This Chapter's Author Is:

Spectrum Larka

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park or much else, for that matter.

"Mom, I'm really thirsty."

Kids. "Honey, you have a glass of water on your bedside table."

"I drank that," he whined, in a voice so close to his father's I almost forgot who I was speaking to. "I need more."

"You can go get your own, sweetie," I turned over, hoping to get at least one more hour of sleep. I never got enough sleep these days, and I struggled to hold on to my warm bed, my delightfully soft pillow. "You know where the refrigerator is."

"But Mooom," he whined, clutching at his teddy bear. "There's a monster that lives in the kitchen. I've heard it!"

I finally opened my eyes, which were heavy with sleep. There he was, his black hair mussed up from sleep. He looked at me with his puppy dog eyes and his blue-and-white pajamas, clutching onto his little teddy for dear life.

"Okay, okay," I gave in, glancing at the flashing alarm clock as I rose. 4 AM. I new record. I felt like I'd slept in.

I shuffled into the kitchen, the cold linoleum stinging my bare feet. A quick glimpse to my left told me my husband was out. His side of the bed was made perfect, and untouched.

I grabbed one of our old cups, a mug that read Paul Blart: Mall Cop. It'd been a promotional item he'd snagged when he went to see the movie. I filled it up to the brim with some tap water and handed it to my son, who grabbed it with his grubby hands and drank half of it in one gulp.

"Alright, sweetheart, back to bed," I ushered my son back into his room, which I tried to avoid looking into.

I'd always wanted to provide for my kids, so looking into it left a pang in my heart. A single bed, a few stuffed animals, a cracked window. I swallowed and looked away as my son crawled back into his bed.

I made my way back to my empty bed and lay their, staring at the ceiling. It was cold, and I was grateful for the warmth my blankets provided. Still, it would be even warmer if my husband were here.

The door creaked open, about a half hour later, and the thudding footsteps let me know my husband was home. I listened to the shuffle of him take off his heavy boots, as he slid in his socks across the floor. I listened to the telltale clink as he set down empty beer bottles on our little kitchen table, as he moved to the sink to wash whatever grime was on his hands off.

I got up, stretching, and wrapped myself in our heavy bedcover. I was prepared for the usual: the accusations, the harsh whispers, until one of us raised our voices loud enough for our son to hear.

I heard him coming nearer and I sat on the bed, bracing myself for what was to come.

He entered the door carefully and flicked on the light. When he saw me, he smiled. "Oh...hey W-Wen..."

"You're drunk." His smile was too wide, and his eyes slid glassily around the room. As he stepped towards me, taking off his winter coat and scarf, he stumbled.

"Aw, Wen, c'mon," he slurred, finally fumbling off his jacket and scarf and landing on the floor. "There wash a big...a big...hey...I love that shirt on you..."

"You're never home on time," I told him, remembering the hundreds of other times I'd said this. "You're drunk every night, and it has a horrible effect on our son."

"Oh yeah?" He stood up, wobbling. "Well, I'd like to see you go out...and...and work your ass off, off. A factory? You've got soft hands, see...washing and cleaning, all you...oh..."

He held his hands over his mouth and rushed into our bathroom. I sighed, listening to him vomit his guts out into our toilet.

"Mom?" I didn't hear him, but my little one had crept into my room. He looked frightened. "I heard the monster in the kitchen again."

So that's what he'd been hearing. "That's not a monster, honey, that's daddy."

"O-Oh," a tiny smile lit up his face. "C-Can I say hi to daddy?"

"Not now, sweetie," I smiled. "Daddy and Mommy are very tired. But I promise you and him can have breakfast this morning, okay?"

"A-Alright," he said, crestfallen. I ushered him out of the room before he could see what a state his father was in.

My husband lurched out of the bathroom, looking sick as a dog. Despite what he'd done, I felt so sorry for him. I did love him, after all.

"You should lie down," I told him. "I'm sorry, but money's been tight lately--I can see why you'd want to...Listen, we can all have breakfast tomorrow and work it out."

I stepped forward to help him, and his eyes rolled around numbly in his head. He stumbled forward, and I caught him, and looked my husband straight in his eyes.

Eric Cartman.

When I was younger looking into his eyes had made me violently sick. Such a racist, inconsiderate bastard. We'd always had conflicting views, yet I'd been drawn to him. I couldn't imagine how he could like the things he did, and I'd always debated with him. We disagreed, but we were both passionate...about our own things.

Eric swayed on his feet and then collapsed onto our bed. I leaned forward and gently eased off his shirt. He'd lost most of his weight since childhood with my careful coaching and our lack of food combined, but he still had some of his original chubbiness.

He half-crawled, half-rolled onto his side of the bed and wormed his way under the covers. I slid in next to him in my rightful place.

Eric leaned into me and wrapped his arms around me. If I closed my eyes very tight (and, of course, ignored the stench of alcohol) it was like he was holding me again, like it was before we'd had little Eric Cartman, Jr. It was like, for a split second, I was happy.

A/N; You guys like? I worked very hard. ENJOY IT!! And please, for the love of Larka the wolf, South Park, God, and Triceratops, please review.