Sparrow

And brick by brick he is broken down every day.

It is morning. The light stings his eyes as he sits in front of mirror, comb between his teeth because his hands are full. In his left, a hairdryer, and in his right, hairspray. He'll spend thirty minutes making his hair look exactly like it did yesterday, because he liked how it looked yesterday. Thirty minutes, and that is all, because if he takes a minute longer his dad will be moving things around in the refrigerator looking for the carton of eggs, Kurt really liked spending that minute with his dad. In fact, he liked spending a solid twenty five minutes with his dad, even if it was somewhat quiet.

Kurt would make a bowl of cereal while his dad grumbled about wishing he remembered how Kurt's mother made scrambled eggs, and they'd both eat their food and share small talk. It would be the only hushed moment he'd get all day, because as soon as he was out the door there were bells, slamming lockers, cussing jocks, and or course singing, which was pleasant but not quiet in the slightest.

But then the twenty five minutes would be up, and Burt Hummel really had to get a move on if he wanted to open the shop on time. As his father made his way out the door Kurt would get a squeeze on the shoulder or sometimes a light brush on the top of his head, though not today because his dad obviously could tell he'd worked really hard on his hair. Burt would never know that Kurt really didn't mind if a few strands were out of place after the touch, because the little surge of warmth at knowing his dad loved him would get him through the day. Besides, that hairspray was heavy duty and held like glue.

Soon enough he too would leave for the day. He'd take a deep breath and release it out of his mouth just to see it catch in the cold morning air, like smoke, getting a small thrill at seeing the mysteries of biology or chemistry or whatever it was in action. A little brown sparrow would be sitting on the roof of his car, and he'd see just how many steps he could take before he'd scare it away.

Somehow he'd make it to school, even though there was a little ice on the road. Quick hellos to friends and furtive glances for would-be agressors in the hallways marked the beginning of another day in a place that he'd grown too big for a long time ago, like a pair of shoes that squished his feet and left blisters but he wore anyway because they matched his outfit; it might be uncomfortable but he didn't have any other options.

At 11:11, usually just as 3rd period history class is just getting boring, his phone alarm to goes off, a little vibration in his pocket reminding him that it's time to make a wish. Each day it is something different: enough cash for that awesome pair of gloves, for Dad to not hog the TV all night, for Finn to spare him a moment of his time.

Today is special and they all have to go to an assembly where a peppy cheerleader-type motivational speaker tells them it's so important to be yourself and to not give into drugs, because drugs are bad. She'll ramble about peer pressure as if she knows what it's like to be willing to try anything to fit in. She'll talk about the importance of real friends, as if she ever found herself alone on a Friday night when she was in high school. Kurt will tune her out as soon as she starts preaching about self esteem, because she's never felt ridicule in her entire size two, bleached blonde, heavily made up existence.

She can ramble all she wants, be he knows he's got exactly three options if he ever wants to find a community of people that will completely accept him for who he is. He could go into the fashion or beauty industry, but that was just a disaster waiting to happen. He'd end up inadvertently styling a homophobic pageant queen just before she made a ridiculous statement that gives her a spare 15 minutes of fame and makes her the pretty little mouthpiece for hate.

Of course, he could go into musical theater, where everyone just assumed you were gay anyways. But, see, Kurt wasn't a big fan of assumptions. There was nothing clever or mysterious about being an open book, even if he was non-fiction. Besides, the real star power was in television or film, and you either had to be really really OUT or really realy IN if you wanted to be successful, no room to be quietly yourself.

There was the third option, of course. It was a very exclusive party, one for kids like himself that had just given up on life and called it a day, slicing wrists or swallowing pills. In a suicide hell, Kurt was sure no one would judge him, as statistics had proven he'd have a lot of company. But he was too strong for that, too weak for that, too proud to leave behind smug classmates and too loving to abandon his father in a world like this one.

But these were all things he had years to worry about, a future that was far away from the plastic chairs of the auditorium.

So instead of thinking too hard about his future, he'd just dream about it; about a world that was so close, and yet so distant, where California and New York were more progressive than Iowa. In this beautiful dream, he wasn't lucky compared to his fellows in Africa, who were threatened with death for being who they were. His dream had no one in it that believed God was punishing the nation for people like himself by killing soldiers in Iraq, by creating AIDS, by spreading terrorism.

Instead God loved him, from his finely styled hair to the curse words he slipped under his breath, because he was special and cherished and just the way he was supposed to be. There would be no one that thought he was a disease that could be cured, a sin that could be prayed on or preyed on.

In his vision, Kurt didn't live by a label, but simply lived. And it was wonderful, and no one cared what side of the store he bought his jeans on because they were just pants and he liked the way they looked. He was successful and had family and friends who came over on Thursday nights to watch American Idol.

And by the time he was done dreaming, he'd open his eyes and be in 5th period, with no idea where they were in the chapter and no closer to seeing his dreams become a reality than he had been at the top of the hour. But then the bell would ring, and finally he could go to Glee practice and just sing and dance and say bitchy things, channeling the frustration and loneliness into something positive that made him happy. He even could take his favorite pea coat out of his locker and wear it for the entire practice because no one in there would even think about throwing a slushie on it. For an hour, he could almost be in a dream, until he had to sing some lyric about a girl and he was back in reality. But, it wasn't so bad, because Mr. Schue had a song in mind for him, and they'd talk about at tomorrow's practice.

Then he'd walk by the football field out to his car and remember that he was on the team that played on that field, and if he could do that, he could do anything. He was still a boy underneath the clothing he drowned himself in everyday. In football he could slip out of his girl jeans and into a uniform that made him look like every other boy his age, and for a little while he could pretend to know what it was like to be nothing out of the ordinary. But playing pretend was for children, and even with growing acceptance he would still be the gay kicker, and not just the kicker.

But dad would be home early from work when he got home, and they'd drink coffee in the garage until the light got too low for them to see the other and they'd head inside for dinner. Kurt would know he made the right decision by telling his father he was gay, because they've never been this open with each other before. It wasn't perfect, and there was room for improvement, but they weren't yelling from opposite sides of a canyon anymore, unable to hear the other from the echoes that bounced off the rock. There weren't any mixed messages or concealed truths. Kurt could finally see a little of himself in his father, and was pretty sure his father could tell him every single mannerism he'd inherited from a long dead mother.

But after dinner he'd leave the conversation to start on homework, passing his dad's room on the way to his own. A little tug somewhere deep in his gut would make him reach for the door handle, and Kurt would slip inside the room, hoping his dad would be too absorbed in The Deadliest Catch to come upstairs.

It wouldn't be the first time, of course, that his dad found him sitting in the floor with all the drawers open that stored his mother's clothes. There had been that one time when he was thirteen, when that really bad day had happened, the one he doesn't like to think about. Then, his father found him sobbing into a baby blue scarf that still smelled just like her, its soft fabric no replacement for the imagined touch of her soothingly running her fingers through his hair telling him he was not a freak and she loved him. Since then he'd had an addiction to scarves, because she'd had so many of her own.

For a good ten minutes Kurt will just sit there, leaning against the heavy wooden piece of furniture, the world humming. Then he'll calmly close all the drawers, put the blue scarf back where it belongs, and head to his room to do his homework. Before he knows it, it's almost ten o'clock and he missed The Office, but it might have been a rerun anyway so it doesn't really matter. He's tired, and sitting down at his mirror to do a nightly skin care routine sounds about as relaxing as it can get, his IPod on shuffle all the while.

Kurt's head hits the pillow and he spends the next thirty minutes staring at the wall, humming to himself. Eventually, he's not humming anymore and he doesn't even realize it. Kurt dreams in black and white.

And brick by brick he is put together every night.