The sky over Kenny's house was an ugly, gun metal gray, smeared with daubs of cloud the color of filthy gutter water. Dead winter trees like runnels of spilt ink stretched into the sky. A swath of startling red slit the horizon line, the only remaining sign that the sun had been out at all that day. Fat snowflakes of no particular color sifted through the still air. The approaching darkness pulled an uncomfortable blanket of silence with it. Birds stopped their songs, intimidated. Junk yard dogs, which could be heard from Kenny's yard at all times, hushed their constant baying. Tarps held down by bricks over shapeless masses in the alley behind the McCormick residence ceased flapping. Leaves stopped their travels, beer cans nestled down for the night. The mortal world had resigned itself over the end of the 18th day of February.
Yet, the eternal cosmic players still seemed at war. The day wouldn't surrender itself. Like a fighter beaten to his limit, but full of insane pride, it kept slugging on. More red seeped from the horizon, like paint washed down the black maw of a drain. Purple the color of bruised skin pushed down from the Heavens. What could be seen of the moon was repulsive: a bloated, orange eyeball, the iris clouded over, rising steadily in the west. A spattering of stars like shards of broken porcelain stuck in the darkening abyss. Somewhere nearby, a single crow dared let out its strangled cry; Silence thicker than ever followed. The last of the daylight was holding its breath, as if this foolish endeavor could stave off the inevitable onslaught of winter darkness. The red on the horizon had faded to a dull pink, the color of fingertips. It made the trees look like ill sewn stitches attempting to hold earth and sky together. A spoke of incredible light sparked for the barest of a heartbeat, casting the sullen trees into sharp relief. Then, it was over.
The air became noticeably thinner, as if the light itself had had weight. Stars began to push through the taught fabric of the night in courageous groups. The moon looked less like a hideous Cyclopean eye and more like the benevolent ruler of tides that it was. A winter wind equipped with teeth and claws began once more to stir the ground clutter. Section C of the morning's news paper lifted off the frozen ground, dancing gracefully among the snowflakes. It jigged once, twice, and then landed, cat like, on Kenny's boot.
The blonde, who had watched the death of the day with a curious affliction of familiarity, kicked the paper off. It flipped over, showing a blurry photo of some football player. Kenny stared, trying to read the headline in the growing gloom. When he found he couldn't, he crushed the paper into the dead grass with his heel. The movement brought on a moment of reality: he'd been sitting there on the porch for almost an hour, still as a statuette. It felt as if his muscles were frozen into place, his joints locked forever into right angles. Goosebumps broke out over his arms, running down his sides and hardening his nipples indiscriminately. He could feel the sweat behind his neck and under his arms chill, driving a hard shiver through him like a jolt of electricity.
He sighed, the sound harsh and bitter in the growing tranquility. He gingerly stretched, first his legs and ankles, rolling the latter slowly in the air until he could feel his toes. Next were his arms, were he repeated the rotating gesture with his stiffened wrists. He flexed his fingers, touching the tip of each to the appropriate thumb. He craned his neck from side to side, hearing the joint pop deep in his eardrum. It crossed his mind fleetingly that he was too young to have joints that made noises like that, but it was gone almost as soon as it was thought. Finally, he arched his back, thrusting his chest forward like a comic book hero. Here, the repercussions of sitting for so long were at their worst. A knife of pain buried itself in his lower back, causing him to grimace. He ground his teeth together, forcing himself to arch harder. His shoulder blades flared, dull points of pain that radiated down his rib cage. For a moment he felt sick, gut twisted uncomfortably tight. He held for several grueling seconds before shuddering back into a more human position. Breath steamed from his lips, wetting them only to be iced dry by the winter air.
The boy looked back down at the crumpled paper under his foot again. He stared at it, face a complete blank, the color of slate in the evening. He'd forgotten to turn on the lights when he'd come out to meditate, and now he could only just make out rows of what he knew were words and some of the larger pictures. Once more, he churned the paper under a heel, satisfied by the wet crunching. With that done, he forced himself up, cursing under his breath at the remaining stiffness in his limbs.
Trudging back to the house was easy enough: the back porch only had four crooked stairs to climb. Finding the will to ENTER the velvety black, ill smelling cave within was different. As Kenny reached out a blue hand to push open the crack sliding glass door, he thought it ironic that he was going inside to get warm at all. It was probably just as cold in there as out here on the porch. The McCormick's hadn't had a functioning oil or hot water heater in over three years. Kenny slept in his school clothes and winter parka at night, and showered only as needed. He counted himself lucky that his stove was an electric Maytag from the 80's. The electricity in the house was one of the only resources that could be counted on month by month to be paid for. And that was only because his parents were dependant on it for the television. They were worse then meth addicts when it came to their day time soaps and bass fishing shows. And that was saying a lot, in Kenny's humble opinion, because he knew that his parents actually WERE addicts of various hardcore drugs.
The blonde let himself into the house, thinking about a bottle of Vicodin pills he'd seen in his mothers purse the previous night. She had no medical conditions that called for the use of such a tough painkiller. Kenny thought it most likely that she'd been unable to afford the real stuff and, in dire need of something, had gotten the medication instead. For a wild moment, he had a fantasy of grabbing the ugly orange vial and flushing it down the toilet in front of her pallid, horror filled face. Then the door thundered shut behind him on its aged steel track, and the mirage was gone.
He reached for the light switch beside the door, touching the cracked face plate. Here, he hesitated before deciding against it. He wasn't sure he wanted to see the wreck that doubled as his home. The kitchen served as the foyer for the back porch, and the smell of the small room made the blonde gag. It was worse then usual, in part due to the fact that no member of his family would claim responsibility for the rotting mess that accumulated there. Kenny slowly progressed through the space, as if afraid of live mines. Something crunched under foot, making his twitch with a shot of adrenaline. No doubt a carelessly discarded schnapps bottle, a tell tale sign of his fathers presence. The boy reached out a hand to find the edge of the counter to guide him. Immediately he set his hand down in something soft, cold and fleshy. He recoiled with a hiss, shaking his hand as if bitten. Instinct had him reaching to wipe the mess off on his pants when he stopped: he only had this last, current pair clean. With another muttered string of expletives, he tentatively lifted his moist palm to his nose and smelled. The odor wasn't as horrific as he'd feared: it smelled quite a bit like turkey gravy, a staple that was slathered atop almost ever McCormick meal.
Relieved, he shook his hand to get the rest of the congealed goo off and proceeded to wipe it on his jeans, behind the knee. He figured fewer people would see any possible stain there. He counted himself lucky again that he hadn't slapped his hand down into two week old hamburger helper. Anything with cheese sauce was cheap at Star Market, and anything with cheese sauce smelled worse then a gutted pig after about two nights of mellowing on a counter top. Kenny ghosted his way through the rest of the kitchen, bumping just once into a pile of full, ripening garbage bags. He was careful to not upset the careful, teetering tower they were in, lest they fall and burst on the peeling linoleum. Then he would HAVE to clean them up, and he was absolutely sure it was the last thing on the face of the Earth that he wanted to do.
Fighting past the reek of his own kitchen, he entered the short hall that led to the rest of the house. The more comforting and humane stench of cigarette smoke presented itself to him then, and he felt better. His joints were starting to limber up again, and he could feel a bit of warm rising into his ears and cheeks. The guess that the rest of his house would be no warmer then outside had proved to be a bitter hyperbole on his part. Upon entering his room, he had to admit that it was at least acceptably warm. The two windows facing the street were stapled over with thick, waxy builders plastic. There hadn't been glass in the panes for over two years. Light from one persistent lamp out front turned the room into a hasty painters study of complimentary colors. Boxes heaving with Kenny's personal belongings were stacked haphazardly against the far wall. There had never been time or money to get shelving or book cases for him. Kenny also privately held the notion that his parents wouldn't have gotten him any even if they DID have the money. A three legged desk, pulled from a dumpster, was shoved into the corner to the left of the door. A great tower of stolen library encyclopedias made the fourth leg. Stacks of papers, torn apart gadgets, knick knacks and tools littered the surface. Kenny's single bed was pushed into the opposing corner, blankets thrown across it without thought or care. A solitary lamp stood guard next to it, and a dark, pock marked dressed filled the rest of the wall space. Clothing of every synthetic, man made fabric poked out in bunches, wilted flowers from an alien world. Posters declaring the blondes love of movies, art and music were stuck to the crackling walls with scotch tape taken from school. All of this was splashed in varying shades of deep blues and yellow. The encroaching darkness was just enough to smudge the edges of the hoard, to soften its harsh reality into something almost pretty.
Kenny would've probably admired it had it not been for the knot at the base of his spine. He unzipped his parka, wanting to change out his undershirt for something fresher. He might not have had a properly working shower, but that had no effect on his desire to be cleanly. He stripped awkwardly, trying not to aggravate his back. He snatched a shirt from a nearby pile without looking, hurriedly throwing it back on. Without his coat on, he felt utterly naked, exposed and so like a helpless child. At least when he was inside the thing, he could duck his face, hide from the world. It brought him a sense of relief, comfort and stability in his insanely unbalanced life. The feeling was addictive and eventually, necessary. Kenny rarely, if ever, parted from his coat for extended periods of time. Tonight was no different, even within the confines of his own room. He threw his new shirt on and frantically shrugged his parka back over his shoulders. The soft down brushed his cheeks as he zipped it up to his chin. The effect of having it back on was instant and overwhelming, like a shot of morphine to the nerves. He felt all right again, save for the wire of paining tightening in his back still.
Without much enthusiasm, he climbed into his bed. With his feet still hanging off the side, he pushed his boots off with his toes. Once done, he amassed his blankets in a nest like fashion. He pulled, tugged and flung linens and wool and cotton upon himself until it looked as if a colorful beaver had built a home atop his bed. He himself was at the heart of the heap, laid out flat on his aching back. Nothing from his nose down could be seen, and his hood covered most of his shaggy hair. As he relaxed, he was happily stricken by the faint scent of dryer sheets: Kyle's mother had washed his sheets for him last, and she used the best shit. It made him smile under the thick layer of blankets, to think that his friends and his friend's parents loved him. Maybe more then his own did. No, definitely more then his own did.
Kenny patted his jean pockets, looking for his phone. The smell of a cleaner life clinging to his blankets made his wistful and lonelier then ever. He thought of Kyle, probably sitting down to a family dinner in his well lit, pleasantly decorated dining room at that very moment. He'd probably be telling his father all about how his track meet had gone, beaming when his mother told him how proud she was. Ike would crack a joke, and they would all laugh, happy and warm within their well-constructed world. Kenny stared at the water stains etched into the plaster above him. One of them sort of looked like a fat Star of David.
The blonde began to pat down his coat pockets when the search in his jeans turned out to be in vain. His mind drifted off to Eric, and he wondered what his loud-mo
uthed friend was up to. Most likely wrist deep in a bowl of cheese doodles, feet kicked up on the couch as he caught up on TiVo'd episodes of Lost and Weeds. Maybe he was re-watching Prison Break, or finally getting through the latest season of Breaking Bad. All seemed likely to Kenny, who had listened with a carefully composed smile as Eric had gone on passionately about all of them. The darkest stain on the blondes ceiling bore a striking resemblance to Eric's latest cat.
Having still not found his phone, Kenny sat up, irritated. He remembered bringing it out onto the porch. …Or at least, he THOUGHT he had. Now he wasn't as sure. Although it had only been about 5 minutes ago, it had already seemed like hours since he'd been outside, watching the day die. Time was a slippery devil, especially when there were no goals to aim for in the future, something Kenny sadly understood with clarity far beyond his years. His frustrations mounted further as he realized he'd have to crawl out of his fort of blankets if he wanted to find the damn thing. He squinted into the darkness around him, but he couldn't see it on his dresser or desk. Silently, he weighed the options of finding the device in the dark, cold expanse of his room, versus staying warm. When it seemed as if he'd never reach a decision, he collapsed back onto the threadbare mattress with a huff. Springs squeaked under him. He lay still to silence them. Giving up his search proved easy enough; he figured if someone was looking for him, it'd be for no good reason anyway.
The last person he'd remembered texting was Stan, just to say hey. Good old Stan. The blonde wiggled down into his nest more, making sure his toes were under a good four inches of blankets. He wondered vaguely what it would be like to sleep in Stan's bed. He imagined that the mattress would be warm and soft, with no broken springs to prod someone awake. The room itself would be cozy, maybe even above 70 degrees. The carpet beneath the bed would be clean and well maintained. There wouldn't be a layer of dust gilding the headboard, no duck taped box spring. The linens, comforter and pillow cases would all match, and have an actual thread count. Kenny sighed longingly, holding onto the image of Stan's room like a mental life preserver.
Yet his back still stung, an ongoing little annoyance that kept fantasy just outside of the boy's realm of capability. It throbbed in time to his heartbeat. He'd been able to see HIMSELF sleeping blissfully in his friend's bed at first. With each pulse however, the image in Kenny's head distorted. He saw himself replaced with Stan, like two photos flickering back and forth. It would be him on one beat, then Stan on the next. Finally, it was only Stan, the suffocating reality of it all pushing aside any chance at momentary daydreams. Kenny sighed miserably. He would never have Stan's room, he would never be able to sleep in a bed as nice his friends. He was destined to a life of coupon clip outs and prepaid lunches, and he knew it.
The blonde rolled onto his side, now aggravated as well as depressed. The emotions were twins, hammering nails of self-doubt and loathing into his malleable mind. Now the smell of dryer sheets was infuriating to him. If he'd had his phone, maybe it would've been ok- but sitting there, alone and cut off from everyone he cared for was just too much. And his goddamn back just wouldn't quit. He snorted ruefully, remembering the Vicodin in his mothers bag. THAT'D do the trick. However, he dismissed the thought immediately. It was first and foremost a wildly dangerous idea to try and steal from his mother. He knew she was not above hitting her own son. Secondly, it would mean once again facing the cold outside his insulted little cove, and this he was not willing to do. So he was stuck, trapped between urges to alleviate his pain and stay warm. He let his eyes settle shut, uncurling himself a bit to ease his muscles.
Disconnected thoughts, vivid random images and snatches of various TV shows flitted through his mind. He tried not to focus too long on any one thing, less his beam of concentration narrow and get him actually thinking. He didn't have the energy to worry, the patience to sort out his life right now. He wasn't tired enough to sleep, but was too tired to be awake. It was a dangerous limbo for him, a place he didn't like to visit but which he often found himself pulled to. Like a whirlpool of the mind, or a magnet of the psyche, he couldn't get away from himself. His breathing started to get short and clipped. He realized he'd been floating down the path of anger and hatred in his state of noncommittal thought. Reigning himself in, he took deep breathes, counting them slowly aloud.
On number 10, he sucked in the deepest breath he could and held it. He waited, and waited. He kept waiting… Without his conscious knowledge, he'd shoved his hands between his legs to keep warm. Now, with his lungs beginning to ache for air, he began to touch himself. With the blood pumping hard in his ears, it was easier to tune out his own thoughts, to go black on his internal radio. It was safer to focus on something easy, something sure fire with guaranteed results. He squeezed the bulge of his cock hard, finally exhaling his stale breath in a gusty sigh. Instantly, he drew in another, equally huge breath and held it. He released himself only to work his jeans open. He shoved his hand inside, sliding easily under the worn elastic of his boxers. He began working himself feverishly, trying to get himself hard while thinking of nothing. Without knowing, he bit his bottom lip, his efforts making tiny beads of sweat pop out along his temples and under his thick hair. He exhaled again after he finally made himself fully erect. With a pitiful gulp of air that sounded like a choked sob, he desperately pushed his jeans down enough to get himself free. He shook his head once, hard, the corners of his vision growing darker then the night could account for. He greedily welcomed the oncoming lightheadedness he got from starving himself of oxygen.
Quickly, he lapped his palm, wetting it with his spit. His next inhale was loud, and he had to tighten his chest to keep the air from rushing right back out. He pumped himself freely with his slick hand, forcing along the process painfully to reach climax. The blood in his ears was deafening now, his heartbeat a runaway jackhammer in his chest. Sweat trailed in lines down his young face. He let out his breath in an explosive burst, and couldn't help it as his body forced him to gasp for air. He brought his free hand up, slapping it over his mouth to silence himself. His eyes were stinging: he couldn't remember when he'd started to cry. Even in his own room, alone, he felt a deep shame for letting such weakness show, and the fury of it pushed him to pump himself harder. He took a wavering gulp of air and held it as best he could, his body curling in on itself as he hurtled towards climax. Finally, he felt the irreversible welling of orgasm take him over. He jerked himself under the blankets, tears dripping into his mouth as he opened it to moan.
The moment he was looking for hit him: an orgasm powerful enough to blank his mind. Erase all feelings, blast all emotions away, make him forget who he was and were he'd been. For just a few precious seconds, he was perfectly ok, perfectly normal. He was just a boy, with no worries or burdens or vicious cycles to worry about. His mind turned off, and he was an epicenter of pleasure, a shore for waves of ecstasy to wash over. Everything was right, and nothing was unfair or painful. It just- was.
Little by little, the frantic passion of the moment ebbed. It eked out of his body like rainwater off a pitched roof. His mind began to buzz again, the knobs slowly tuning through the channels to regain control. He refused to open his eyes, panting heavily into his sweaty palm. A thin sheen of sweat made his clothes and hair cling to his body. He could feel his own come between his fingers, thick and already cooling. He sank into his bed, unaware of it's lumps and scratchy texture. His back finally felt better, the piano wire of pain slowly unwinding. The back of his throat felt raw from holding in his breath so forcefully, but it was a welcomed and familiar feeling. It brought with it a sense of minor accomplishment. Like a wine paired with a fine dinner, the whole process felt put together. His mind was clearer; the winds of his thoughts weren't lashing at his subconscious any longer. He felt like he could sleep now, reassured that he'd at least done SOMETHING that day.
He eyelids fluttered momentarily, feeling heavy. They fought briefly to stay open. Once more, giving up this paltry battle was easy enough. Sleep offered refuge from life, temporary safe harbor. Slipping down into the inky depths was like floating through layers of silk. They gently buffeted him along, pulling him deeper, an enchanting feeling. Soon, his fingers splayed open on their own. His knees settled on top of one another. His mouth, slightly propped open by his expenditures, pulled itself closed with a barely audible pop. A deep sigh issued from him, and finally, he was completely asleep, hand still wrapped delicately around his cock. The stream of tears on his cheeks dried quickly, soaked hungrily into the boys pillow. If anyone had been around to see him now, they never would've guessed at the violent, self inflicted drama that had just occurred. For now, Kenny was ok.
Outside his room, a miniscule buzzing emitted from the dark recesses of the house. It had been going off every 15 minutes for the past two hours, obviously angry at being ignored. It was Kenny's cell phone, and he hadn't, in fact, taken it outside with him at all. He'd thrown it into his school bag, to be forgotten about for a time. The tiny device had since then chirped dutifully, waiting to be heard, trying to deliver its messages. Tonight, it would receiver no such luck, destined to lay useless in the clutter at the bottom of the backpack.
Like the endless cycle of a traffic light blinking at 3AM, the screen kept flashing urgently: 'FIVE NEW MESSAGES'. The accompanying thrum shook pens sitting next to it, a polite little rattle.
Message from Klyie-B: 10:02PM(PST): "Dude, you should come over for dinner. My mom made mad extra food."
Message from StanTheMan: 10:16PM(PST): "Lol I was NOT paying attention in math today. Meet up tomorrow morning to finish math homework? Also, you goin to Kyle's tonight? He said he had extra food for you"
Message from Kylie-B: 10:27PM(PST): "You alive Ken? Come on over, food! lol"
Message from E.: 10:40PM(PST): "asshole, I called u 3 times! i know ur not busy, so wtf? come over and watch Breaking Bad with me. its basically about u anyway, lol. call me or something "
Message from Kylie-B: 11:01PM(PST): "Earth to Kenny, calling Kenny. We're going to Cartmans to watch some shit. We're probs gonna play L4D! CALL US OR SOMETHING, WE WANT YOU THERE!"
Authors Notes: Hope you guys like this! Please R&R.