A/N: So, I have been trying to become a better angst writer. This is an attempt at that. It sort of sucks, but so be it. I would really like you guys to PM me or review this with angst prompts! The only way I can get better, is if I keep practicing. Anway, on with it.


You run from the room, out into the hallway, and collapse against the lockers. You take the big, crown, and chuck it hard against the wall. You want to see it shatter into a hundred tiny pieces, but it just clatters noisily against the floor, not giving you the sick sense of satisfaction you crave. You take a few deep breaths, before placing your head in your hands, and beginning to sob.

You sob hard and loud, with shaking shoulders. You gasp for air while snot and tears are running down your face and its so pathetic. This isn't you. So you like... boys. Maybe. You think. But you're not a little girly boy who will just break out into sobs. You like football, and video games, and you hate musicals and fashion. You like... boys. Maybe. You think. But, you're still Dave. Being... liking boys (maybe. You think.) doesn't define you. It doesn't change who you are.

But you know no one else will see it that way. Everyone else will just see you as a fag. Someone to chuck slushies on, just like you've done countless times. To that goth girl, to Berry, to Kurt.

To Kurt.

A small part of you was hoping he'd come out into the hallway. You don't know why. You don't... love him or anything. He has a boyfriend, either way. You abandoned him in a time that he was counting on you. You shouldn't expect him to come out and here for you, but there's a small part of you that thinks, you might be able to take the shouts of fag, and the slushies, if Kurt could help you through it. But you know that's not gonna happen.

The king and queen don't always get the happy ending.


"Ive heard about that girl. I know what she's like."

"Dad, I'm a teenage boy. What do you expect?"

"Listen, son. I hope you're aware that you can tell me everything. All that happened with that Kurt boy. And now, Santana... Are you sure there's not something that you're... overcompensating for? Because if there's anything you need to tell me, I will love and support you and-"

"Dad! What do you want me to say? Santana's hot, okay. She's hot, and she's easy, and that's the only reason I'm going to prom with her. The only reason. Just... stop reading into things."


You're sure that your dad isn't expecting you to be home so soon, after everything you said about Santana. He's pretty good at reading you, he would certainly notice the tears. You creep into the house quietly because you just can't... deal with that. Not right now. You sigh in relief when you find that the house is empty.

You go into your room, and collapse onto your bed. You have a poster of some playboy girl on your ceiling, scantily clad. You stare at it for so long, without blinking, until it blurs in front of your eyes. You feel... nothing. Absolutely nothing at all. You're looking at a half naked girl, and you don't feel a thing. What is wrong with you?

You can't do this. You're not Kurt. Kurt can walk around with his rainbow flag thrust high into the air and take whatever shit comes at him, but you can't. Your popularity is all that you have. No one fucks with you. You're Dave Karofsky. If someone found out that you liked boys, well, you think you do, maybe, then... who knows what could happen? Scratch that, you know. It'd be ice-cold slushies, and dumpster dives, and harsh words that have tumbled from your lips so many times, and you just can't deal with that.

You can't keep it a secret anymore either. Everyday you feel like you're walking on eggshells, trying to keep up this facade. You can't say anything you shoudn't. You can't give anything away. It's so, so difficult. To hide behind a mask of testosterone and cruelty. You're not a mean person. You just need to find an outlet for all this burning, hot, rage inside you. Mad at God for making you this way. Mad at your dad for saying it's okay because it's not. Mad at yourself. Bullying is a good outlet for that. You don't let out anything that doesn't need to be said. But, you can't do that anymore. You just... can't be that guy. There's gotta be another alternative.

At 10:30 PM, after lying in bed for nearly an hour, you realize that there is.


You write your dad a note. It's long. You have to make sure he understands. Understands that you know he would have supported you. That it's not his fault, it's just society that's fucked. Or maybe it's you, depending on how you look at it. But it's not him, it can't be him. All he's ever done is work his ass of to give you a good life and love you and be there after your mother couldn't be. He's the best Dad you could ever ask for, and you just want him to never change. To never ever change. Because it's not his fault. It could never be his fault.

You write one other note. To Kurt. After a three lines hastily scribbled out in black ink, you settle on I'm so, so sorry.

(The first blacked out line said "I like you. Maybe. I think.")

(The second said "I like you, Kurt. I like you alot.")

(The third? "I love you.")


Everything's ready. You just don't know how to do it. You don't want it to hurt too much. You can't do pills, because if your dad finds you before it's over, he'll save you and just put you in an institution. You're not crazy, you're just... wired wrong. Slitting the wrists, you're not good with blood. You don't have a noose. You're not sure what to do.

You eventually decide on a bullet through the skull. Quick. Easy. You'll die before you really feel any pain. You hope.

You go into your father's room, under his bed, into the special box. There lies his gun, which he made sure to show you, for security reasons.

"I work a lot son, I can't always be here to protect you. I want you to protect yourself."

You're sure he never imagined you'd use it for this.

You press the gun against your head, feeling the cold metal against your skin. You gulp dramatically, but you know this is the right thing. For you. You cock the gun. Place your finger on the trigger, and...

The doorbell rings.

You hesitate. On the one hand, you're ready. Completely. You can't get pshyced out again, by seeing someone. On the other hand, if whoever is at the door hears the gunshot, then maybe they might find you and have a chance of saving you. Which you don't want... right? Right. You don't want to be saved.

You decide to answer it and just rush them away. You go downstairs and open the door.


"Hello, Dave. I'm sorry it is so late. After you ran out on me, I was just calling to see if you are alright. And question what the hell is wrong with you."

You smile, instantly forgetting about the two suicide notes and the cocked gun upstairs. You invite him in.

The king and queen don't always have a happy ending. But, maybe this story hasn't ended yet.


A/N: So, that sort of sucked. It sounded so much better in my head, but then when I actually wrote it out it was just... glikdhgksg. It hardly even counts as angst. That was the whole point of this. I want to become a better angst writer, so I've been practicing. I'm a disgrace.

Either way, I would like to know what you thought of it. I understand I'll probably receive a lot of hate, but please, constructive hate. I am trying to improve. Also, don't forget, I want prompts!