Breathe Me
Chapter Two: Come On Fallen Star, I Refuse To Let You Die
By: Jondy Macmillan
A/N: I title things by whatever comes up on party shuffle in iTunes- not the most original way, I'll admit- and was deeply amused when the first chapter ended up being a song called 'Died a Jew'. Ahem, continuing onwards. Oh, and this chapter's really short. I'm sorry. I wanted it to be longer. The next one definitely will be. I feel like I'm letting everyone doooooooooooooown.
Kyle gave me jewelry. I mean, okay, its guy jewelry, but how gay can you get? He's looking at me all tentative and hopeful while my grubby fingertips are stroking the shiny metal of the bracelet type thing in the box. I'm not going to tell him I would've preferred a dock for my iPod; not when he's staring at me like that.
"Thanks, dude," I utter, trying to sound totally gleeful and full of holiday cheer. Do Jews do holiday cheer? Here's hoping. He seems fooled, anyway.
I know, it's Christmas. I should suck it up and be fucking grateful. But jewelry? Dude, really?
From another guy? I told you my friends were fags.
Shaking my head, I tuck the box into the front pocket of my parka before he can ask whether or not I'm going to wear it.
He's thinking it, I swear.
"So what are we going to do now?" Kyle asks, and maybe I was wrong and he could tell that his gift made me uncomfortable, because he's looking anywhere but me now. I almost miss having those killer green eyes trained on my face, because it's rare that I get that kind of avid attention. Unless it's from a cop trying to find something to arrest me for. Or form my little sister, trying to figure out whether passion pink or ruby red grapefruit lipstick better suits my skin tone.
"We're going to party," Stan cheers, and I consider once again that I should have let Kyle and Cartman dump him in the fucking Pond.
"No," I correct, shoving my hands deep in my jeans pockets, "You're going to party. I'm going to work."
"Kenneh," Cartman whines at me, his big fat lips letting little bits of spittle fly into my face. Eurgh.
"Yeah?" I ask, wiping the spit off my cheeks with my free hand. God. Now I'm probably infected with elephantitis or something.
I can't afford to get as big as Cartman. My family would never be able to feed me.
"Why don't you want to parteh?"
Sweet Jesus.
"What part of I have to work do you not understand?" I'm snarling just a little, like a feral dog. Shit. I always get like this when someone wants me to go have fun and I have no choice but to work.
Merry fucking Christmas.
"But Ken," Kyle interrupts softly, "It's Christmas."
Gee. Really? I'm this close to snapping at him. What the hell does Kosher Boy know about Christmas anyway? Stan gives me a warning look and that's all I need to remember to keep my mouth shut. It's not Kyle's fault that I have to work every day of the week just to stay fed.
"I know, but my boss needs me."
"Call in sick!" Cartman protests.
"Why would I do that?" I give him the most ludicrous look ever. The fatass has no concept of responsibility. It makes me kind of jealous.
I used to be the same way, until Kyle took me aside last year and told me to suck it up and make something of myself. Which is why the pitying glances he's giving me now are really annoying.
"Maybe you can get off early?" Stan inquires brightly. He's always trying to make the best of a bad situation.
"Maybe," I agree, even though I know my hick of a boss is spending the whole night at some get-wasted-and-screw party with his wife. I think they're the redneck version of swingers. That or they're just promiscuous whores.
"See Kyle? Kenny could still come to the party!"
Kyle is smiling again. Only Stan makes him smile like that. They're super best friends, after all.
I mean, how gay is it to think of somebody as your super best friend anyway? That's a title that just screams flaming.
"Where's the party?"
"At Red's. Her parents are out of town," the redheaded Jew tells me, gathering up his stuff. His fingers must be numb, because they keep slipping off the mangled wrapping paper of his present from Stan.
I don't even feel the cold, but that might be because most of my nerve endings are dead from the brisk walk over here. I've probably lost three toes to hypothermia already.
"A'ight," I kick at the frozen ground beneath me, hoping that it's too dark for them to really see my expression.
Sadly, the stars and the moon are out full force tonight, and considering the fact I can see every freckle on Stan's unnaturally tan nose, I'm pretty sure that they saw. Wisely, none of the fags say anything. Well, for a minute, until Cartman opens his mouth and blurts, "And make sure you take a shower so your po' stink doesn't drive all the hos away."
I grimace and shove him, hard.
"Shut the fuck up, lardass."
I have a grasp of basic hygiene. Just because I don't get to enact it every day doesn't mean I don't know that I should be taking showers, washing my face, flossing, and brushing my teeth.
Oh, and using soap after I pee.
At first, I didn't care that I couldn't do the same things as normal kids. Now I have my own convenience store-stolen stash of products. Mostly because I'd like to keep my teeth until I'm at least eighty.
I watch them leave. Stan and Kyle are huddling together for warmth, and Cartman's got all his rolls of fat to keep him toasty. They're headed off to Red's, where they'll drink eggnog and whiskey and fucking girlie holiday drinks that'll warm them in a different way.
And then maybe they'll meet a girl. Well, maybe Stan or Kyle will meet a girl. If they don't decide to get gay with each other.
That'll warm them even more.
Meanwhile, I'll be at the Stop-N-Pump, freezing my skinny ass off trying to help out some dumb college chick from Jersey who doesn't know how to pump her own gas, or some asshole who can't figure out how to insert his credit card with the magnetic strip facing downward.
It's alright, I think, kicking the tree stump once for good measure. It makes a much more satisfying thud than the ground did.
As I walk to work, bracing myself against the cold, I think that I didn't want to go to the party anyway. I like the liquor, but I don't really like the girls, and I'm not a fan of parties. All that noise.
Maybe they just ain't my thing. I dunno.
Aw, who the fuck am I fooling? I wanna go to the party.
I don't get to, of course. I wrap up work near two in the morning. When I call Stan, he mutters something drunk and unintelligible into the phone.
Party's over, I guess.
I end up getting home to find my living room pitch black and my mother on the couch, sobbing her eyes out.
"Ma, calm down," I tell her, watching her hyperventilate, "What's the matter?"
"O-oh, Kenny," she sobs, "The electricity went out again. I was jus'- jus' trying to tell yer sister a nice Christmas story before she went to sleep, and then the lights-"
She hiccupped, effectively stopping the story. I could figure out the rest.
"Ma, it's just lights. Why didn't you put the candles out?"
"I used 'em all at T-thanksgiving."
"Did you forget I made you a stash under the porch?" I say, trying to soothe her. I don't ask where dad is, and why he's not doing this. I already know the answer.
Oddly enough, I don't resent him for being at the bar when my mom's crying on the couch. He can't really help it. He loves her, but he doesn't know how to deal with her moods.
Plus he can't stand being away from the booze for too long, which I understand. I've been trying to quit smoking, and the only thing that's gotten me is jittery nerves and a constant foul demeanor.
"I did," she gasps, "K-Karen must hate me."
"I doubt that, Ma. She's probably fast asleep. It's two, y'know?"
"Two?" she gives me this look, so full of childlike wonder that I have a feeling she's been sneaking Oxycontin from the grocery pharmacy again. My mother likes her pain killers, when she can get 'em. She also likes washing them back with jugs of wine.
"Yeah, Ma."
I help her up and into her bedroom, where she gets naked in a flash.
Jesus. I so didn't need to see that.
My mom probably sounds like some druggie bitch addict, doesn't she? She's not. This is a once every couple of months kind of thing.
She just likes to have fun, and sometimes having fun means dosing herself up with strong painkillers when dad's not around to occupy her time.
Making my way into my room, I collapse on my bed. It's dark, but that doesn't bother me. I like the dark. It makes it easier to see the blazing stars outside my window. I really like stars.
Even though they're so far away, sometimes they fall down the earth, like they want to get closer to us too. We get a lot of shooting stars 'round these parts.
Maybe I'm just philosophizing about nothing.
I've just about fallen asleep when I hear the knocking on my window. I see a glimpse of green outside my window, belonging to that damn worn out old hat Kyle always wears. Sure enough, when I manage to drag my ass up and over, I see him there, balancing on some old moving crates and a trash can.
"What the hell're you doing, dude?" I hiss, opening the window. Don't want to wake mom or Karen, or God forbid, Kevin, up. They'll yell like nobody's business if I interrupt their sleep.
"Kenny!" Kyle practically squeals, apparently delighted by the fact that I'm standing here.
Oh yeah. He's trashed.
"Dude," I mutter. I reach over the side of my house, ignoring the peeling paint scraping up against my elbows as I lift him up and through my window. He helps, kinda. Thank God for that, because I'm not strong enough to lift mister center forward of the basketball team all on my lonesome.
"Kenny!"
"Yeah," I stare at him as he stumbles back onto my bed, making the whole house shake, "You said that already. How was the party?"
"The party was…" he starts cracking up, and I think he either drank way too much or someone slipped him somethin'.
"You weren't at the party!" he suddenly accuses, sitting straight up.
"Uh, no. I had to work. I told you."
"But Stan said you would come!"
"Stan said I would try to come," I correct, almost amused that I'm having a conversation on semantics with the smartest boy in school.
He's looking at me in much the same way my mom did before, "So Stan didn't lie?"
"Um. No. Stan didn't lie," I say, shoving a hand through my hair. I really want him to move so I can get back down on my bed.
"Oh. Good," and then he's dozing away, full out snoring so loud my window frame's shaking. Apparently, I've got the couch tonight.
Well, shit.
A/N: Not a very good chapter, but you know, I felt bad updating everything else and not giving Kenny a chance to talk too. Hehe, I have a story from Kyle's POV, one from Kenny's, and now one from Stan's too. No, I won't make one from Cartman's. Review!
