*sorry to re-upload, I made some edits
Alright, this has been a very, very long time coming... It didn't really come out as I'd originally hoped, but I'm content with it. Thank you to anyone who reads, I hope to upload more soon. :)
This was partially inspired by the song quoted.
~Draining~
"Some people have the money, to keep their legs pumping away at the ground. What moves me is fear, that I'll always be alone at the end of the day." Armor for Sleep- Lullaby
I don't remember the bathroom being so small. Or could it be it just feels that way because I haven't sat on the floor of it and stared at the ceiling since I was a lot smaller? The walls seem dingier now too, the once yellow paint looking more like beige. Even the blaring radiance of the lone light bulb overhead doesn't give this room any life, any real light. If anything it enhances the dreary aura it emanates.
Inhaling deeply through my nostrils, I'm brought back to the position I'm in by the rank smell of the toilet next to me. When's the last time that thing was ever cleaned? Probably the last time I had to scrub it out when I was certain something was going to crawl out of it, and that seemed like a year ago now. God, it was awful.
My nose crinkled in disgust, probably a fairly delayed response, as I slid away from the pungent, acrid smell of piss. Instead of getting up from my slumped position against the wall right under the toilet-paper dispenser, though, I just let my back rub against the surface behind me and slowly plop down to the floor.
Cheek pressed in the scruffy material of the tattered little oval of rug that covered the cool tiles, it gradually came to me that it probably wasn't any better down here on the bathroom floor. It was perhaps just as dirty as the shitter, hell, as the rest of this fucking room. There's even a mess of bugs under the cabinet of the sink to justify this, some dead, some squandering around uselessly. I can sympathize with them.
Yet I'm not even surprised or grossed out by any of this. A bit aggravated by it, sure, but that was different then wanting to actually get up and complain or vomit over it. I'm used to it. This is nothing compared to some things I've dealt with in my seventeen years of life. Nothing.
Still, I was uncomfortable where I was now, and my body's already itching to move. I had come in here to find one of the few escapes of life, or more use one of them. That, and get away from my parents insistent yelling.
Deciding to test the effects of my plan, I pulled my limbs together to roll onto them in a fetal-like position. Pushing myself up to suspend on my palms was almost a feat in itself. My body felt heavier than normal, and lifting my head from the rug had it spinning. Fantastic, this should be real good.
My hands found the edge of the counter for stability as I pulled up onto my knees, feeling like my brain was shifting. I finally looked into the mirror to find my eyes listless under the fur of my zipped-up hood. Despite my pupils being larger than usual, I could still see the sky blue that surrounded them. I've always been slightly surprised by how bright they are. It just doesn't seem right. Such a color was too pure for such a sick fuck as someone like me, for someone who's lived in dirt and blood their whole life. All I ever see in them is death anyway, blue just wasn't suitable.
The movement from the wall, to the floor, and onto my knees helped whatever I took really kick in. Suddenly my mind was floating on cloud nine, seemingly leaving me in the process for my body felt fairly weightless now. It was a shame that I felt so euphoric, actually. I don't remember what I even took, but then again it doesn't really matter.
At that I laughed in spite of myself.
And like that I was moving without much thought. The door was pulled open with a clumsy grasp. Words caught in my ears, the familiar bickering and taunts of my parents became known again as I staggered out from the bathroom, into the hallway. I wanted to avoid them, sometimes trying to slip by meant getting caught in the mix and hit with something inadvertently. Whether that was the backlash of a smack or a tossed beer bottle… Nope, not going to let that ruin this.
My room's like the rest of the poor shack of a house it's located in, small, messy. I stood in the middle of it and just stared blankly around for awhile. Right now it didn't seem so bad. It was almost… comforting, just to be in such a familiar place. Somehow.
I lay on the cluttered floor, instead of the semi-soft, worn, and bare mattress that was my bed. I was sprawled out as if making a snow angel, where instead of snow there was just crumbs and cigarette ash and God only knows what else. Then suddenly the ceiling was more interesting and amusing than anything in my room. I made out shapes and whatnot with the lines and stains in the paint, became easily lost in it. It was when it felt almost as though the floor was moving was I certain I was pretty fucked up. What the hell had I taken?
Breaking glass, which was more than likely a beer bottle, snapped me out of my momentary trance and reminded me there was a lot more fun I could be having. More importantly it brought back to light the fact this was the last place I'd want to be no matter the occasion.
I managed to get up and climb out my window more swiftly and gracefully than I thought I was capable of, at least in this somewhat altered condition. The ice cold air was refreshing and crisp in comparison to the stale and smoky atmosphere of my home. It was invigorating, charging me with energy I'm pretty sure I don't really have. I started walking down the sidewalk with my hands tucked in the front pockets of my hoodie, though I couldn't actually feel that they were freezing already. There was almost a skip in my step, but it wasn't because I was in a ridiculously cheery mood. An unknown substance was the cause for the chipper stride, tearing me away from this worrisome world, and I couldn't be any more grateful, or happy, for just that.
There's something magical about staying up all night high as a kite. The dewy air of twilight, and dawn, and the bird's songs slowly growing louder with the impending morning… I didn't know how it wouldn't make anyone wistful. Then again, I was always the one with my head in the clouds.
Sometimes it's scary when your vision turns black around the edges, but sometimes I welcomed it. White snow, the orange blare of streetlights, bare branches reaching up like claws at the dark night sky— they would all blur and blend together. Abstract, unintimidating…
I don't really know where I'm going, I never really do. My legs just took me where they pleased. I just keep moving as that blackness crept further in, and when it consumed my conscious I disappeared.
It was a great feeling.
That's when the fading begins. Depending on how badly I wanted to forget my existence, my reality, I would fade away and come back or fade and wake up reincarnated in bed. That's how I worked; I can never truly get away forever.
All the more reason, as they say.
~"~
Fade in.
I hate to say that for a selfish, narcissistic, psychotic asshole, Cartman has a cute face when he sleeps. He just reminds me of a chubby little kid is all, not that he isn't still fairly heavyset and certainly not because he looks, or is, innocent. No, not by any means, not even some of the worst people can put a finger on what this guy's done.
It's really no shock to me that I somehow snuck into his room and sat myself atop of his hefty form. As much as I – and everyone else – hate him, I've always considered him my friend to some extent – some very small extents at times mind you. He was just one of those friends you can only take so much of but things wouldn't be the same without. I guess.
At this point though, with my awareness barely there and care lack thereof, the only upside of technically being his friend all this time is that I can be in his refreshingly warm house and get some good grub. That's why I was here after all. Starving and Cold are my body's despised best friends, but narcotics don't exactly cure the presence of either. I suppose they just make you more instinctual and go in search of what you need, at least in my case. I don't know.
"Oh Eric," his name rolled slyly off my tongue as I pulled at his pudgy cheek. His once gaping mouth shut slightly as his snorted in his sleep. He then proceeded to smack his lips and turn his head slightly like the fucking glutton he is. Trying again, I decided to mock his mother and see if I got some different results. "Poopikins..."
This time I did get a better response. He groaned then proceeded to whine, "Miem…" There was more to it, but I couldn't really make out his high-pitched murmuring and his idiotic mannerisms.
"Get up," I cooed more loudly, getting a kick out of pinching the fuck out of his cheek and his face twisting in irritation. Finally, Cartman smacked my hand away and cracked open his eyes.
"The fuck, Kinny," he blinked as he rolled onto his back, putting me into an awkward straddling position. Well, it was only awkward because it was on him, and, well, that thought alone was kinda sickening. Cartman squinted at me, a sleepy, calculating kind of look, and then let out a resentful sigh, "What do you want?"
"I'm hungry," I said simply, my head still ever swirling and swirling, slurring my words a bit. I even gave something of a puppy-face, though it wasn't really needed.
Again he grumbled, scowling and turning back onto his side. "You know where the fridge is, fucker." Like that the fatass' eyes closed and he was out cold to dream his dreams of dictating and whatnot. Fine with me.
Of course the kitchen was stocked full of enough food to feed five children. No matter how many times I've seen the refrigerator so full the light inside could barely shine past and the cupboards loaded with hardly any space to spare, I've never really gotten used to it. It was always something of a mix of shock and elation when my eyes met the array of goods that could fill my empty stomach. I don't think there was ever a time my kitchen had half as much food, legitimate food that is.
There have been a few shameful times in the past I had come here just to get a bite, just anything substantial. There have been times I've come here and ate so much I threw up later. Even if it bruised my pride, or maybe even humiliated me a bit, it didn't really matter. Sooner than later I'd forget, as would everyone else, and everything was always better that way. Some problems can't be fixed. It was best to just overlook them and save yourself the pain of trying to move something immobile, change something unchangeable.
I don't know what I ate, but I did. I don't even remember coming downstairs into the kitchen, but that's where I was. I didn't know, but I had planned for it to happen, and somehow the familiarity of it all was unsettling even as my belly was being satisfied. However, it was there one moment and gone the next. The vague sense of repetition floated into my jumbled junk-drawer of a brain and scattered back into the distorted flash of images so fast I wasn't sure if I imagined it.
Then again I was off moving before I realized. Off into the rush of senses. Off into the bliss of not knowing. Off on a memorized route I didn't know I was following.
Fade out.
Fade in.
Snow, wet gloves, cold feet, and that dog that's always left out and barks at everyone.
Fade out.
Fade in.
Houses, roofs, lights, stars, the town from a high branch of a tree.
Fade out.
Fade out.
~"~
Fade in.
Stan looked awfully annoyed, if his standing with his arms crossed while glaring at me meant anything.
"Dude, you could have gotten me in some serious trouble," he hissed in a stage-whisper.
"What? I'm sure it was an accident… or something…" I was too busy searching to really listen. Okay, and I wasn't exactly sure what the hell he was talking about, I was high for fucks sake.
"You pounded on my backdoor like there was an apocalypse coming and threw rocks at my parents' bedroom window instead of mine," Stan stressed, muted voice piercing through the silence of his kitchen. I could just see him throwing his hands out in an exasperated, exaggerated gesture.
I stared into the shadowy confines of a low cabinet, wondering if he was just pissed that he had to not only get up but that his dad had woken up as well and therefore had to pull some ridiculous lie out of his ass.
"You're lucky my dad only has half a brain or he'd of realized what was going on, let alone that you're tripping balls, when we both came down to the door..."
Yeah, he was just pissed about that.
"Yeah," I nodded distractedly. I wasn't really paying attention, I mean, I would if I could. "So what can I take Stanny?"
Stan sighed because there was really nothing else he could do, because I moved on faster than he did. Always. Come to think of it, that was probably why I didn't opt to hang out with him alone. He always lingered in things, even those of the most minuscule, in his emotions, and in turn it would slow everyone around him down. I couldn't have any of that, not right now. It would fuck up my subconscious's plans, so it was good to stop him before he got into it too deep. Who knows what he'd start harping me on if otherwise.
He shuffled closer to my crouched position, and I could just feel the hesitation radiating off of him. There was a pause before he sat down on the floor with his back against the cabinets. "My dad doesn't touch the stuff towards the back. I don't think he'd notice if you took a little of each of 'em."
A little, he says.
I chuckled for some reason. Or maybe I outright laughed because Stan's hand came flying over to cover my mouth.
"Dude, seriously, what the fuck are you on?" He whispered with the most irritation I've heard in the past five minutes so far, but by looking at him, even in the dark, I could see the worry in his eyes. Stan couldn't hide shit even if he tried.
"I would tell you if I knew," I murmured airily in response when his hand slipped away, giving him a cheeky smirk. Not waiting around to see his disgruntled expression, I got back on my knees and reached into the cabinet for my awaiting treasure.
I suppose at some point during my fantastical journey here I decided that the good trip I was having would be ten times better if I was good and buzzed as well. At some point, I decided I didn't just was to touch the clouds, I wanted to drink them too. At some point, some small dark piece of reason or logic drifted by and I wanted to destroy all chances of that happening again tonight. I didn't want to care. I didn't want to remember.
It happens often, that's the only reason I know without even being really aware of it.
And even if that somehow crazily wasn't the case, I was thirsty as fuck anyway.
So I washed the rest of my lucid thoughts down with an awful cocktail of several liquors of the Marsh residence. Tasted like shit, Stan bitched and told me not to, but I did anyway. I was only ever dutifully following his request of taking "a little", so that's why I told him to calm the fuck down and have a drink. I think he was offended or something, because he gave me a dirty look as I tossed a bottle down into his grasp. Since even out of my right mind I'm a nice guy, or decent enough, and because he was giving me what I asked for, I sat back down on the floor, nasty cup of liquors in hand, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. I leaned on him and patted his chest with my free hand, feeling warm at last. Yet, feeling less all the same.
"You're a good friend Stan," I commented softly. "Thanks."
And so I sat there for I don't even know how long, chilling with a resigned Stanley, the warmth of the alcohol flowing through me like a comforting blanket to my nerves, to my veins. He took a sip of my concoction and pretty much choked and gagged on it. It was pretty funny, but the look on his face when I took a chug of tequila right out of the bottle was hilarious. After that, though, he became somber, giving me these sad eyes I wished I hadn't noticed. Eventually, he just said "Fuck it" and had himself a "little" drink too.
There you go Stan, now you're playing the game.
As hard as it was to be around Stan sometimes, he was still a good guy, a ridiculously good guy. He had a kind heart. He was caring. He has a nice family, who always meant well, well enough at least... Even with them being as fucked up as all the other people in this town, I'd always admired how his parents were able to stay together despite every crazy thing, despite how utterly ridiculous his father was, even fucking despite having wanted to separate for good before. I'd always kind of felt like he had it easy, but that he just made it hard on himself, that he wanted what he could never really have, more than he needed. He was a sensitive guy, but, still, I'd give anything to be in his position. I'd give anything to be in a lot of people's positions, actually. No one really knows how lucky they are.
Maybe once in a while my jealousy showed its big ugly head, but maybe it was just that ever present hate for myself.
At the bottom of that cup I must've found oblivion, because I was soon very much gone from all that had to do with Stan and his household.
Certainly the nothingness that followed meant I wasn't coming back.
I didn't get my hopes up though.
Fade out.
~"~
Fade in.
My foot caught in a sewer grate. There was laughter, bitter laughter, coming from me.
It was ironic after all.
Fade out.
Fade in.
Lights were so blurry, my eyes were swimming. Were my feet touching the ground?
Fade out.
Fade in.
I was swirling around, rotating slowly around the pole of a stop sign.
Dancing in a fake dream molded to this world.
Fade out.
Fade in.
I saw him, his black-smoked silhouette. His outline danced, catching in my periphery. I felt his presence for but a moment, reassuring and well-known, always promising sweet, merciful relief. And yet, the utter chill of his aura still froze me in place faster than any earthly temperature.
I might've said something. I might've yelled something incoherent. I might've just been seeing things. Because then he was gone, merely lingering tendrils of black bleeding into the night.
Death.
He was walking with me I'm sure.
Watching.
Always watching.
Fade out.
Fade out.
Fade.
~"~
Fade in.
Bedrooms are not swimming pools, but I seemed to be diving through the window of one anyway. The floor greeted my face accordingly, the slight pain managing to knock me back into myself a bit. A few questions were able to surface then, one of which being how the hell I managed to get here, and through a second-story window at that. That was an unnecessary one though. I've asked myself that very thing before, many times before tonight. At least that's how it felt…
I got to my slow-responsive feet, started stumbling around as I tried to determine where the fuck I was now. With the dim haze of what were now the first tiny rays of morning that the now partially opened window allowed, I recognized familiar things, familiar pictures on dark walls, a familiar desk and bookshelf on the left side of the room. Then I saw that green hat on the end bedpost and it hit me then where exactly I was. I turned, almost spinning comically on one foot in my daze, quickly to see the occupant of the bed, only to fall under jelly-like knees.
Somehow I caught myself as to not face-plant again, but my head still hit the corner of the chest at the foot of the bed. The corner was conveniently sharp too. I could feel the mark left in its wake swell and pulse. Regardless of minor injury, I staggered over to the bed compulsively.
And there laid Kyle sprawled out on his back on a mess of covers. One leg was under them, one was out. One hand was resting on his chest and the other was facing upward near his head. His face was tilted toward me, his mouth parted as he breathed deep, heavy breaths. How fucking precious.
Why was I here? I always forgot why I ended up at Kyle's.
I crawled in beside him, careful not to disturb him, and took it upon myself to simply bask in the immaculate, wonderful heat. It was so wondrous I could've orgasmed against poor, unknowing Kyle's lower back. He was, quite literally, hot compared to me, so I probably did moan. Hell, we could've created steam it was so deliciously warm in his bed. My hands and face were burning from wandering about in the cold night, and my body was stiff from the icy air freezing me through my thin clothing. I was nearly frostbitten, that much I knew. Oh, but I was melting now. My body itself was becoming part of the bleeding colors, part of the great abstract unknown and panorama of blackness.
In this little haven, numb and floating, it was impossible for my eyes not to close. Curled just right around pretty, hot-headed little sleeping Kyle, I drifted off. My head lightly nestled near his, his breathing was my lullaby, but it soon faded, drowning in the hum of silence. Then there was only black, only silence, only warmth. All I could ever want.
All I could never truly have.
~"~
For how long my bliss lasted, I do not know. It was short-lived though I'm sure, because when my eyelids peeled open this time the blaring golden rays of the sunrise greeted my unexpecting retinas. It's almost ridiculous how light can become an acute, painfully pounding hammer to your head.
Like Morse Code or some shit too, pounding out the message:
Welcome back to Immortal Hell.
I felt a shift in the bed, weight moving, adjusting, what had woken me most likely. Trying to peer over while still squinting did me no good, the increasingly bright glare of the sun shining right onto the bed from the window was too much to see. My eyes watered as my head fell back to the pillow. It was very early yet, I could tell already. Too early for this.
With the ounce of energy that my body hardly retained, I forced myself up. I rose like the dead, not from some kind of misery like an earthy grave, but from a healing, ungraspable paradise. There was no misery like waking from an escapade such as last night, though. The moment I was upright, the moment my back straightened, I crashed back down from cloud nine. I hunched forward with all the weight of the world back on me, and I felt it all. I felt the lack of sleep in my eyes, the throbbing in my head, the burning in my stomach, all those torturing worries I always tried to escape from.
I should learn that I can't escape anything.
Bitter regret.
"Again?"
My vision finally focuses with that dull greeting to see Kyle on my right, sitting up like he'd been waiting quite a bit, like he'd been watching me patiently. I kind of wish perhaps I didn't look over, because my sight clears only to see his disappointed face. It's so stern, his mouth is firm, almost a frown, and his eyebrows are quirked up in the center in that irked, disbelieving way. I'd be rather irritated to wake up and find my friend all smelly and hung-over from a night of running around high in my bed too.
I attempt to formulate something to say, and even lean slightly toward him to do so, but nothing comes out, any words at least. The contents of my stomach instead decide to greet Kyle.
I empty them all in one painful heave all over him.
"Oh, Kenny, that's disgusting…" Kyle groans mutedly, clenching his face as if holding back how utterly revolted he was that there was vomit running down his arm and chest and under his shirt. Though distracted by the burning of my esophagus and dry heaves caused by my achingly constricting stomach, I knew he was trying not to be too loud. May God have mercy if his mother stumbled upon such a scene. That and it was far too early for him as well to really react to being upchucked on, anyways.
I just hang my head in shame. That's all I should be doing after all, right?
I barely have myself contained when Kyle deftly crawls across his bed to my side.
"Come on," he urges calmly as he grabs my wrist and tugs me up to my feet. The room sways even after I'm firmly on the floor, and being pulled along doesn't stop the world from further tilting on its axis. I follow him anyway as he leads me into the hallway and into the bathroom nearby, wondering if I was still sleeping, thinking maybe this was a dream.
When he quietly closes the door he begins to carefully remove his long-sleeved night shirt without getting any more puke on himself. I can only stand there blankly. My thoughts were delayed, like a blur behind me trying to catch up in slow motion. There was nothing I could really do, I couldn't really react or respond. One part of me was on one level and the other on another.
"I was going to take a shower anyway," Kyle sighs as he pulls his legs out from his pajama bottoms. He glances up at me with a questioning look as he bends over to remove them.
My eyes wander and avert to the large mirror over the vanity, something catching my attention. I see someone in there, someone with a ratty old orange parka and torn black jeans. Someone with shaggy blond hair that's such a greasy mess it almost stands up on end as if begging to be washed. Someone with a face too scar-less and too devoid of emotion to be scar-less. Someone with eyes so blue and piercing, staring right back at me.
I don't find it hard to believe it's me.
In the reflection I see Kyle's gaze shift to it, the same look on his face as before. He straightens, and I see that we look nothing alike. I was this dirty, pathetic thing next to a perfectly healthy, glowing creature.
"You're bleeding," he states, noticing the thin trail of blood still drying to my forehead.
"I don't need it." The words slip from my mouth, fall out quietly with a shallow breath.
Kyle's expression sinks, sinks to a mix of remorse and sadness and perhaps even something else I can't quite name. He steps over to me with what seems to be newfound determination as he begins to unzip my parka. I watch silently, staring down at his focused features as casually undresses me, or helps me undress as it appears my brain can't work fast enough to make it happen on my own. I do what I can to assist, though, until my clothing is nothing but a crumpled filthy pile on the floor, a worthless, removed shell harboring all the smells and stains that make up me.
The room comes alive with the sound of falling water. Kyle's not shy to step into the shower with me once we're completely nude. I've known him all my life and he's known me all his, there was nothing that we hadn't really seen before. There was nothing he had that I didn't, for the most part at least.
It was fine. He was modest even to keep his line of sight professional, but I can't say the same. My eyes have always had a mind of their own, and, well, Kyle had a nice, shapely, lithe body. Distractions couldn't hurt too much right now, in any case.
I can't say I feel reassured anyway, though. As badly as my head and stomach ached and as terribly fogged as my head was, I know what's happening. I know what's going on here. It becomes clearer and clearer as I'm pulled towards the spraying hot water, as it trickles down my front and elicits goosebumps. In a way it almost stings, feeling as though it's a thousand needles hitting my dry skin. Yet, at the same time I feel as if I'm absorbing it, that my body, too taut, was being loosened. I was becoming solid again.
Kyle's bathroom is far nicer than mine. I remember his parents had gotten their bathroom redone about a year ago. Its robin's egg blue walls are calming and aren't marred by any holes or stains. The fixtures are shiny and new, and even before any soap has been touched it smells fresh, clean.
In comparison to mine, it's almost luxurious.
Kyle steps right under the large, detachable showerhead, and I can do nothing but watch again as the water deflates his fluffy mop of wavy auburn locks. It clings to his face, even after he runs his hands through. Like blood it darkens, shimmering with the constant stream of water. Whatever traces of vomit left on him, whatever stains I might've soiled him with, quickly rinse away from his body. Then in a blink he's looking at me again. I'm caught off guard by the depth in his eyes, by how the pale glow of morning coming through the window beside us casts upon him and everything around us. I don't know how I should feel about it.
I don't know if I should be thinking Kyle's beautiful.
He begins to quickly wash himself, putting a dab of soap in his hand and rubbing it across his chest where I'd blessed him with the foods I gorged on last night. I stay rooted in place as he then puts shampoo in his hair then in mine. The fragrance of it fills my nose, and it smells just like Kyle. It was the part of the same scent on his pillow, the one that was now burned into my memory. I gaze at his calm, concentrated face as his fingertips work wonderfully against my scalp, removing what was probably more than three days worth of grime, and it suddenly comes to me why I came to Kyle's.
Kyle always took care of me.
This is not the first time I've had a midnight adventure and took my rounds to my friends' houses after all.
What was I doing? They shouldn't have to help me. They didn't need to give me food, or a place to crash, or any kind of aid with my issues. I was burdening them, the closest friends I have, the few people that care about me. Yet I was still careless enough to do it all again last night. They cared. They worried, I knew. Still, my friends became a part of the process of trying to run from the painful truths of my life, a part of the habit. A part of the problem.
I couldn't escape anything, and I was dragging them down with me.
Waking up at Kyle's was probably the worst part then, because I think he worries the most. Maybe it's because when I saw them I was lucid, but, of the three, his looks have always stayed the longest in my head, were always filled with such a sort of deep concern, a certain gleam. I always felt a stab in my heart at the evident, undying care he had for me, because I knew he wanted to help. I knew he wanted to make my parents stop fighting and just magically rectify everything. It was in his nature to make right, but we both knew it just wasn't going to happen.
Yet, even so, he didn't yell at me, or try to fix me. He didn't say much of anything just like everyone else. Kyle just picked me up, he just helped me shower and sent me on my way in hopes that it wouldn't happen again.
Stan and Cartman were there for me, sure, but Kyle somehow attached himself to me. Somehow, I saw answers just in him. He wasn't just giving me what I wanted, he gave me what I really needed.
Kyle tried to the hardest, I knew. It was more than most had done for me, more than I asked for. More than I deserved…
I must be disappointing him.
And for what?
It's all because I'm weak, because I can't fix myself.
It's all because there is no silver lining for me.
As the soap was rinsed from me so was the dirt, so was all the lies I'd told myself. Everything was being washed away, and there was nothing but the naked truth.
The truth bore into me from Kyle's eyes, cut me wide open and let all my insides spill out.
All of my subconscious's plans swirling down the drain.
I'm so sick of this. I'm so damn tired of the same shit that I must endure day in and day out. There never seems to be a break for me, just when I think things might me looking up I'm literally torn apart by some unexpected occurrence. Even when I try to make the best of it, even when I believe that maybe someday things will be better, I end up doing more bad than good. I end up with my only friends giving me sad and disappointed looks.
What am I supposed to do?
"Hey, come on… Wake up already," Kyle chides, but his voice is much too soothing to be demanding, even as he begins to shake me. Much like his voice to my eardrums, his hands caress my chest and neck, pressing, making me have to straighten. "Wake up, Kenny," he jostles me a little harder, firmer this time, with a spark of desperation in his voice.
My head lifts barely only to see a hurt look on his face.
I don't know how much longer I can handle this, handle what I've been given to deal with, and it terrifies me. I'm scared of what may ultimately happen to me, of not being there for my sister who needs me, of becoming so lost I can't find myself again, of losing my sanity…
I'm sorry, Kyle.
I'm sorry I can't be stronger.
Please. Don't look at me like that.
Before I know I'm pulled against him, forced to slightly bend over to rest my head to his shoulder. I automatically nestle against his neck, leaning against his small frame, drawn into the warmth and comfort and safety he exuded. Everything was clouded, and I realize that maybe I've been crying, but I can't tell. I can't tell what's water and what are my tears, but it doesn't matter. Helplessness was melting away, because I had Kyle in my arms.
If I had only one thing to hold on to, one person, it'd be Kyle.
"Every time…" he murmured, almost fondly that I was in his arms too, "Every time."
Perhaps next time I leave my house in search of happiness, I'll just come straight to Kyle's.