Cut the Cord
Chapter 1

Blaine feels like a balloon. He’s been drifting, alwaysdrifting, since middle school when he suddenly didn’t fit into the worldanymore, when he stopped making his parents proud. Kurt had momentarily grabbedhold of him as he floated by, attaching a string onto him so he wouldn’t driftoff again, grounding him for the first time since he was a kid. But then Kurthad had too many new, exciting things to grab hold of in New York and suddenlyhe’d been fumbling with the string as it slipped through his fingers. One gustof wind and he’d let go of Blaine completely.

So now here he is, drifting alone again, trying not to thinkabout what’s below him. He can feel the air leaking out of him, too slowly tonotice unless someone was looking.But nowadays, no one is; they just stare right through him. He knows it’s onlya matter of time before he shrivels completely and then he’ll fall downwards,picking up speed until he lands in a mangled heap on the rocks below. The stringthat had once felt like an anchor will twist around him, choke him untilthere’s nothing left. Ironic that a lifeline will ultimately destroy him.

The thing is, though, he knows it’s his own fault. It’s toodraining to pretend otherwise anymore. He might as well have taken a pair ofscissors and cut the string out of Kurt’s grip himself. Sometimes he thinks hedid. His parents always did tell him that he brought these things on himself,that if he just tried harder, thesethings wouldn’t happen to him. He deserved everything he got and they weretired of him. He doesn’t blame them; he’s tired of himself.

Somewhere along the way, he has forgotten what he isfighting for. The fake, bright smile that he used to put on for performanceshas become the only smile he knows how to wear. It’s painfully unnatural to himwhenever he catches fleeting glances of himself in the mirror or in pictures,yet no one else seems to notice. Or perhaps he has distanced himself enough thatthey simply no longer care. He vaguely registers that this revelation ought tosting but, as usual, all he feels is numbness—starting somewhere in his chestand spreading out towards his fingers and toes. It had terrified him at first;now, he likes it.

As he sits there on his bed and stares at the wall(completely blank, all the posters and pictures long since torn down), hewonders for the billionth time why he still insists on drifting like this? Whyhe doesn’t just stick a pin in himself so all the air rushes out faster? Why doesn’t he just end it? At firsthe’d dismissed them as stupid, rash thoughts and then, as they’d become moreappealing, he’d convinced himself that he was far too much of a coward toactually go through with it. But if he has nothing more of himself to lose, noone else left to hurt, what’s the point of his body even being there, wonderingaround in a useless, never-ending routine?

He gets up slowly, stretches his arms above his head andrelishes the small, satisfying crack of his shoulders. As he empties all thelittle pills from the bottle he’d found in the bathroom cabinet onto his desk,lining them up in neat rows of four, he feels so calm; the calmest he’s felt inmonths, really. Once they’re arranged in a perfect formation, he debates whichrow to take first. He selects the one furthest away from him in the end andpops it into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue before swallowing it down,chasing it with a gulp of water. Hevaguely registers his phone buzzing on his nightstand but he’s too transfixedby the tiny dots on his desk to pay it any attention. They’re so small, yet sopowerful; he is in awe of them. He pops another in his mouth, then another, andanother after that. His phone vibrates again, persistent, and he wonders if he shouldhave said goodbye to people, or at least left a note. But then, who wouldreally care? They’d only try to stop him out of moral obligation and he’s tootired to get into that argument. Besides, he refuses to be a burden for amoment longer. Isn’t that the point of all this?

Shrugging to no one, he swallows three more pills in one go,not even intermittently swigging back water anymore; he likes the way theystick in his throat slightly, a barely-there scratch. Ten more and he starts tofeel drowsy so he scoops up the remaining little ovals in his hand. He cursesunder his breath when he realises he has ruined the pattern and isn’t that just typical? He shoves thewhole handful into his mouth before he can ruin anything else; this time he hasto take a gulp of water to physically make himself swallow them all.

Lying back on his bed, he rolls onto his side and stares atthe empty wall again. He wishes his life was a blank canvas too, wishes hecould start over. But he can’t and this is the next best option. As he slipsunconscious, his eyelids fluttering shut of their own accord, he feels relieftrickle through him. He doesn’t have to disappoint anyone anymore; he can stopfeeling numb and just fade away into nothing.

He has been a balloon for far too long; he’s sick of it. Hewants to fall to the ground already and if he has to give himself the finalshove, well, so be it.