I have not written anything in quite a while. I am rusty. Please excuse the… well, the badness of this chapter. I don't like going fast, and I am rusty, so I'm not as good as I could be. Again, I'm sorry. Just keep reading. ^^

"Kyle, I only do what I do because I love you."

"Mom, I-"

"Don't interrupt me, Kyle. I only want what's best for you."

"Mom! I'm tired of hearing the same bullshit! I didn't DO anything!"

"Kyle! Do NOT use that kind of language in this house!"

I opened my mouth to speak, to spit off some of the acid that had been burning my tongue for quite a while, but closed it. There was no use arguing with this woman. There never was. Her word was law, and, as for everything and everyone else that had their own opinion, they didn't matter. They could go fuck themselves, for all she cared.

"Whatever. I'm going to school." And with that, I slammed the door behind me with unnecessary force. Hell, if she was already pissed off, whyyyyle… YLE…

"Kyle! Kyle Broflovski! PAY ATTENTION!!"

The sudden scream of the teacher dragged me from my flashback of this morning. Call it intuition, but everyone's eyes had focused on me, just because I had been reprimanded. Ha. Had they never seen that before? Was it so rare? Especially in this class. But, not wanting to be any more rude than I already had been, I muttered a small "Sorry", even if I really wasn't.

"Now, if you would be so kind," Mr. Leach spoke in a nasally voice, one which reminded me of my mother. His words oozed sarcasm, clearly still mad about what had happened moments ago. "Would you PLEASE answer the question?"

I quickly glanced down at my paper, then back at the teacher hovering above my desk. "Wouldn't it help if I knew which question to answer?" Fuck being polite.

"Twenty-four."

Again, my eyes traveled down to my work. "Y=7." I didn't feel like saying the whole problem; it really wasn't necessary. Everyone knew what we were doing. It baffled me as to why we spent so much time on easy things such as this, but when we're taught something no one understands, he blows through it, not stopping when someone has a question or when we don't understand it. Hell, he won't even give us the notes when we're absent.

Mr. Leach snorted a quick laugh, and went on bellowing to the class, calling on the next unsuspecting victim. But that was no different than usual. He always picked on the quiet kids; the day dreamers. The kids no teacher would ever notice, let alone call on. In his class, no one blended in with the wallpaper. No matter how hard they tried. There was always that chance that you would be the next person to speak, and if you didn't have the answer, well, you had hell to pay. Leach was a dictator. Like Adolf Hitler, like Fidel Castro, like… like… like my mom.

With that small thought, I couldn't help but laugh. I kinda felt bad afterwards, but I couldn't help it. Just the thought of my mother in a uniform like Hitler's made me want to laugh. I could see Cartman dressed up like that, yes. But to be able to see my own mother like that? Hilarity.

A shrill noise echoed throughout the classroom, and, in an instant, the once silent classroom erupted with sound. Everyone became alive, their faces became animated with the excitement of the end of class. Chairs scraped the floor, papers were being hastily shoved into notebook and binders. Everyone wanted to leave, and I couldn't blame them.

The day was over; school wise, anyway. For many kids, this was where the day began. Students would hustle to their lockers, trying to escape the masses as quickly as they could. They would hurry home, possibly do their homework, and then go out. They wouldn't return home until well after dark, some time before curfew. Or, if they could, they would sneak around all night. It's not like the police ever do anything about it.

After the first wave of students crowded the stairways, I figured it was now or never. But, just as I became my descend, a familiar voice was calling my name in the background. I turned, and, not so much to my surprise, I saw Stan. We usually walked home on nice days like today. Sure, our conversations never took interesting turns; they were just plain and straight forward, but it was still nice to have a bit of company. I like being alone. Everyone does at one point or another, but I liked being around people when I was in a shitty mood. It made me feel better, like I was doing something right. If someone could keep company with me, maybe I wasn't as horrible as I've been told I was. Maybe…

"Kyle."

My head snapped up, my stare focused on who the single word had come from. I didn't realize I had gotten lost in my thoughts. "I'm sorry, what?" I know he had said something; I had heard it. My mind just didn't process it.

"I asked if you were all right. You seem kinda down."

I shrugged. It wasn't like Stan to ask something like that. I must've really looked like crap for him to ask something like that. Was I all right? I certainly didn't feel it. These last few years had really started to take a toll on me. I wanted to ignore everything, I wanted to make believe this was all just one big dream, and I would wake up to a life that was better than this. A life where I had parents who cared; or at least pretended to. A life where I could do something, and not fear the yelling that was bound to come. I want parents who care; who'll actually sit down with me, and ask me about my day. Help me with a problem I have, or when I'm confused about what to do.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Lying always IS better than the truth.

"Are you sure?" He was still at it. "You seem kinda… quiet lately.."

I nodded. I saw no difference in my attitude. It had been the same way for the last few years.

"So.. I.. uh, broke up with Wendy."

Ah. That explains it. Between break-ups, he was always more alert. Without a girl standing in between him and his friends, he noticed a lot more. His mind wasn't clouded with the constant thought of his girlfriend. He was always a bit sadder, yes, but what can you expect? He's been with the girl for years.

"Again? How long's it gonna last this time?"

Stan laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head. "It's kinda… permanent."

I was surprised. Seriously. He usually said between one to two weeks. He's never said it was permanent before. But I doubted that. No matter how badly they fought, no matter how much they clamed to hate each other, they always made up. Like it's a rule or something.

I laughed, trying to break the awkward atmosphere that had settled around us. "I doubt that. You two always seem to get back together."

"Well, maybe not this time."

I looked over to him. The seriousness is his voice caught me by surprise. "Well, what happened?"

He shrugged, clearly unwilling to open up this subject. So, I merely nodded, understanding not wanting to talk about it. Not more than a minute had passed before he spoke again. "Sorry, dude. I gotta go watch my little brother. I'll talk to you later, alright?"

I nodded, and waved to him as he hurried across the street, and entered his house. It was finally quiet, not that I minded. The awkward air had vanished; I felt the tightness in my chest disappear as well.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, staring up at the sky, contrary to looking at the ground, as I had been for quite some time. Despite my efforts, I couldn't quell my racing mind. I wasn't a depressed kid. I certainly wasn't suicidal. I just think a lot. And thinking made me realize just how crappy reality had become. I might not be depressed (in my eyes), but I definitely wasn't the happiest. I just didn't feel like myself anymore. I feel empty. Like no one cares anymore. No one wants me to be around them. I have yet to find my purpose on this earth. Is it just to torture me? Yes, probably. If not, why have things gotten the way they are? Why don't I have a dad like I used to? Why are my mom and I always fighting?

I love my mom. I always have, and I always will. But she's gotten far too strict. I wouldn't necessarily label her as abusive, but… she's definitely on the borderline. Moms are supposed to care for their children. Hug them when they're hurt. Help them when they're lost in the train wreck called life; push them towards the light instead of dragging them away from it. …Aren't they? If that's the case, why do I get called a failure? Why can't I talk to my mom without the fear of getting judged? Why have I fallen into this black hole, and fear I may never come out?

My dad is the complete opposite, though. We haven't had a proper conversation in over five years, Not even a "hello" when he comes home from work. No "good night"s when I go up to my room at night. Dinner is silent. As is every other moment, apart from fighting. I don't know if that's his way of dealing with the fighting; blocking out the world. He's become numb. He ignores his children, and when he doesn't, there's no emotion in his voice. No feeling. Nothing. Sometimes I wonder… Does he even love us anymore…?

I glanced up, slipping out of my ever-repeating thought process. My feet had taken me to Stark's Pond. I frequented this spot as a kid. In fact, I still dropped by once in a while. Usually after school, or when I storm out of the house. Since I didn't want to walk anymore, I took a seat under a tree.

It was a pleasant day. Winter had just ended, and the crisp air had begun to turn a more desirable temperature. The sky was cloudless; a deep, endless blue was painted from one horizon to the other.

I sighed, content with the peace, Sometimes I wished it was this quiet at home. But I doubt it'll ever be like this at home again. I always get yelled at. I don't even have to do anything. Everyday there's something I did wrong. Something I could have done better. She says it's for my own good, that it's because she loves me, but sometimes I wonder if she just likes to yell. If she just likes that pathetic look on my face after another round of screaming and arguing. It makes me feel wrong. It makes me feel terrible. I feel like she doesn't want me. She wants someone better than me, someone who can live up to her expectations. I could get all A's. I could clean the entire house; make it look like we just moved in. But it doesn't matter. I didn't try hard enough. I didn't clean well enough. I didn't do my best. Even when I do. And it makes me feel like shit. She doesn't understand what it does to me. I'm sixteen god damn years old. I don't want to fight with my mother. I don't want to be ignored by my father. I want to have parents that care. That talk to me and tell me everything's going to be alright. I want to hang out with my friends. I don't want to be miserable all the time.

I was pulled out of my thoughts, again, though this time by my phone vibrating. Reluctantly, I fished the annoyance out of my pocket, and flipped it open.

"Hello?" I didn't need to see the caller I.D. to tell who it was.

"Kyle! Why aren't you home yet? You have to watch Ike tonight!"

"Yeah, sorry. I forgot." Lies.

"Well, get home this instant!"

"Okay."

I snapped my phone closed. There wasn't any point arguing. She seemed to be in a good mood, and, maybe, I wouldn't have to fight with her tonight. But that's what I hope every night. Never really happens, though…

My walk home was quiet. Children were playing on the street before the sun went down and the temperature dropped below freezing. I smiled. Being a kid was the best time in my life. Sure, I had to deal with Cartman, but it sure was fun as hell. Our group did the craziest things. We all still go to the bus stop in the morning, and sit together at lunch, but they knew nothing about my home life. It wasn't too bad, but it was also something they don't need to know, unless necessary. I knew about theirs, of course. None of them ever shut up. But I wasn't going to waste my time explaining to people who don't care. There was no reason.

My arrival home was quicker than I had hoped, and as I walked in the front door, my mom almost immediately launched into the "emergency" speech. Luckily, I stopped her, telling her I knew what to do. She said something, but I couldn't hear it. Within minutes, both my parents were out the door, and disappearing down the street.

Ike was upstairs in his room, doing whatever kids do. Well, normal kids. Something I certainly wasn't. In a way, I envied Ike. Though he was adopted, he was treated more like my parent's child than I was. My mom basically spoiled him. Whatever he wanted, he got. But he really didn't want that much. Our father ignores both of us the same, so we share that one thing. But he doesn't have to fight. But, at the same time, I feel bad for him. Everyday he has to listen to yelling and screaming. He has to listen to his older brother cussing, and being called names. I love him. I really do. But I don't want him to be here. Not because I want what he has, but because I don't want him to deal with what I have to. Will it be the same way for him when I turn eighteen and leave? I wonder.. If that happens, I'm taking him. I don't care if I get the cops called on me. I am NOT letting him go through what I have to. I'm not letting him feel what I feel. That sadness, that rejection. From his own parents! That feeling that nothing you do matters, because it's not good enough. That no matter what you do, it's just going to be ignored. That hurts. All kids want is to be accepted by their parents. And if they aren't… what happens then? Do they shrivel up and die? If not physically, then emotionally? Do they lose all feeling? Do they just DIE? Sometimes, it feels like it. Like, it I'm not wanted, I should just die and-

"Kyle?"

I looked up. How much time had passed?

"Yeah Ike?"

He plopped down next to me on the couch, and simply stared at me. Stared with those questioning eyes that just make you want to just pull them into your lap, and tell them whatever they want to know. A minute or two passed, and I started to wonder if he just wanted to get my attention.

"Why do you and mom always yell at each other?" His words were so sweet… so innocent.

I sighed. The truth was, I didn't want him to know. I hated lying to him, but sometimes I needed to.

"I'm not too sure, Ike. Mom just seems to be in a bad mood lately." By lately, I mean the last few years or so.

Ike smiled, content with that simple answer. I glanced at the clock. It was past nine, and my parents would be home any minute.

"Hey Ike, I think you should go upstairs before mom and dad get home. You're supposed to be in bed, and I don't want you to get in trouble."

He nodded, and quickly hurried up the stairs. I heard a car drive down the street, and right into our driveway. Well, hopefully, dinner will have gone well, and there'll be no need for a fight. Into the house they came, but instead of looking happy and relaxed, my mom looked pissed.

"Kyle!! Why didn't you call me?!"

"Call you? When was I supposed to call you?"

"At seven! I told you to call me!"

"Mom, I didn't hear-" I was cut off.

"You know I don't like it when you don't do important things!"

"Mom!" Again.

"I was worried sick! I didn't know if-"

"Mom! SHUT UP! I didn't fucking hear you say ANYTHING about calling you! Otherwise I would have!" I didn't want to resort to yelling, but it was the only way to get her to stop talking for a minute.

"Kyle! Don't use that language in this house!!"

"Why the fuck does it matter what I do?! It's never good enough for you anyway!"

"Go to your room, Kyle! I don't need to hear this from you!"

I wasn't taking this. I didn't need to. So I stomped up the stairs and slammed my door. It creaked, tired of it's constant abuse. I related more with that door than anyone else I know. I felt trapped in my room. Like I was suffocating, and there wasn't any air left for me to breath. At times like these I resort to drastic measures. Quietly, I slipped my window open, and climbed down. They didn't come to my room after fights. They left me to boil and tear my room apart. So I was free to walk around until I cooled down.

However long that might be.