found. In return, Blaine had also let himself be saved, be comforted, be loved. Kurt always swore Blaine had been the one who did the finding but in reality, Blaine knew it was the other way round.

Kurt had been the only one who had known. He'd been the only one who had seen the scars. He'd kissed them, sucked them. He'd traced them lightly with his fingertips, whispered promises of a better future over them, his breath tickling Blaine's skin.

Blaine's body shook with sobs as he attacked his skin more and more in his bedroom with the only light coming from the sliver between the curtains. He cut deeper and deeper until cutting wasn't enough. He yanked open the drawer in his bedside table and rooted through it, pushing aside bottles of hair gel, old photographs, a tub of moisturiser until he found the jar he was looking for. He took it out, opened it and emptied a few of its contents into the outstretched palm of his hand.

He threw the blood covered blade across the room where it landed on a pile of papers he was revising for the next day. He stared at the pills in his hand long and hard. He looked at the picture of him and Kurt on his bedside table. Kurt had been the reason he hadn't done this already. He'd been then only one who cared enough about Blaine to give him his time and attention.

But now he didn't have Kurt.

He didn't see much point in continuing.

Brittany would be glad to see him go; she wanted to be 'the new Rachel'; Sam was happy as long as Brittany was happy; Artie was too busy thinking about colleges to even spare Blaine a glance and Tina was still caught up with the break between her and Mike. Obviously none of the new kids cared about him; they didn't even know him.

He still kept up with some people from Dalton but he knew he'd been replaced long ago as head warbler and he knew he wasn't needed by them. They probably only kept in touch with him because they felt sorry for him having to go to a public school.

His family definitely wouldn't care. He was a disgrace to his father and to his father's family. How dare he be gay? Did he realise the shame he'd brought upon them all? How dare he even have those types of thoughts? He was sick of the uncomfortable family gatherings, the clapping hands over mouths when they accidentally made a gay joke, the distant glances and forced smiles. He was sick of it all and he'd had enough.

He didn't even have Kurt any more to make everything okay and the hurt he'd caused him, fuck. The one thing he loved more than anything... he'd hurt him. Now he deserved to be punished, deserved to be hurt in return. He didn't have a reason not to.

He looked down at his right hand. One swallow and the hurt, the pain, the loneliness, the despair, the hopelessness; the cuts that were starting to sting badly. One swallow and it would all be gone. It would be gone in the blink of an eye and the snap of fingers. It would be gone and he wouldn't have to feel like this ever again. Dammit, he wouldn't have to feel ever again.

And the idea of that was bliss.

No one would miss him. No one would even notice if he disappeared. And for this reason, he cupped his hand over his mouth and tipped his head back, effectively swallowing the pills that rested in his hand. Because fuck...

... he had nothing left to lose.