Greetings! 'Nother chapter uploaded (if you didn't notice). For the squeamish, there is mentioning(s) of BLOOD-be forewarned.
And I love you guys. Thank you for following~ and thank you for comments~ (I try to reply to them all!)
Chapter 7: Bouncing Bleeding Asshat
So, they were planning to settle things tonight, huh? I couldn't manage to get it out of my head. Settle things tonight. I widened my hands, feeling the sloppy, wet clay spin through my fingers. I was the only one in the little nook for pottery working, while the rest of the class had already moved on to charcoal drawings. (I had to ask a special favor of Ms. Ophelia-fern but she didn't mind.)
I was working on a vase, slowly coaxing the clay into a taller and narrower opening. It actually takes a lot of muscle and concentration to mold something worthwhile on the wheel. The problem was, today, I couldn't concentrate. I keep thinking if only things were the same as always. We'd all just be friends.
"Shit." I grimaced at the mangled neck of the vase spinning in my clutches. My actions probably gave away more than I allowed my thoughts to. I wasn't mad or anything. Just tense.
I hovered both palms over the lumpy, revolving sculpture before quickly squashing it into a shapeless nothing. I didn't want to make a vase anyway. Who uses vases? The clay made wet noises as I kneaded my fingers into its cold depths. I was basically out to make a mess at this point. I pumped the pedal a few times, watching clay splatter around me before I used a grey finger to flip the off switch on the side of the device. The humming died and the revolving slowed to a stop. I continued to dig my fingers in the muddy substance, creating divots where excess water started to collect. I wasn't going to be making anything today, I decided. I grabbed the plastic bag I had trapped under my foot, scooping up the clay and tossing it back in. I managed to scrape most of it inside and twisted the bag shut so there would be less air to dry everything out. The next step would probably be to clean up my station. I didn't really feel like cleaning at the moment however.
I absently picked at the grey clay that caked to my hands. I didn't feel like thinking too much. I scratched my nubby thumb-nail at the creases in my palm, watching the dust crumble onto my lap. It was pretty much a ludicrous cycle. When I scratched the dust away, I would get dirt under my nails and then I had to spend time picking the dirt out from under my nails, then I would scratch at more dust and under my nails would get dirty again. There were also a few places still moist, like the clay between my fingers remained sticky and wet. I pushed a thumb through each digit, grooming carefully. What am I going to do with myself? Sitting alone, pining away like some a constitutionally weak middle-school girl. Fucking embarrassing.
"Here you are..."
I looked over at Butters who was peeking around the corner from the main work area. I shrugged. "Here I am."
Butters entered, holding a plastic shopping bag knotted tightly at the top. "I have your things like you asked for." He held it out and when I didn't reach for it, he awkwardly laid it at my feet.
"Butters, are you busy?"
"Well, I'm working on my project like I'm suh-posed to be doing..."
"But, other than that, you're not busy? We should hang out."
Butters' eyebrows were glued together in a mixture of what looked like pain and pity. "I'm doing my class work right now, Ken."
I tried to reach for him but he was too far away. "Aw, come on, Butter-ball. I'm so lonely back here, and you'll have no problem trying to catch up on your work. Please?"
"Ken..."
"Please, Butters? I'm begging you right now, so don't you think this means a lot to me? I have a lot on my mind, and I just don't want to be left alone to my thoughts."
Butters empathy was starting to kick in as he made fidgety movements, looking back and forth between the main work area and poor ol' me. I could really use some company. I couldn't let him walk away. I stood, jumping over and catching a fistful of his shirt. I purposefully ground my hand into the fabric, pulling him in and simultaneously using him as a towel. Butters gasped, and I pulled away to see the damage. There was a large glob just left of center and in accompaniment were streaks of grey everywhere else.
"Oh no—I didn't mean to ruin your shirt," I lied.
Butters held his arms out like a defeated scarecrow, hunched so that the dampness did not stick to him. "Aw, Ken... Seriously?" I wasn't sure whether he was questioning the seriousness of my actions or the seriousness of my lie, but either way he didn't get an answer.
"I should really help you clean that up—you don't want to go home to your parents like that." I advanced toward the bottom of his shirt, with the intention to remove it.
Butters pushed my hands out-of-the-way, flustered. "No need to do that, Ken. I'll do it on my own—"
"No, no, no," I chided gently as I tried to explain my actions. "I am the one responsible, so I am the one who has to fix it."
I captured Butters who tried to push away. I was able to peel his shirt over his head before he could do much, and his arms were left incapable of resistance until the garment was fully shed. I wasn't trying to be indecent or anything. I took the shirt, and tossed it in the huge metal sink with the swan-neck faucet. There wasn't any plug, so I rolled up an old dish-rag and stuffed it in the drain, turning the hot water on. I glanced over at my captured company. Butters held his arms crossed loosely across his stomach. His face pouted toward the sink, watching the water rise and soak through his shirt.
"Well, you better sit down and wait—what's done is done already—and is is really such a chore to keep me company? Am I that much of a loser in your eyes?"
Butters pout faded. "No...you're not a loser?"
"Well, I feel like one. You're the only thing left to make me feel better without having to resort to more malefic means." I plunged my hands into the water. It was scorching, but I bared through the pain. What's done is done. I grabbed the shirt and lifted it into view. Steam came off it, and my hands were already red and swelling. I wrung it out once, but then lost touch and it slapped back into the sink—the weight of the water dragging it down. I turned the faucet off.
"Ken?"
"As much as I'd like to talk about it—I think it's above your head." I turned around, leaning by back into the basin. It was hot.
Butters frowned. "What do you mean by that?" It was such a serious frown. Nothing like his normal pouts. A definite crease between his brows and his lips pressed unto a perfectly thin, downward curve. Yes, there was that, but especially in his eyes. His eyes smoldered with offense.
"Not...not really anything." It is such an oddity to see Butters act his age. I mean, he sometimes does with the way he has his comebacks and all—but he's usually still kinda naïve. Or, I guess, that's how I still picture him. Butters is beautiful when he's angry.
"Ken, I want you to sit down."
What? No.
"Ken. Sit down." His body wasn't very intimidating, however his tone suggested something dangerous. I sat down at the pottery wheel, facing him with interest. Butters continued to look at me for a moment before walking over to the sink and turning the faucet on full-blast. He reached over and overturned a bucket of sponges, sticking it under the water. I watched the faint shadow of the water creeping up inside the bucket. Two-thirds of the way, Butters shut the water off. He pulled the bucket out, heavy with water, and brought it over to me. I already knew what he was intending. I lifted my hands, dipping them in the cold water. Relief burns like a sonofa...
Butters leaned against the sink, arms crosses higher across his chest. "Ken, what're you doing?"
I stared at my hands, flexing them open and closed.
"Ken. You know, you're a real...a real...asshat."
I looked up, eyebrows raised. "Huh?"
"You think you know everything... but you really don't know anything."
I wiggled my fingers.
"You just...you just assume that I think you're a loser. You just assume that...that I wont understand. You assuming all that...that's what makes you an...an asshat."
Well, crap. When Butters is calling you an asshat, you know you've done something wrong. Butters scowled, sticking his hand into the water. He withdrew it quickly, dragging up his sopping t-shirt. He wrung it once and dropped his hands to his sides. Water pooled at his feet.
"And...what am I supposed ta wear for the rest of the day?"
"I dunno..."
"You don't know?"
"I said I don't know—you just told me I don't know anything."
"Bull... I say bull-oney. You know what I meant and now...now you're just throwing a fit that I said it." Butters tossed the wet shirt at my head—something I couldn't avoid with my hands soaking. It wrapped around my forehead, probably like some sort of turban. Warm water dripped down the back of my neck. I didn't respond though. I just let my fingers enjoy their swim.
"Now. Now I want you to just tell me what's botherin you so bad, Ken. What's making you act all sorts of stupid and being less smart than you normally are? You tell me so and I'll forgive you for what you did to my shirt, okay?"
Oh, God. I avoided eye contact. Oh, God. I can't believe this. What is happening here? I panicked, analyzing all my brain context. Was I...feeling sorry for myself? Oh, the idea of it! The wretched idea of self pity...it's gag-worthy. I never pity myself. Never ever. My life has sucked, continues to suck, and will suck forevermore—and I take it all in stride with an attitude I can proudly call I-don't-give-a-fuck. What has happened to me?
Butters was still staring at me. I could sense it. The damn guy wouldn't give me a break—and why did he have to go and put on his big-boy attitude right now? Makes me feel even more shitty. Even Butters is more—
No. No, I have to stop thinking this way. "I'm sorry, alright Butter-ball? I mean it. You're right about me being an asshat, and I don't like it but it's true."
Sometimes it is best just to admit when you're wrong. Makes it easier to get over things. That's a life lesson right there. Along with accepting who I am (a filthy, mudblood with crooked morals), I've gotta accept that sometimes I'm wrong (wrong as a naked grandma(which IS wrong)). Which is weird. People tell me I'm wrong a lot of the time but I don't often listen. Then again, I usually try to keep my cool around others.
I clenched my hands, starting to fully realize the burning sensation boring under my skin. I've never really been one for self-mutilation... I think it's stupid. But I've gone and done it anyway.
Butters gave a weak smile, turning around and wringing out his shirt again. Oh Lord, I'm such an asshole. What was he going to wear going home?
"Butters..." I set down the bucket now and slipped off the green sack Stan had given me to wear. "You just take this until next hour. Then you can wear your gym clothes home, right?"
Butters awkwardly handled the offer, still trying to hold his wet shirt while anchoring himself on the lip of the sink, trying to get an arm in. The spectacle was too much. I stood to give him a hand with the first arm until he knew what he was doing. Butters zipped it up to his chin and looked at me with still a faint trace of seriousness.
"You think you...you think you are honest with yourself. But I don't...think you really are. I think you're actually just really good at convincing yourself you're honest." He ran a hand through his hair, some of it slicking back with the water. "Kinda like...well, kinda like Eric."
I have to give Butters props. He walked out with those as his final words to me, and I was left dumbstruck by his genius. Butters has always been my standard of minimum intelligence, but he's not stupid. And if he ever was stupid, he isn't anymore. Temptation to think oh boy, even Butters is smarter than me now panged in in the back of my brain in the part behind the right ear. I mentally shut myself up. Butters is a smart guy. It's just kinda hard to think of him that way.
But, Cartman? Could I be? I still didn't really want to think about it. Teenage hormones are the devil. I spent the rest of class filling the whiteboard near me with rows and rows of penis'. I didn't count, but there had to have been well over sixty.
Today, Mr. Ned is absent, so Mr. Bown was put in as a sub. He has the same inclination toward exercise as an obese man with fifty-plus years of chain-smoking under his twice-extended belt (Which is, in fact, what he is exactly). So, he told us all just to play with the basketballs for the hour. Just "play with them." Not, "Play basketball." So, there wasn't really any point in working up a sweat. Most kids just stand in circles, dribbling and talking. Some don't even go out-of-the-way to dribble, and they just talk. I grabbed a ball of one of the racks, dribbling my way over to Kyle. Part of me questioned whether or not it was a good idea (Probably because Kyle had attempted murder toward me. I say probably, because whenever I think so, a part of my calls bullshit. Still can't figure out why) but I dribbled forward nonetheless. Kyle was taking his playtime a bit more seriously than I was. He was making rounds, shooting from each point line and repeating. It was mighty impressive. He didn't even notice me. I could see him glance toward the door every few moments though. Looking for Stan. Who else?
And during one of those glances, he finally noticed the little section of the gym he'd reserved for himself was occupied by none other than me. He slowed down, turning toward me before snapping his arm out and shooting another perfect basket. I watched the ball bounce crooked-ways toward the wall until it make contact and rolled further away.
"Hey, whassup?"
I kinda hated his cheerfulness.
"Not much. I drew a ton of dicks today. Probably filled my quota for a month or two."
Kyle smirked childishly. "That's great man, a really good use of your time."
I bounce-passed the ball over to Kyle who caught it without a second thought.
"Hey, no judging, alright? I've seen the back cover of your chemistry book. Dick Central."
Kyle bounce-passed the ball right back.
"Excuse me, but you're the one who drew 'Dick Central' there."
Bounce-pass.
"You let me. You even suggested the fountain—the best part of the whole piece you know."
Bounce-pass.
"Well, whatever. It's not like I was the one who drew it though."
Bounce-pass.
"You spent the whole hour watching me draw it."
Bounce-pass.
"You were drawing in my notebook—how was I supposed to take notes?"
Pass.
"You could've told me to back off."
Pass.
"Would you have listened?"
Pass.
"Well, not if you didn't ask."
Pass.
"Oh really."
Pass.
"Yes, really."
Pass.
Pass.
Pass.
The ball was no longer touching the floor and we passed chest-to-chest. Conversation puttered into nothing and the only thing exchanged was the single ball. I wouldn't look him in the face though. I allowed myself that solstice, because just being near him was stirring up complicated things. Similar to what I'd experienced in art. Crap time for it to pop up, and I knew looking at Kyle's cheery-face wasn't going to improve anything. That was just it though. I was only bothered because he was happy and I wasn't.
"Hey, guys!"
The voice crashed like thunder or maybe it was just me. It was like it echoed through my brain before finally registering—and in registering it viciously prodded at that bit of everyone's brain that makes you want to defeat the world in one blow. I resisted. But then, I was distracted and forgot I was currently unhappy with happiness.
I looked up as I caught Kyle's final pass to me. He was staring past my shoulder, at his voice. His eyes were widened, glittering with more life than the Fountain of Youth. He was so damn happy. I was pissed off. Maybe at him, maybe at the voice, and, for sure, at myself. My arms snapped out, no longer wished to share in the ball being passed between us. I knew automatically that I had snapped too hard.
Everything sort of happened fast. Nothing slo-mo like in the movies. Kyle was staring, fawn-eyed at the voice and the ball collided square in the middle of his face. His head whipped back, the ball dropped directly at his sneakers. Kyle rose his head to look at me bewildered. I was probably looking bewildered right back.
Blood. Like, a lot of it. The bottom of Kyle's face was dyed completely.
"My nose..." He raised his hand up, ending up smearing a huge glob across his palm and forearm as he tried to wipe it all away. Well, that didn't work. Where did all that blood come from? There was bruising too. Just perfect.
Well, paralysis struck me at that moment so Stan came running up instead.
"Oh my God, Kyle! Your nose!"
No duh.
Stan fluttered around uselessly, asking if Kyle was okay. Kyle slightly nodded, trying to be considerate and not worry him. Everybody had noticed by now and there was a crowd gathering. I sort of blended into the spectators, letting those two keep the stage. This was exactly the gruesome spectacle that all humans are interested in. Mr. Bown pushed though, panicked that this would probably be another strike against him in the same day.
"Everyone, back off!" he growled, pushing through.
The crowd parted and Mr. Bown moved to look over Kyle's situation. Kyle bled.
"Does anyone have some tissues?"
"I do!" shrieked some girl, thrusting a handful she'd probably dug out of her purse.
Mr. Bown took them, looked closely at Kyle again who looked like he didn't know what to do with his hands. "How are ya feelin', Boy?"
"Not my best."
Mr. Bown gave him the tissues, and Kyle held them to the bottom of his nose to catch the dripping life-force.
"Okay, class is over early. I'm gonna bring Mr..." He struggled through the bog of his mind, searching for the correct surname. "Bravola to the hospital."
Wow, that was his first guess?
Mr. Bown commanded a path again and he and Kyle made way outside followed by a weird procession. Only Stan was left behind, which was kind of surprising since I thought that he was who would probably care the most, right? But Stan stood by, watching them leave until we were completely alone.
I looked at him. He still stared at the door, expression soft and malleable like I could just squish it into any shape I wished. He wasn't twisted in worry now. Well, there was a small crease. So small, just between his eyebrows.
"Kenny?"
I blinked. I'd been string right at him, but I hadn't seen his mouth move.
Stan turned, meeting my eyes with his. Then something suddenly seemed to snap. I could hear his breathing and it rapidly turned frantic, as he still stared at me like he had something to say. It went on, becoming raspy and then becoming dry retches. Oh my God.
"Is there something wrong?" I asked, become more concerned now that it hadn't passed. Stan didn't have asthma, right? Or a fear of blood?
Stan half-way collapsed, holding my shoulder for support. I curled to look at his face. It was like he was having a panic attack.
"Stan? Are you okay?"
Stan nodded between two separate gagging noises.
"What's wrong? You afraid of blood or something? Kyle's gonna be okay you know..."
Stan shook his head, the gagging turning into heavy breathing again. What was he saying 'no' to? The blood thing or the Kyle thing? I was desperate for this to go away. I lowered Stan to the gym floor, defiantly not some medical professional, but I didn't want him to faint and crack his head open.
We sat down together and I began to wonder why he even had made me angry. Stan isn't a bad guy. I'm just...being stupid is all. Stan was bracing the ground, bangs flipping back-and-fourth in his panting.
"Stan...what's wrong?"
Stan looked up. He was cringing, and he brought a pale fist up to his chest as I could visibly see him swallow.
"I..."
I waited patiently. I mean...I didn't really know what else to say.
Stan swallowed again. "I...I was so...grateful that Kyle had to go to the hospital..."
What?
"I don't...know what to do, Kenny..." He shook his head violently. "I don't know what I should do. I invited him to stay the night...but I wouldn't know what to do..."
Oh. So it was about that.
"You afraid to be gay or something?" It was the same for them all, but I didn't think Stan would be so bothered by it.
Stan shook his head.
"Oh, so it wasn't that?"
Stan shook his head, "No. It's not that. It's...that...Kyle..."
"Hm?"
"It's that I don't like him. I don't know how to...tell him. I don't know how to tell him that I won't like him ever."
What? Pity clawed at my heartstrings followed by a weird numbing relief.
"How do you know that?"
Stan sat back up, head between his knees. "I've thought about it a lot. I mean, there was a time where I thought...maybe...but not anymore. I can't...I can't reject him! What was I going to do tonight? What if he expected something from me? No—I know he expected something. A return of affection..."
Stan nuzzling into his knees, voice muffled. "I know I have to tell him sometime...but he told me that he loved me, you know? Love? I don't know how to face him...I'm scared."
I looked at Stan, hunched over in his pathetic show of anxieties. I hated him. I hated him so much right now. He led Kyle on. Kyle expected happiness. Kyle is probably worrying that he wont be able to see Stan tonight. And Stan is whining about how he couldn't push him away. It was definitely a righteous hatred.
"You should have told him as soon as he told you, you pussy." Now he's going to hurt so much more.
I left Stan to sit alone.
Stan is not really the bad guy-Kenny is just too quick to judge :(
