The sadness, the silence, the darkness, the loneliness... all of it held in a simple little moment. It was just so...

I don't know. Just so much.

-Kevin Brooks, Candy


Hey, Kurt.

This is stupid. Me calling your phone, leaving you a voice mail. I mean, it's right after the funeral and I just sat in your car for…hours. Just calling your phone, listening to your voice after it was done ringing, listening to that song fill the silence. I tried to think of you singing it, hitting that ridiculous note, but I couldn't. All I got was what was on the phone.

I think I'm forgetting you, Kurt. I don't know how. Your all I think about, since the day you were born. How could I be forgetting you? Its only been two weeks.

But I forgot, yesterday, how you wore your hair. I kept picturing a brown mass of nothing when I thought of your face, and I had to run to your old yearbooks to get it right.

This is stupid.

I've just been thinking a lot, about you and Finn and Carol and, well, yeah, mostly you. About how I could have been better.

I should have listened to you. I never really did. I mean, I listened to you, and we talked, but we never really said much. The last time I saw you, what was it I said? Something like "good luck on that test" or whatever. Of course I remember what you said to me, memorized it like I memorized our phone number and how I memorized the entire Springsteen songbook in high school. You looked at me and said, Bye, dad. Quiet and somber and so lacking in your usual attitude, its like you knew today wasn't a normal day. There was almost pity in your voice. Pity for me, who was left behind while you went to heaven or hell or limbo or wherever you thought you'd be going. Pity, for me.

But maybe you did know. You're the one who spent all day with these kids, after all. You're the one who had to deal with what they dealt you. Maybe it had gotten progressively worse and maybe you just knew that day would be it. You'd be finished.

I swear to god, Kurt, if I had known.

Even if I didn't know, I should have told you I loved you. I should have told you to stay safe because your all I had left and without you I'd be utterly and completely lost. I should have told you that I would never, ever replace you with anyone. Because even if Carol and I got married and had a thousand babies, a thousand little boys, and they all turned into football players or baseball players or hockey players, none of them would have been you. None of them will be you. God, no one will be you.

You were an amazing kid, Kurt. The only one in the world who could get the glee club and the drama club and the cheerios and the football team all in one place, even if some of their own had been the ones to do you in. Your funeral was busy, busier then your mothers, and she had a lot of friends, Kurt. Your casket had to be closed. It kind of had to be. Mercedes, who had to identify your body, attested to that.

God, she was in tears. Sobbing, tears down her face for a solid three hours. So were the other glee kids, to be fair, but Mercedes…it was like she had lost a part of herself. Tina had to push her around instead of Artie. She could have just stood by your casket all night without the thought of life ever crossing her mind. I don't think she'll ever get over it.

The coroner told me it was a rib to your lung that did you in. A severe fracture that bent all the way in until the air had left you. I asked him if you were hurting when you died. He said he couldn't be sure. Maybe you were unconscious, because of the head. I really hope you were.

And he told me about all the defensive things, the cuts and bruises to your arm. You had gone out fighting and I don't think you've ever made me prouder.

I remember once, a little after your mom died, and you asked me if I would die too. And I told you yeah, I would, eventually. When you were older and had a family of your own, yes, I would die, but that would be okay because you wouldn't need me anymore. And you asked if you would die first and I…told you, no, the dad always dies before the son. That's just how it is.

I'll probably call your phone some more after I'm done with this. Listen to the ring and the voicemail message and sit in your car and your room and just try to hold on to you, not the newspaper clippings or eulogies or second hand accounts. Just you.

Goddamnit, Kurt.


A/N This was originally going to be the ending for my other thing, "Of Indigo Sweaters and Unfriendly Cleats" but then I decided I really didn't feel like killing off the kid. But I wrote this anyway. It'd make more sense if you read the other thing, but I guess it's fine.