Chapter Text
Blaine stared down at the blue tinged paper gown he was wearing, without even realizing that he was crumpling part of it with his right hand. He didn't feel present. He didn't really feel like he was anywhere. He wasn't grounded. He felt hollow, like someone had ripped out his consciousness of everything, and he was merely existing as a structure, as an organic machine with no thoughts or feelings or…soul. His mind was adrift, buoyant in a sea of uncertainty.
His body was there, but Blaine was not.
On the ambulance ride to the hospital, he had stared at the bright ceiling of the vehicle, lit by the florescent bulbs, with the medic tending to him and the kind detective sitting next to him. Blaine felt like someone had put a glass barrier over his head. Everything had been muffled. Muted. The medic was asking him basic and random questions, and he responded automatically, not really hearing the questions, his voice monotone and quiet. The detective and the medic spoke as well, but it was just mumbling. Ambient noise in the background. The white static of the television after the VHS was over.
The grey, wool blanket that had covered him didn't do much to stop the shivering, which was weird because he didn't feel cold. He couldn't feel, and he wasn't really thinking about anything either. He was just sort of…blank. He was an artist's canvas before they could paint on him. Or a stone in a cave before scribes had carved upon it. There wasn't anything to him.
At that moment, he had felt like a ghost. Nonexistent.
He felt like nothing.
That feeling had only increased when he changed into the exam gown and sat upon the table, preparing to be poked and prodded. Experimented on like a lab rat.
God, he so wished this wasn't his life right now.
But it didn't really matter because he wasn't really there.
They were still waiting for the doctor to come in and attend to his injuries. The nice lady detective, Olivia, was sitting in a chair next to the table. She had been kind enough to offer to remain with him throughout his exam, even though she most likely had about 500 other things to do. She certainly didn't need to hang around him during the most miserable part of his life. She probably needed him to tell her what happened. That was her job, right? Gather evidence? Talk to witnesses? To catch the bad guy? She was going to have to hear the events from that night if she was going to do that.
Blaine squeezed his eyes shut and sniffled. He really did not want those images running through his mind, but they came forth like a geyser. "I was visiting my fiancé at the Spotlight Diner. He had just given me my ring before I left and, uh, I f-felt something smashing the back of my head. It-it really hurt. I couldn't see, but there were stars flashing across my eyes, like in those cartoons. I felt like I was g-going to pass out," he began.
Olivia's eyes drew down in confusion before she realized that he was telling her what happened to him. She reached out to grab his hand, and he flinched for a second before taking hers in his own.
The flashes of memory rushed through his mind, like a flashback sequence in a movie with blue filters, choppy edits and blurry effects. He could picture the guy dragging him and throwing him down the alleyway, kicking and punching him, and his own attempt at fighting back. "H-he grabbed me by the b-back of my sweater and p-pulled me over, and he t-tossed me into a b-brick wall. I h-hit my forehead on it," he continued as he brought a hand up to his eyebrow, which had a large gash on it that was still leaking small amounts of blood. "I-I m-managed to turn around and h-hit him a couple times, b-but he was t-too strong. H-he punched me a-and I f-fell over, and he s-started beating the crap out of me."
Liv sat silently, listening to Blaine and squeezing his hand occasionally.
Blaine sniffled, recalling the feeling of cool air hitting his skin as he was being exposed, the sound of the knife slicing his clothes, and the pain. God, the pain. "H-he tore off my clothes. He…" Blaine did not want to say it. Oh, god he so did not want to say it.
"What did he do, Blaine?"
Blaine sobbed in response and shook his head. He couldn't say it. He didn't want to say it. Not yet.
Liv sighed and squeezed his hand again.
Blaine wiped at his eyes, trying to clear his face of the tears that were pouring down it. "When-when he was done, H-he g-got off me and I c-couldn't move. Everything h-hurt, but it f-felt like I was floating and t-time had stopped. B-but then he c-cut open my sweater and I felt the kn-knife," he told her as he recalled the feeling of the sharp blade slowly gliding over his skin, like a paper cut, but a million times worse. "After that h-he just got up and left. I-I s-still couldn't move, but e-eventually I t-tried to get up and c-call for help, but I d-didn't get very far and I f-fell into the d-dumpster. Th-that's when…that's when you…"
He trailed off and stared at her for a moment before looking back down at his lap. When she what? Saved him? Saw him at his most vulnerable? Witnessed the aftermath of the most horrific experience of his life?
"It's okay, Blaine. You can stop now," She told his and patted his knee before standing up. "When the doctor gets here, he'll patch you up so you can go home."
Blaine sat there, eyes still glued to his lap, and still feeling like the world around him was passing him by while he was stuck in a persistent present where he could not feel. This was it. That was everything, right? When something like this happens? He did it by the script. By all those cop shows that he saw. He did everything he was supposed to do. Get the police. Go to the hospital. Do the exam so they can get the evidence. Give a statement. Was there more? Was it really over? Then why did he feel like it wasn't? Why did he still feel so…displaced?
"What do I do now?" Blaine asked desperately, looking back up to the detective. "How do I…?"
Olivia turned, her face that of concerned confusion. "How do you what, Blaine?"
"How do I get back to normal?" He wondered. "It doesn't…nothing feels right. It's wrong. Everything is wrong. How-how do I make it right again?"
Liv sighed, and Blaine could see the pity in her eyes. He felt pathetic. "It's gonna take some time, sweetie," she began, which did not make him feel any better. "You'll go through all the stages of loss several times over. You'll sometimes yell at the people you love and who love you.
"You'll feel dirty, and you'll shower 100 times a day, but it won't make you feel better. You'll still feel disgusting.
"You'll cry. You'll have nightmares. You might have flashbacks or even panic attacks. You'll feel like you can't do it, and you'll hate God or the world or whatever the hell you believe for doing this to you.
"You'll go see a counselor for survivors. It might help. It might not. But regardless you should go see someone.
"Sometimes people might blame you. Some people will say you deserved it or you were asking for it. And one of those people will be you. You will hate yourself and you will blame yourself constantly. But if there is anything that I have learned over the many, many years that I have been in this department, it's that it is never, ever, the fault of the survivor. So let me tell you this now so that you can remember it when you inevitably do blame yourself, Blaine…it is. Not. Your. Fault.
"And believe it or not, you will move forward. I know this is huge right now, but eventually it will just be something that happened to you. It will be a part of you, but it won't be your whole world, and it will make you stronger knowing that you survived this. Knowing that you got out. That you lived. You will be okay, Blaine. I promise."
Blaine was stunned. He didn't really know what he expected from his new guardian angel, but it certainly wasn't that; the brutal honesty of someone who seemed to understand. Who had potentially gone through something similar. He continued to stare at this woman. This wonderful, caring woman who seemed to be strong and powerful, with drive and who knew how to take a stand.
This woman who has lived through terrible things, but appeared to have her life together.
Tears were streaming down his cheeks, but as he nodded and wiped them away, he thought he could do this.
He could.
Right?
"Blaine?" he heard from the doorway. The soft whimper of his name from the voice of his fiancé, and the sight of him, still in his work uniform, eyes red and puffy standing out from the porcelain tone of his skin brought him out of his stupor, and everything broke.
His lungs felt like they were seizing inside of him. His right side screamed at him, stabbing and beating his insides. The slur etched upon his skin was on fire, burning as if it had just been doused in alcohol. His head was pounding. His knuckles throbbed. But the thing he felt most was the crushing pain in his heart, and his soul being pulled underwater, drowning in a dark, smothering abyss.
"Kurt," he managed to sob out to him, and within seconds he was in the strong embrace of his fiancé. He could feel the burning of his bruised and battered body, but right now none of that compared to the smell of vanilla and lavender. Or the gentle, loving sound of the voice of his husband to be. Or the feeling of home within his arms.
One day maybe he would be normal again. One day he will be like his new detective friend, strong and powerful and a fighter. One day he will move past this trauma. Maybe one day he will use it to his advantage, to help someone or to create art or something.
One day he could.
But not today. Not right now. Not when everything is so fresh and bleeding and confusing and he just wants to disappear. Vanish. Get lost in the arms of the man he loved.
So he did.