𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 || 𝘬𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦

𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 || 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐
chapter two || lightning

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***TW***
mentions of suicidal thoughts and
minor detail on the car accident
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┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩
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┊ ┊ ☪︎⋆
┊ ⊹
✯ ⋆ ┊ . ˚
˚✩

Kurt hadn't expected the weekend to pass him by so quickly. Typically, the boy would spend his days sleeping in the midday sun or preparing his outfits for the upcoming week, yet these past few days were different. He, contrastingly, found himself holding back tears while deleting the dozens of phony numbers that would text him about his mom and send awful voicemails.

'It should've been you'

'You're a murderer'

'You should be imprisoned'

He couldn't take it. Kurt had tried so desperately, yet the pain was never ending. These messages had reoccurred for almost two years now, and while they have slowed down to maybe a text or two per month, they still gave Kurt the same heartache.

"Hurry up Kurt, we have to be there in fifteen minutes," A masculine, older voice called from the upstairs living room. Kurt's room was in the basement, but it had nice space and plenty of room to personalize— he was just grateful to have an isolated sanctuary for his lonesome.

With a sigh, Kurt replied, "I'll meet you outside dad! Don't forget to bring a raincoat— it's showering pretty hard," The boy reminded his father, though the absence of a response proved to him that his father was already out of the house.

The boy took one final glance at his phone— he had deleted every negative comment in his inbox. While Kurt was fairly certain that checking through his phone would be both a felony and invasion of privacy, he couldn't take any chances with a new therapist glued to his side for an hour every other day. Being convinced to go to therapy was hard enough as is— Kurt was in the middle of rewatching Gilmore Girls are didn't like the idea of being held up on the episodes. Talking to some gossip that just happened to be licensed for psychology seemed like an utter waste of time when television gave Kurt all of the emotional support he needed.

Reluctantly slipping his phone into his pocket, Kurt headed upstairs and to his dad, bringing an umbrella with him to avoid the rainfall. He was fortunate to do so— water poured from the dim skies, an occasional thunder strike here and there.

"It's pretty bad out," Burt acknowledged, walking tightly beside his son, "Are you sure you don't want to at least try with the car? I think you'd be pleasantly surprised to—"

"No," Kurt interrupted, "No, I can't do that. I'm not ready."

The older man nodded respectfully, yet seemed persistent, "But you never know if you don't try, kiddo. How about you just close your eyes while I drive as smoothly and slowly as I can?"

"Please respect my boundaries, dad. I'm not ready to get back in that car. I'm not sure I ever will be." Kurt answered, his voice weak and faltered. His fathers offer was kind, yet he just wanted to change the subject.