Page 93 of Hurt

Kurt just wanted to cease to exist. He wanted to finally sleep without nightmares. He wanted to look in a mirror and not be disgusted by the reflection. He wanted to never feel pain again or fear. He wanted to take a shower without feeling the urge to peel his skin off becausehehad touched it, and it would never be clean again.

But mostly, he wanted to know that he would never be the reason Willow stopped smiling or Noah didn’t become who he was supposed to be.

Them hating him was better than seeing the disgust in their eyes when they realized what he’d allowed to be done to him.

Somewhere in the cosmos, in an alternate universe, maybe a version of Kurt was happy. He rode on the back of Grant’s motorcycle and didn’t flinch when he kissed him. That Kurt was a good brother and uncle.

With a shaky breath, he watched as the sun finally dropped below the skyline, and only the last vestiges of its warmth could be felt. He thought he might finally cry. Even now, he couldn’t.

The barrel was cold against his temple. There was a sharp bite as the hefty gun pressed into his head.

He didn’t want to close his eyes. Kurt had spent enough of his life squeezing them shut and praying it would be over soon. For this, he would keep them open.

The first stars began peeking through the darkness when he pulled the trigger.

17

GIVE ME THE BURDEN, GIVE ME THE BLAME

Everything was fuzzy.

There was screaming in his ears and sand in his mouth.

Grit crunched between his teeth and coated his tongue.

He wasn’t sure if his eyes were open, closed, or if he was standing up or lying down.

Everything was spinning, and he couldn’t get his bearings.

Something warm and wet dripped down his face, and he tasted copper.

Blood.

Blood he was familiar with. He clung to that sensation and followed it back to wherever he was. Eventually, there was pain, too. Kurt knew pain—he was used to it. A constant companion he had always been able to rely on. The pain centered him. Reminded him that he was still breathing. To be alive was to be in pain.

He couldn’t pinpoint where the pain was. It shrouded him while he fought against the waves of dizziness. Mouth full of sand and blood, he inhaled sharply and opened his eyes.

Before him was a collision of shapes and colors. Nothing was defined, and the screaming in his ears had turned into a shrill ringing. A hand drifted up in front of him. It touched his face and came away bloody. Belatedly he realized it was his hand. His thoughts were jumbled. Occasionally a defined idea or word would burst through the static, but then it faded away back into the nothingness.

Turning his head slightly, he caught sight of something else.

A gun.

It all came back to him with startingly clarity—the stars peeking through the sunset and the loud bang beside his right ear. He had pulled the trigger.

Was he dead?

If he was dead, it meant the pain had chased him to the afterlife. Panic choked his throat. He began gagging and coughing. After everything, after the explosion and the darkness, he was still going to suffer. There was no end.

No. He couldn’t allow that. Feebly, he tried to reach for the gun. Again. He would pull the trigger until the sounds scared the pain away and the memories drowned in the blood. Kurt would wash himself free of sin with the violence.

A patent leather dress shoe kicked the gun free of his reach. It skittered into the desert beyond his sight. An anguished wail pierced through the ringing in his ears, and he knew it was coming from him.

He had stopped begging a long time ago. When the words only served to ignite the passions of his attacker and fill him with unspeakable shame. But he would beg now. He would get on his knees and plead for release.

Hands fisted in his bloody shirt and jerked him up. Gasping against the pain, his vision cleared, and he looked up into bright amber eyes.

“Sit up,” Roland commanded coolly as he pulled Kurt into a sitting position.