A/N: I have had such terrible writers block for you never got to heaven that I had to write this, if only to rid myself of the writer's block. But, of course, being me, I ended up getting tangled within this story, something very dear and close to my heart. I decided second person just because I had phases when I was younger (que: into Jonas Brothers fanfiction...) when I would write purely with 2nd person, probably due to the books I read at the time. But I also liked it because it was different and it really allowed me to the emotional depth I needed to write this story. And you know. I don't know. I like hurting Kendall because I like comforting him. I can't even explain it. Anyway, the chapter for you never got to heaven is still in the works. I've just had A LOT of recent ideas pertaining to this fandom, so it sort of sucks because I'm trying to write a whole lot of stories at once. This took around a week, so I hope it was worth it. Of course, please let me know what you thought of it. I really didn't want to end it where I did but it seemed like such a perfect spot, and I didn't want to elongate the story. But if interest occurs, I see no reason why I shouldn't. I hope everyone is having a lovely last week of Summer (or Winter) and for those of you who get to see big time rush on tour..lucky you.

Now I'll shut up so you can read.

When you were only young, you watched your Father leave through the front door as your mother cried on the staircase. Inside of her was a present from a bird, and it was so special that it was being delivered from the heaven's.

Your mother didn't cry after That Day and you learnt to not cry, either. You didn't mention your father, you didn't mention anything about your hero. You didn't talk about how you would sit in the bathroom and just breathe, because the tears didn't come easy. You didn't mention that one photograph you had of him under your bed; you certainly didn't mention that when the monsters were clawing at your skin, bright red marks, you would crawl under the bed to be with your dad.

Her name was Katie, and you thought she was a planet. She had the energy to be one; she was so small, so beautiful and fragile. She was something unknown to you, but you held her in your little arms and knew that you loved her, and you realised- it didn't matter. Dad wasn't there, but that was okay, because you were there. You were there to take care of your two favourite girls, and you wouldn't let them down.

Your mother was in the hospital bed, looking tired and worn out. While your mother was giving you the world, a nurse was taking care of you in the playroom. You were the only child there without a parent, but you pretended you didn't notice, because you were good at that, and you knew mummy would be upset if she knew that that meant something to you.

His name is James, and he's your height but he acts like he's so much greater than you. He taunts you for days on end, pulling stupid pranks at school, like hiding your chair, and insisting that the cubby house has a "password," and that if you don't know it, you can't get in. You fume and sit in the library corner, where all the books are. You're trying to think of a way to get back at this stupid James, the one who trips you over at recess and blames it on twigs, when you notice a little scared boy in a corner you're sure you hadn't seen before. He has a chapter book copy of Goldilocks between his tiny little fingers, and his hair is cut into a bowl cut and he's wearing glasses and overalls.

His name is Logan, and you decide that he is your best friend.

You still hate James, even when Logan's friend Carlos tries to get you all to play together in the quick sand. You refuse, standing off to the side, saying it's "immature," (a word mummy calls you when you fuss when you don't get ice-cream) and refusing to participate. Carlos and James shrug and carry on playing, and even Logan, Logan the traitor, looks like he's enjoying himself, so you stalk off to one of the little cubby houses outside and sit there in the corner, remembering that you didn't cry when Daddy left, so your not going to cry because James stole all your friends.

If he doesn't know it hurts, he won't get the satisfaction he's looking for, and maybe he'll let you have them back.

But you never really hoped for much.

His name is Mr. Diamond, and when James invites you over for a sleep over, he doesn't seem to exist. His house is luxuriously large, and James proudly states that his mom has a "cezmetiks" company, destined to make them rich and famous. You and Logan and Carlos have all brought sleeping bags, but it doesn't matter because James' immensely huge double bed swallows you all, like a soft marshmallow or a hug from mommy.

When it's bed time, James yells and shouts and says "Me, no I get the right side! Me!" and he pushes you off the bed for it. You don't cry because it didn't hurt, and it wasn't a far fall, but you go to the bathroom to sit down anyway. you pull your knees up to your chest and wonder if they know what your doing, and then realise that you can't give them the satisfaction of knowing, because maybe they'll leave again. Besides, after the whole sandpit fiasco, your surprised you got back into the friendship circle.

It's on your way back to James' room that you peek into James' Mommy's room, and you notice that it's a double bed but only one side is slept on. You can tell because it falls the exact way your own mother's bed does, with that slight dip on the left hand side, and the other side of the bed always freshly made, as if no-one had ever slept in it.

Maybe no-one ever had.

When you go back to James' bed, you sneak onto the right-side, because James is asleep. But instead of being mean, you snuggle up close to him, because you think he may know exactly how this feels.

You're shocked when James says he has a daddy, and you have to calm yourself down the way mommy taught you, breathe in and 3, 2, 1, because otherwise you think you'll maybe do something silly, like cry or not eat for a while, because it's just not fair-but then you remember that it's stupid to be upset so you stop and smile instead, because you're Kendall, and that's what you do.

When you realise that you like boys, you hold your breathe for ten seconds, close your eyes, and just wait it out.

James is pretty and it isn't fair because you don't want him to be because you want to do girly things with him, like hold his hand the way Logan used to hold yours in pre-k. Maybe even kiss him. But James likes girls and he's always talking about crushes and you sit inside your room and look out the window while mommy's at work and the babysitter's downstairs with Katie, and there's the ghost of a car in the empty car space and you press your hand against the glass, like you could find this paradise if you only managed to get into the world on the other side.

The grass isn't greener on either side, though, so you stay put, in the middle.

Her name is Jenny Tinkler and she is your first kiss. At least, the first one you care to acknowledge in front of people.

You and the boys have started this tradition where you eat fish sticks on friday and you're sitting there now, while James goes on and on about how good boob feels because he's fourteen and already getting some action, and Logan and Carlos are kind of curious but you sit there repulsed, because you are. You realise you can't be repulsed, because it's petty and silly of you, and you aren't being a very good friend, so you dig your fingernails into the palm of your hand and you ask questions like a good friend should.

Her name is Katie and she is ten years old and would rather play with her own friends than with you, and you know it's a healthy stage of growing up and it's natural but you find yourself running back to your room to stare outside the window wishing that the ghost of the car would either fade away completely or, become visible and real, as if the car had never left.

Logan notices first because he's that kind of friend but you know you're probably just be over-dramatic, and while Logan's a good friend, after you explain yourself a little more he concedes and says, "I'm here if you need me," in that kind of this-is-obligatory-to-say-way, and you say thank you like you mean but you know (and he doesn't, and that gives you a little thrill) that you don't.

James is the type of boyfriend who just wants to have sex with you, all the time. He wants to run his hands under your shirt, wants to kiss you unit you're moaning his name, wants to tease you and make you squirm, wants to lick your smile off your face. James doesn't want you staring outside at the glass window all the time, nostalgic for something you're never really sure you ever had.

So you dig your nails in deeper and hold your breathe when waves of stupidity fly at you, and you scold yourself because you're being melodramatic, and you know this, and you repeat every things fine, because it is.

James is the kind of boy you were wrong about.

You are the type of person who hides when it the going gets tough. Your mom is holding the phone out to you, and when she says, so softly that you could pretend you hadn't heard, "it's your father, baby," you don't know what to do because you aren't ready for this. You should be Kendall, The Man, because you've built your entire life around being that exact image. If your dad was calling to talk to your mom, you know exactly what you would say; if your dad was calling to talk to Katie, you would know how to persuade her into talking to him.

But the problem is, no one knows how to talk to you.

You look at your mom for a little while, panic fleeting across your face. You count 1, 2, 3 so you can breathe in deeply, normally, inhale oxygen. Your hands are shaking and you pretend not to notice and you feel so sick and nauseated. Your mom stares at you, sympathy shining through, and you hate that. She reaches forward, brushing her hand through your hair, because your still her son, even if you feel like your too old to be. "Not today," she tells your dad on the phone, and you wrench yourself away from the comforting touch and crawl to the window, face pressed against the cool glass until it turns sticky with your sweat and cloudy with your breath.

You don't move from that place, not even when you hear James come in your room, not even when he climbs behind you and pulls you close to him, not when he uses your shoulder as a pillow for his head. Not when he starts to kiss your neck.

You stare and stare and stare and don't panic because panic is useless, and there is nothing to be panicking about, so you reprimand yourself for being silly, and after a while you calm down for a few moments. You relax into James' touch and he turns your head so he can kiss you, and you let him kiss you, but you don't kiss back because you don't think it would be fair to pretend something like this at the moment.

James is the type of boyfriend who argues with you, endlessly. He's in your room, one day, when you've gotten home from school. There's a split moment when you panic, when your sure he's told your mom everything and you can't, you can't you can't you can't, and James leads you to your bed and counts with you 3,2,1 until your lungs are working properly. "I didn't tell anyone," he tells you, as he intertwines your pinky with his own. "I didn't tell anyone, but I can't let you go on like this." You tune out because James has always been melodramatic and your heart is calming down, steady thump thump thumps and you make a mental note to never ever be that way again because you don't need to ever be that way again.

You know her as your mother, and you love her. She gives the best hugs, and her vibrance and exuberance is what you take with you in the way you live your life. She sits you down, one day, her hand on your knee and she says, "Baby, you know you never have to talk to him again if you don't want to. But he is your father-and he wants to be there for you." You don't want to hear some recycled speech and you don't want to talk about the man who's photograph you used to hide under the bed with, so you stay silent and nod instead. Your mother gives this frustrated sigh and you feel instantly bad, frustrated that you keep damaging the relationship you have with her by barely talking to her anymore.

You want to take back everything bad you've ever said, you want to take back every conversation you didn't respond to-but you don't know how. You can't say sorry and have that be enough, because it isn't. You look at her through emerald green eyes and wish you knew how to be a better son, because that's all you've really ever wanted to be.

James had taken everything out of your room, your army knife, your scissors, your nail clippers, your lighter, he had even taken the spoon you kept forgetting to put in the sink. You open all your drawers and find only clothes, clothes and some cash you had left lying around. Your nails are fairly short, so you use hot water in the bathroom and realise what a bad idea it is after you've done it. When your mother asks you what happened, you lie (your heart slowly coming undone) and say you had been making her a cup of tea when you spilled the kettle water on your hand instead of the cup.

She cooes and pulls you close to her, kissing your cheek. It burns and blisters and is bright red, like the sun has hit your skin personally, like you've pressed your hand on its surface.

James shakes his head when he sees you and you avert eye contact because you need to work on being a good boyfriend, but then you remember your only being over dramatic and it's all okay. It's okay. It is okay, because you and James lie on your bed, and rather than letting you stare outside your window like you want to, James pulls you close to him and makes you forget anything except the fact that his heart is beating, and he is warm ontop of you.

James is the type of person who goes one step further, and when you walk into your kitchen after work finding your mother and James sitting at the table together, your heart beatsbeatsbeats and it's been so long since your mom has seen you like this, she runs over to you and says, 3, 2, 1, because you had forgotten what came before four. You stare at James but can barely look at him and your legs are hitting the ground with such force that the earth must be vibrating around you. You accidentally knock past Katie on your way up the stairs, and she grumbles and complains and your heart sinks because you realise that you haven't been all that great of a brother.

It isn't until you've gone into Katie's room and grabbed her scissors from her pencil case, and rolled your jeans down to your knees, that you come to terms with the fact that you are being ridiculous. You aren't even panicked that you feel the warmth of your life line on your thigh, because you feel so embarrassed about what has just occurred that you go to the bathroom and rinse your thigh with warm water. It stings and you hiss a little but you feel slightly better, cleaner, and then you go to your bed and try and conjure up the ghost of the car but it's getting harder.

And you did used to wish for it to go, to leave, to not be a stupid reminder, but the fact remains that the longer the spot remains empty, the more likely it is that it'll be empty forever.

James cries and you feel a pang in your chest for being such a bad boyfriend. You comfort him, though, because you know how to do that. You know exactly what to say, and you know how to listen, so you do both of those things before he calms down and you feel a secret thrill, that you've managed to make him calm and make him forget what was wrong in the first place.

Youre scared but you don't want to deny James anything, and he can feel the thrumming of your heart underneath his warm hand, and he can sense your anxiety and he murmurs, into your collarbone, nipping it, "we don't need to. We don't need to do this," and you feel bad if you don't, so you shake your head and push your body towards his.

"We're going fast, anyway," James says, and then he says, "There's nothing wrong with 3rd base." You shrug and manage to move your hand between the two of you and try and undo the button of his jeans, but he grabs your wrist and shakes his head and you get the message, so you wait as he kisses and licks down your body, nipping at places where you're extra-sensitive.

When he pulls down your sweat pants, you close your eyes, breathe 3, 2, 1, and try and think if you can see anything or if everything faded a while back. Your breath hitches as James runs a thumb in the grove of your thigh, the place where your groin meets it, and he does this motion for a while, teasing but relaxing. After a while he kisses you and nuzzles into your neck, his hand ceasing the moments.

You're confused until you see what the rest of his hand is cupping; stark red streaks, like supernova's burning brightly.

Your brain panics and you count 3,2,1, 3,2, 3,3,3,3 because James isn't saying anything to reassure you. You try and remember what comes before 3 but you can't and you instinctively dig your nails into the palm of your hand. It's been a long time since you've done that, once you realised that knives and scissors and mirrors and razors and the edges of chipped glasses could do so much more. Once you realised that cigerrate's had a much better use than smoking and spoons retained heat so well.

Your palms hurt but not in the way you want them to, so you resort to desperate measures, untangling one arm from you and James, and you pull on the tufts of your hair, as hard as you can, feeling strands break loose. You want to cry, you want to scream, you want to hit your head against your headboard, and you feel so stupid and embarrassed, especially because James is still there, lying on top of you, his face buried in your neck. He looks up after a while and just stares at you, and you avoid his eye contact.

You try not to think thoughts. You try not to think that if James was such a good boyfriend, he would be comforting you, not watching you in your pain. You try not to think that he's a terrible person. You try not to think that you are completely alone.

James cups your face, grabs your hand, pulling it down. He looks in your eyes, but you don't look back at him. He shakes his head at you, and shoves himself off of you, grabbing his jacket from your desk.

You roll over when you hear the door click.

You haven't been avoiding James but he has been avoiding you, because he hasn't been at school. You haven't spoken to Logan or Carlos properly for ages, and it's lucky it's always cold in Minnesota because you had to wear a beanie to hide the hair that was removed from one side of your scalp.

You know to the bigger man (or weaker) so you walk up to James' locker and you say "hey," like that one word could solve anything. He doesn't respond, doesn't acknowledge you, and you let the anger brew with you the rest of the day.

You get to your house, and take a spoon from the drawer, taking the oven lighter with you. You lock yourself in your room and take deep breathes, counting to three as you bring the lighter to the spoon. You feel a sudden burst of anger shoot through you, like a fireball has built up inside of you, and hurriedly press the spoon to your chest. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, but you hold it there, and you don't let yourself cry. You brutally stab your chest with the spoon, the smell of burning flesh wafting through your room, along with the smell of gasoline. After you're done, you leave the spoon and put the lighter back downstairs, near the stove.

You tell your mom you don't want to go to school tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again, when she gets home from work that night. She asks you what's wrong, and you honestly don't know, so you can't tell her.

You shrug and say " I just don't want to," and you feel like you're five again. She hugs you to her chest, and it hurts the burns on your chest, but you appreciate the gesture, while simulatenouly desperate to get away from it.

"If you don't want to go baby, you don't have to go." She says.

You take the cowards way out because you can't remember how to be Kendall anymore.

On Saturday, Logan comes over even though he wasn't invited. He comes into your room, and you're still asleep. He wakes you up and you sit with him and he looks at you and says, 'the offer still stands, you know."

You shrug because good friends probably would have noticed earlier, but you know you're being so incredibly unfair that it sort of disgusts you and you tell Logan you have a really bad headache and you need to sleep or you'll puke on him.

He concedes (thats what he's good at, after all) and turns off your light, drawing your curtain against the window shut. He brings you a glass of water and your mom follows Logan in, with two capsules.

Your mom runs her hands through your hair and you want so badly for Logan to leave, you want so badly to crawl into your mother's arms and tell her everything that's wrong.

After they leave your room, finally, you run across the hall into Katie's room. Katie's on her laptop, listening to music. You ask her three times before she responds, "can i borrow scissors?" she nods and hands you her pair from her pencil case, without really looking at them, but the stain catches in the light and it catches her eye and you mentally curse yourself.

She looks at the scissors, and registers what it is, and then she looks at you. She takes her earphones out, and says, "What happened to your scissors?"

"James borrowed them and still hasn't given them back to me," you lie smoothly.

"Why do you want them?" Katie asks, and she narrows her eyes. She's only eleven, but she isn't an idiot.

Normally you love that, but right now you hate it.

Luckily, you're a quick-thinker. You duck your head, and say "James and I got into a fight-" you pause for a dramatic effect, trying to demonstrate your embarrassed by this next phrase. "And I, uh-" you swallow, just because it seems appropriate. "Iwanttomakehimacardtosaysorry."

Katie's eyes grow wide rand she grins. "I didn't catch that, what'd you say, Kendall?"

You glare at her and grab the scissors, but pretend to notice the stain. You look at Katie and say, "Katie..is this…"

Katie looks back at you, alarmed and says, "It's not mine!" You stare at her, intending to stare her down (though the blood has nothing to do with her, and you both know it, but she doesn't know that you know it) but she doesn't crack. She gasps suddenly and says, "Do you think Mom-"

You shake your head instantly, intending to keep your mother out of this. "No. It's mom, she wouldn't, you know? Anyway-I'm. Maybe it's not even-is this paint?" you pretend to examine it closer, hoping that the change of tactic will work and not look suspicious.

Katie shrugs sheepishly. "maybe," she says. "We do use paint in art a lot.." you sigh and roll your eyes, and ruffle her hair before you go back into your room, and grab an old sheet from under your bed to put underneath you.

You don't bother about your thighs because James isn't talking to you and you aren't even sure if your friends, let alone in a relationship, so you do it on your wrist like you used to. Again and again and again, but the feeling isn't the same, not even when you press harder, so that you gasp when it breaks the skin open.

You're careful this time, washing the scissors in the sink, and for what you can't get out, you fashion a make-shift card in your room, pouring red paint on it to draw a love heart.

Katie knocks on your door and opens without waiting for your response, and you're sitting in perfect placement; the card is on the floor, the scissors right next to it, the red paint half dry.

"Or maybe you draw love hearts and don't want me to know," Katie says, and you smile at her. "Dinner's ready," Katie says, and you nod and wait until she's gone before you throw your current stained jumper under the bed and throw on a new one.

It isn't until around 11 that night, when Katie is watching television and your mom is washing the dishes, that she walks into the lounge room, where you're acting as Katie's pillow.

"Kendall," your mom says, and you look up at her. She's holding the black spoon in her hand and you count 3, 2 , 1 hoping it doesn't show on your face. "Why is this spoon black?"

You shrug and turn your head towards the tv. "How should I know?"

Katie looks up from the tv too, at the spoon. "Woah," she breathes.

"You should know because I found it in your room,"

Katie's smart, really smart. Kendall can feel the gears in her head turning, and he keeps himself calm, 3,2,1 on repeat.

"I don't know, is it a black spoon because it's supposed to be a black spoon?" you ask, irritated, because you really don't want to deal with this right now.

Katie's looking at you and the spoon and you know she's thinking about the scissors, and you wonder how she knows about the spoon thing because you didnt think it was all that common.

"Stop ruining my cutlery, Kendall. I don't care if its for something you and your friends do for fun, i can't afford to buy more spoons."

You internally breath a sigh of relief and turn back to the television but Katie's still staring at you.

"What?" you ask.

"Paint?" Katie scoffs. "Paint?" She shakes her head but doesn't move from your lap, instead snuggles down, and you think this is her way of showing comfort.

You had to eventually go back to school and Carlos and Logan and James and you all sat at the same table but nothing was really the same, though you were sure that James was shooting you glances throughout the lunch break and all the classes you had with him. you didn't talk to him, though.

You were too proud to make the first move.

After school you have work, so you head on straight down and tie your apron around you and lifelessly stock shelves and bag things for customers and carry shopping bags to cars for old ladies. You do this on autopilot, and it's so pleasant cause you aren't thinking for once and you don't need to remember 3,2,1 because for this period of time it doesn't exist.

His name is Mr. Knight, and he is your father, sitting on the couch when you get home from work. You hear his voice first, when you open the door, and your mum's in response. Her voice is weak and shaking and you still, hand on the doorknob, wondering if you can get out now and not be noticed.

You listen, press your back against the wall and your mum says, "Look-I just, I really don't know what to do. It's not a good time-" she sounds like she's crying and you want to go in there, want to scream at your father to get the fuck out, but you remain calm, 3, 2, 1 and you slowly tiptoe your way upstairs, intending to wait in your room until the intruder leaves.

It's pointless, though, cause your mum and dad didn't hear you come in, because if they did they wouldn't call your mobile. The mobile you decide to not answer. Your mom runs up stairs and you hear the door open, even though you're facing the wall on your bed, eyes closed.

You can hear her walk towards you slowly, and gently her fingers close around your wrist. You know that if you panic, she's likely to see the cuts, so you remain calm, try and pretend you're sleeping.

The bed dips beside you and you feel your sleeve slowly being rolled up-thinking fast, you roll over and fake a yawn, blinking a few times and closing your eyes. "M'm?" you murmur, rubbing your eyes.

"Kendall," your mom says, and your name shakes in her voice.

"Kendall…after, I…I want to have a talk with you, ok?" You nod and bury yourself in the pillow again, closing your eyes and keeping your breathing even.

Your dad eventually leaves, at one point, but you don't hear because you're sound asleep.

Saturday is the day you hate. It's only noon and you've just woken up, but you have an odd feeling, like something is off. Katie gives you a small smile on her way to the bathroom and you shrug it off, pulling the sleeves down on your jumper out of habit.

You walk into the kitchen, grabbing some cereal and head back into the lounge room, where your mom and James are seated.

You stop walking because it's James, and you haven't spoken to him properly for weeks. Your mom is sitting on the couch, teary-eyed, and James is looking at the ground.

In his hands is your jumper, the one you hid under your bed a few weeks back.

In your mom's hand is the sheet you use to mop up the supernova of your life, the sheet that makes secrets.

And the spoon and lighter lay next to each other on the coffee table.

You freeze.

Your mom closes her eyes, and says, "Kendall, baby. Kendall, honey." she has to pause several times to prevent herself from crying.

You count, 3, 2, 1, 3, 2, 1, 3, 2, 1, 3, 2, 1.

"We need to talk, Kendall." James says, and you feel such a surge of hatred towards him at that very moment. Your mind flashes sickeningly brilliant ways to hurt him, to destroy him, but you bite down on your lip, hard, and sit on the armchair (you try not to remember how it's your dad's) opposite.

"Wh-what's up?" you ask, and you're going to try and keep this act of nonchalance, but it's a failing plan already because James already knows all about this and they have the sheet and the jumper and all you can say is that it's Katie. And while it seems appealing you don't want to be that kind of brother.

"Kendall, can you take off your shirt for us please?" your mom whispers and you go still, rigid, and then realise what you've done and try to force yourself to relax.

You shake your head. "No," you say.

"Why not?" James asks, and you hate him, you hate him, you hate him, you hate him, you hate him.

"It's cold, it's Minnesota, you haven't spoken to me for weeks, no." You refuse to back down. Your mom didn't know the two of you hadn't spoken so she look between you and James and says, "Maybe if you leave, James. And I can just talk to Kendall alone."

James complies, but not before he squeezes your hand. you haven't spoken it what seems like forever, yet he's squeezing your hand as though nothing's ever changed, and you hate him even more for it.

As James is leaving, you get up to leave, too.

"No," your mom says. "No, you stay."

You know that you could easily outrun your mom, that you are probably stronger than her. But she's your mom and her imperative voice is something you automatically respond to, so even though you don't want to, your body remains seated.

Your mom walks towards you, slowly, and you back away, instantly. It would be a hilarious scene to watch, if someone else had no idea what was happening. But you do.

You know.

It's too late to move away and by the time she gets to your hand your tugging on your sleeves, struggling out of her grasp, which is surprisingly strong.

"Show me, Kendall," she says, and you shake your head and whisper nonononono. "Show me," she says again, and you grab hold of your wrist, so that she can't get to it.

She uses her other hand to pry your one hand off your wrist, and since you only have one hand to use, you're pretty defensless.

"No," you say, "no no no no." You manage to slip out from underneath her, and you quickly scurry away from her, but she grabs hold of your jumper from behind.

"Kendall, baby, just show me." She says and she sounds annoyed but you shake your head. You know you aren't getting out of her grip, you know you won't be able to run, so you slip into the floor and cradle your arms to your chest, whispering no no no no no over and over again.

But she's your mother and no amount of you struggling will ever make her stop. She's sitting behind you and she takes your right arm, which you pull closer to you in a vain attempt to shake her off.

"Please no," you whisper. it's terrifying. Your mom will know. She'll know and everything will be different.

"James!" your mom calls, and you start to dry sob. You haven't cried in years and years so you're pretty sure you can't produce tears, but that doesn't stop your body from wracking as if you were.

James comes back in the room, and kneels down to you. They must have some telepathic connection going on, because James traps you on the left side and in front of you, while your mom is on the right and behind you.

James holds you still even as you plead and beg and whimper and you don't even bother counting 3, 2, 1, because you can't, you can't remember it and its stupid and irrelevant because now everyone will know.

When your mom finally pulls up your sleeve, she claps a hand to her mouth and begins to cry, tears making oceans on the dirty carpet. You dry sob even harder, still trying to get out of her grip. When she runs her fingers over you cuts, you begin to properly cry, real tears, real salty tears.

You pull away from her, pull away from James, pull into your self, but it doesn't matter, because James still manages to get your shirt off even though you beg him, beg him, to not. Your mom sobs as she presses gentle hands to each burn, and you hiss involuntarily behind bleary eyes.

You find a sudden rush of strength and push between both of them, your eyesight impaired by the tears. You don't even make it to the door before James is on you, hugging you, and you're crying so hard you can't breath.

You don't want to be here, you don't want to be next to this stupid traitor who told you he'd keep your secret, and you especially don't want to be in his embrace. But your mom comes around and pulls you close to her, and you don't want to be close to her either.

You just want to be alone, alone alone because that's the way you like it.

"There are more on his thighs,"

You hate James. You hate him. That's all you know. You hate him. You hate him because he left. He left, and now he's back, and he isn't allowed to do that. You hate him because your father left, too, and your father came back, even though you didn't want to see him. You felt at peace, you felt better, when your father wasn't around. And you felt better when James wasn't around.

You hear your mother's gasp, and you can tell you're going to make yourself sick soon, if you don't stop the crying. You struggle feebly against James, a sudden rush of adrenaline surging through you. He holds you, keeps you close to him, and you still hate him all the while.

"I hate you," you spit, venomously. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you." You aren't actually sure that you can be heard-you're sobbing too hard for that. It's like ten years worth of tears have been unclogged. You keep crying, because you realise how scared you are. You don't want to look at your mom.

You don't want her to leave, too.

Out of habit, your nails bite own on your palm, and you bite down on your lip. You close your eyes tightly, and you can kind of see a little bit clearer. You think, three, two, one. It takes a while, but you manage to stop yourself crying; your vision is blurry, but you aren't hysterically stopping, you aren't hyperventilating, like you were before.

Your mom doesn't make you take off your jeans, doesn't need to see the ones on your thighs. You avoid eye contact with both of them, but you're tense in James' arms. Your mom is standing a little way off, her fingertips brushing your wrist, just gently, like a whisper of wind.

You sniff, swallow, and say, to James, "Let go of me." He complies, instantly, and you shrug his arm off your shoulder, before moving forward, before walking towards the stairs.

No one follows you, and maybe that part hurts the most.

Your mom follows you later, after James has gone home. Even though she knows everything, you still feel the impulse to cover up, so as soon as you got upstairs, you threw on a singlet, a long sleeve white shirt, and your jumper over that. You grab a beanie and hide your hair, even though that clump of hair has grown back by now.

You just don't feel secure without being covered.

You crawl under the covers, and try to sleep. You feel exhausted, from crying, but you also feel…odd. You feel relieved, in a way, but at the same time, crying didn't make you want to stop. You feel more ashamed of crying, you think, than of anything else you did, but all your stuff is downstairs or James has it, and you don't particularly feel like facing your mother, so you stay under the covers, curled into a little ball.

You don't even put your face against the window, because, as far as you're concerned, there was never a car in the driveway.

It's after you've realised this, that your mom knocks before entering. You don't say "Come in." You don't say anything. She walks in, and you face the wall and try to avoid every form of communication with her. It's a little hard, though, because she sits on your bed, the mattress dipping, and rubs your back, with her small, delicate hands. It's soothing, her rubbing small circles on your back, but you can't face her. You can't.

"Baby," she says, and her voice sounds soft and distant, like a faraway dream. You wish this all was a dream, all a nightmare, all something that you had made up in your head. You wish that it wasn't actually as fucked up as it appeared to be.

You wished that James didn't find out, wished Logan would've stayed out of it; you wish that you could've been stronger, and you wish that you hadn't resorted to what you did, even though it still gives you a sick sense of satisfaction; and with that, you wish that you weren't so messed up, and since you were, you wished you had a real reason for it.

You don't respond to your mother, but you pull your blanket closer, and she climbs onto the bed, pulls you in towards her. You don't want to be touched by the woman who loves you so much, the woman who will probably leave; the woman who will make you tell more people, force you into hospital and leave you there until you were "better."

You don't want to be touched by the woman who loves you.

"Honey, can we talk, please?"

You aren't ready to talk, and you think she should know that. But she's hugging you and you feel like you really need this, so you nod against her chest.

"Can you…can you take off your shirt for me again, please, baby?" She's hesitant, and the question is phrased so delicately, but you hate it. You hate it at the same time, except you think that, if you get this over and done with, it'll go away.

Maybe you can talk your way out of it.

You are Kendall, after all.

You pull the many layers off, and then roll over to face her. She doesn't wince when she looks your chest up and down, doesn't say anything as her fingers trail over burn marks and scars.

"When you burnt your hand, you did that on purpose, didn't you?" She says, but it sounds rhetorical, like she doesn't need to hear you say the answer to know it's true.

You nod anyway.

She takes one of your hands in her own, and tries to look you in the eye. You don't want to catch her gaze, but with her other hand, she catches your chin and raises it, so you're staring at each other.

"The burns looked like they hurt so much, honey. What was going on at that time?"

You didn't expect her to ask that. You expected her to go on about needing help, and you being fucking crazy and messed up. You didn't expect her to ask you what was wrong.

You can't explain to her that you hated being a terrible son. You end up saying, "Mom, you're so great," but her face slowly changes to one of understanding.

"I don't know why you don't think you are," she says, "But Kendall, you are great. So great. You've got a good heart." she pauses, eyes brimming with tears. "You're a good person, and a son I will be proud of eternally, and eternally grateful for. I love you."

You don't say anything, you just look down, your hands trailing towards the threads on the blanket.

"Hey," she says, softly. "Hey. You're my son. And a damn good son at that. Don't forget it, Kenny. You've become such a wonderful young man."

Her compliments are nice, you have to admit, though they feel a bit undeserved on your part. Even so, you're so desperate to hear some nice things that you let your unworthiness slide.

Your mom talks to you like that for a long while, looking at scars but then always back into your eyes, saying "That looks very deep, it must've hurt. You must've been in a lot of pain. What happened to make you feel that way?"

You didn't expect her to be so understanding. You didn't expect to be able to tell her. But you did, and you can. You patiently (and, at times, hysterically) manage to coherently explain the mess that is Kendall Knight. She answers you with reassuring words each time, and lots of hugs and kisses.

At the end of the night, when you feel like you can't share anymore, she snuggles up with you close, and says, "Would you want to come to sleep in my bed?"

You haven't slept in your mom's bed since your dad left. You shake your head, and she says, "Too bad, cause I'm staying with you tonight. You and James fit, we'll manage."

You can't describe it, but it's nice. It's so nice to be with her, to be with your mother who loves you, who didn't leave you, who didn't judge you or bring up a hospital or doctor or counsellor.

Katie comes in after a while, and you know that your mom probably told her what was going on while you were upstairs, avoiding her. She looks at you and your mom and says, "At least come to my bed; it's a double, we'll all fit." And so you do.

You sleep in the middle, between your two favourite girls, one a planet from the heavens and the other the sun that keeps giving you life, that allows you to live, and you know that in the morning, there will be problems and discussions and things to deal with, people to talk to and apologies to be made, but in that time, in that moment, you feel content.

And that's more than you could have ever hoped for.

A/N: It left a lot of unanswered questions...such is life. But if you enjoyed, or disliked, please let me know.