Chapter II

Nine-thirty at night. That was when I was expected to be home. The windows in my mother's house were all dark except for one - the living room stayed partially lit. I scrutinized the front door in front of me - the elaborate designs carved into the wood, the burgundy paint chipping and peeling around the doorknob. Anyone who passed our house and saw this innocent door would never know exactly what it hid behind it. Maybe it was a good thing that they didn't. Why should they know and share the tension that abounded behind these walls?

I took my time as I withdrew the house key from my pocket. Here we go, I thought as I pressed the jagged piece of metal into the lock and turned it. Just remember your mantra, Butters. You'll be okay if you think you will.

I pushed the door open slowly. My mother was sitting calmly on the couch, her head ducked slightly forward, facing the muted television with a blank expression -- seeing, but not watching. The dark circles under her eyes were a sign that she hadn't slept well. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a loose, frazzled ponytail, and she wore a plain navy-blue T-shirt and sweatpants. A pair of knitting needles lay on the cushion next to her with a few rows of kelly-green yarn attached, and a coffee pot and mug stood on the end-table. Though no words had yet been exchanged, I could practically see the apprehension hanging in the air, stretching from wall to wall like cobwebs, waiting to be broken.

"Hi, Mom," I started, and my voice broke in the fragile atmosphere. She looked up at me; her expression didn't change. I moved over to the couch and sat down next to her.

"Hi, Butters. How was the party?" She pronounced the words like a tired robot; lethargically, deliberately, and without emotion.

"It was good. Stan got a lot of good stuff, like a new bass guitar. I wish I had one of those." I actually didn't really want one that badly; it was merely an attempt to try to break the ice.

"Wow, that's good for Stan," she responded artificially. "So you had fun?"

I smiled. "Yeah. We were all acting kinda silly, though. These girls put my hair up in pigtails and took a picture of it. I'll show it to ya sometime. It's pretty funny."

"That's nice." My mother picked up her knitting needles abruptly and started rapidly working on another row. It was clear that she was in another one of her moods and wanted to be left alone. But she looked so unhappy that I couldn't help slipping in one last comment.

"Ya know.. you really shouldn't let Dad get to you so much. It's bad for you."

She stopped and looked at me again, but this time her eyes contained a spark of anger. "Don't talk about him to me," she said sharply.

I was taken aback for a second, but recovered quickly. This sort of explosive behaviour had become typical of her. "All I'm saying is that maybe you should focus on something else for a change. Think about something good, ya know?" I smiled at her, hoping that she would exhibit at least a little bit of a positive reaction.

But no -- she seemed to be determined to stay upset. "I'll think about what I want to think about. Now go upstairs to your room and watch TV or something." She continued to knit even faster.

I gave her an imploring look. "Mom, please.. just listen to me. You're always brooding about Dad. You hardly ever go out with your friends anymore. I know he hurt you a lot, and it's hard for me, too. But you've gotta be able to move on and be happy."

Now my mother threw her knitting needles onto the floor, stood up, and glowered at me. "Don't try to preach to me, young man!" she snapped.

Well, of course she'd react like that. Shaking off the instinctive feelings of guilt and fear, I straightened up and looked her in the eyes. "I was just trying to help you," I told her firmly. "Why do you have to act like this?"

She would not be budged. "You're not helping a damn thing. I wanted to be left alone, and I get this kind of crap from you? Well, you know what? I don't need your insolence." The fire in her gaze intensified as her eyes narrowed. "You know, whenever I look at you, I see your worthless, cheating, bastard father. It makes me sick, you know that?"

I put a hand to my face. "Well, I kinda can't help what I look like."

She didn't respond to me. Instead, the next words that came out of her mouth were the exact ones I had hoped she wouldn't say.

"You're going to your father's tonight. I'm taking you there right now. I need some peace and quiet."

I was outraged. "What!? But Mom--"

"Don't argue with me, you little brat!" she barked, giving me a good backhand across the cheek. "Now go outside and get in the car."

So THAT'S how she was going to start dealing with things now. Just shove the kid off on his dad; yes, because that was going to help matters. Why was it that both my parents chose to escape from their own emotional problems instead of facing them and taking the appropriate action to get past them? No matter where I was, I was still her kid, whether she liked it or not. She was supposed to be my mother, the one family member who loved and cared about me more than any other, and here she was, shrugging me off.

Before she could yell anything else at me, I hurried out the front door. The old, banged-up Toyota was sitting in the driveway, and I opened the door and climbed into the back seat. Inside, I slammed my fist into the back of the seat in front of me. I wished I had asked other people if I could stay over at one of their houses. Kyle's, Kenny's, or Tweek's might have been nice. Even Cartman's house was beginning to look like a better place to stay than my father's - at least his mom acted like a mom and not like a mental patient. Why did I have to get stuck with the most unstable parents in the world?

Chapter II (continued)

Slam. The door shut loudly -- so loudly I could hear it with the windows rolled up -- and suddenly my mother was tearing her way across the yard to the car. Her brow was furrowed and her lips were pursed rigidly -- a look that always made me cringe. She opened the driver's seat door, got inside, and started the engine, obviously restraining herself from doing anything too violently.

"How long do I have to stay at Dad's?" I asked her.

She wouldn't even look at me. "We'll see, Butters," she murmured.

We'll see. I hated that answer, because it usually meant the unfavourable outcome. This time, it probably meant I'd be staying at my dad's for at least three or four days, possibly a week. I sat back in my seat and said no more -- it was best not to provoke her any further. The five-minute drive seemed like a half-hour as I stared out the window at the passing yards and streets, averting my line of vision from any possible evil-eye she might direct at me.

The intensity in the air was too much. As we turned on the street where my father lived, I already had my hand on the door-handle. Though the car was still moving a bit when we approached the house, I opened the door and jumped out anyway, and I stumbled and fell down onto my father's front lawn. My mother didn't seem to care -- she merely turned the car around in the driveway and proceeded back the way she came. The sound of the motor made a decrescendo back into the subtle stirrings of the night, and I knew that I was safe.

The scent of dead leaves and grass filled my nose and the slight chill of the breeze grazed my arms and cheeks. I lay there for a minute and let myself relax, absorbing the essence of the cool October night. The ground was still damp due to the earlier rainfall, but I didn't mind. I shifted my right arm a little and rested my head on it. I knew I couldn't stay out here forever. Anyone who passed by and saw a random kid sprawled out in somebody's front yard would undoubtedly do a double-take; I probably looked so awkward. Besides, my dad would eventually notice, and he'd find some reason to yell at me for it.

Hoisting myself up off the ground, I gazed across the street at Kyle's house. Nobody was watching me at the moment. Maybe I could make a run for it and somehow convince Kyle and his parents to let me stay the night. I was sure they wouldn't object. Kyle and I had started to become better friends recently, and I'd spent the night there a couple times before. Rubbing at a small patch of mud on my pant leg, I glanced at the street both ways and got into a running stance..

But before I could take a step, I heard the creak of the storm door behind me -- and a familiar voice that made my heart plunge. "Butters? What are you doing out there?" came the words in a slightly slurred voice.

CRAP, I thought furiously. It was just like me to have the absolute worst timing ever. I looked back over my shoulder, and there was my father, standing with his right arm up against the wall inside the house as if he was steadying himself. A glass bottle was in his left hand, half-filled with a clear liquid. Stupid booze, I scoffed inwardly. Dammit, Dad, why do you have to be such a drunk?

It appeared that I had no choice -- I had to go inside, or I'd get my ass kicked. I dragged my steps as I went, taking as much time as I could to get up to the house. The man waited in the doorway with a slight smile on his face, a smile in which I detected no sincerity. "Hi, Butters, how's it going? Coming over for the week early?" he asked me, extending his hand for me to shake.

Reluctantly, I returned the gesture. "I'm doing okay." I brushed past him and made my way to my bedroom. The best thing I could do when my dad was intoxicated, I reasoned, was to minimize all greetings and get away quickly. He didn't seem so bad now, but that would get worse very quickly. Usually, he wouldn't bother me as long as I stayed out of his sight.

This time, however, he didn't just ignore me. "Wait, where are you going?" he inquired from the end of the hallway.

"I'm going to my room. I don't feel good," I responded over my shoulder, still walking.

My father followed me across the hall. "Hmm, that's too bad," he said. "Why's that?"

"I just.. don't. I need to lie down."

He shrugged, took another sip of his drink, and went back to the den; I entered my room and immediately collapsed onto my bed. I hadn't realized how exhausted I was until now. The quilt I was lying on was warm and soft, and I pulled it around me and rested my head on my pillow. Maybe it wouldn't hurt if I closed my eyes for just a minute..