Page 92 of Hurt

Kurt foolishly thought he could.

Roland would not be pleased to see an unconscious Willow in the back of Molly’s car, but hopefully, Sid would be able to avoid getting hit long enough to explain the situation. He had wanted Willow to come to the Weaver estate. Kurt was just facilitating the delivery. By the time she woke up tomorrow, Roland would know why she had needed to be there.

His family would be safe.

They hated him, but that was okay. Kurt could be hated. He could handle the weight of their accusing stares if he knew they would be okay.

For so long, Kurt thought he was strong enough to handle everything. After his first attempt at suicide, it ceased to become an option. Not only because Ezra threatened him but because he couldn’t bring himself to leave Willow and Noah. Selfishly, he held onto what they gave him without giving them anything in return. He had nothing to give.

Pushing himself to his feet, he grabbed his sides, supporting the ribs with his hands as best he could. Shuffling barefoot across the room, he managed to make it to the bar. Using the bartop as a crutch, he made his way to the register. It took a moment to psych himself up enough to kneel down. The pain was dizzying. Black spots danced in his vision by the time he finally made it to his knees.

Behind the various junk that had been accumulated over the years was a small metal lock box. Covered in dust, it hadn’t seen the light of day in years. Molly had probably forgotten it was there. A long time ago, someone had tried to sneak it in, and Sid had forcibly taken it off the customer. Since then, it had remained under the bar, forgotten by everyone except the person who spent all his time standing beside it.

Unable to reach forward, he had to use a bottle of cleaner to grab the handle of the box and drag it forward. Wiping the dust off the metal tin, he popped the latches, and it squeaked open.

The gun felt heavy in his hands. He wasn’t sure what kind it was or if it was a large caliber or not. Not that it mattered. It would serve his purpose.

This was the only thing he could give his family—the last piece he could take from this shell of a life he had been living.

His life would give them freedom. Willow would no longer be shackled to the weight of her obligations to Kurt. Noah would be able to get an education and become the man he was always supposed to be. They would be safe.

It was the only gift he could give them after a lifetime of taking.

Running his fingers over the cool metal surface of the gun, he tried not to think about what he was leaving behind.

Willow would be hurt. She would curl in on herself, but she had Roland now. He knew it from the moment he saw him that night after their date. Love. The man would tear this world apart to protect Willow. Kurt didn’t like him, but he respected his adoration for his sister. He was the right person.

Noah would be angry. He would rage. But he would adjust to whatever university Luther picked for him. In a few years, he would take control of White Sand Mesa and be where he was always meant to be.

And Grant…well. He would be fine. Kurt would be a distant memory for him—a sad anecdote he would think about from time to time. He might recall him as the guy who threatened to punch him, or the guy who was so broken and mangled inside it was a miracle he could stand upright.

Kurt had experienced a lot of pain in his life. They tell you pain makes you stronger, and maybe it does, right up until it’s too much. It tips the scales, and you’re sliding back into the void you’ve been so desperately trying to get away from.

He spent his life on the edge of that void. Constantly taunting the darkness, getting so close to falling, and then catching himself before it was too late. Maybe a small part of him thought someone would see through the gloom and reach out to pull him back before it was too late. He might have hoped Grant was that person.

Kurt should have known better. Just when he thought he was free, when he was ready to make the leap to escape, he realized he was no longer standing on the edge looking down. He had already been pulled in, and he wasn’t strong enough to fight his way out.

If Ezra took Kurt to The Catacombs, pain would take on a whole new meaning. He had hit his limit. This was his final act of rebellion. A proud fuck you.

Debating just crawling out of the bar, he pushed back to his feet and again used the sturdy bar to shuffle to the door.

When he got it open, heaving and wanting nothing more than to pass out, he found that it was later than he thought. The sun would be setting soon.

How fitting.

With the gun hanging from his right hand and his left holding his chest together, he stepped outside. There was no destination in mind. He just didn’t want to dirty the bar and further inconvenience Molly. He should have thanked her, Sid too. But he didn’t know how, so he didn’t.

It took a while to get across the road and venture out into the desert. He didn’t feel the rocks and residual heat from the day against his bare feet. He didn’t feel anything. The closer he got to his goal, the lighter he felt. It might be the concussion. He would take any relief he could get.

How many times had Kurt looked out over this landscape? Thousands? More, probably. He had no idea it would be the last thing he ever saw. In a way, it was lucky. For many years he thought the last thing he would ever see would be Ezra’s sneering face or the sweaty face of a guy who got a lucky punch in during a fight. This was better.

When he didn’t think he could walk anymore, he let his knees bury in the sand. The sun was a neon red line on the horizon, a vicious-looking laceration in the sky above the mesas and rock formations. He watched it for a while.

Cradling the gun in his hands, he didn’t want to look at it. He supposed he should be grateful to the thing that would bring him freedom.

Kurt thought about his life up until now. Was it even a life? He was a product of science and modern medicine. His cursed life might be the consequence of never having meant to be born. His parent’s stubborn refusal to accept nature had led to an unfortunate child born under a bad sign with tragedy in his blood and bad luck as his shadow.

Last time he had been running. Fleeing from further abuse. Terror and hatred had led to a desperate act he didn’t fully understand. This time he knew what he was doing. A deliberate desire to snuff out his existence. He didn’t want a headstone, or a funeral.