A/N: I won't lie, it feels weird having Ken being all mopey. I usually make him so goofy and fun-loving. It's been a weird experience but I'm enjoying it and I hope you are too ;u;
Enjoy~
January 29th
As I wake up to a muted sunrise shimmering into my room, I can't help but take a contented breath. My dreams have been the same since I struck my deal with Damien: Full of feathers, dust, and the occasional appearance from Kyle. It's been a welcome reprieve from my dreams being filled to the brim with blood and muddled fear, that's for sure. I sit up and stretch a bit, glancing at my calendar. A Sunday, which means I'll need to find something to do to earn my barb of the day. That's fine by me, Kyle is my easy target anymore. Showing up and surprising him at his house now and again the last few months has been the easiest way for me to get my deed done. Plus I always walk out of there with a full stomach and the heat from Kyle's shower still radiating off me, so it works out for everyone.
I hop out of bed and start pulling on clothes, letting my mind wander as to what my day will be full of. I could study for that history test...but then again Kyle sits next to me in the damn class and I usually just cheat off of his paper. No use in trying too hard for something that doesn't require any effort. I manage to slip on a t-shirt before my ears perk to an all-too-familiar sound: My mom crying.
I nearly ignore it and try to go about my day before I notice something odd: It's not the same as usual. There's desperation lingering in it that I haven't heard before. My entire chest clutches in worry and I rush out of my bedroom, speeding down the hallway and following the increasing decibels of her tears, winding up in the kitchen. I nearly fall over as my socks slip on something, looking down and feeling my stomach lurch in nausea at a clear puddle of blood. I look over past the table, seeing Mom curled up against the cabinets huddled into herself and sobbing.
"Oh, Jesus, Ma," I say worriedly, hurrying over beside her. I kneel down next to her and she looks up at me, her eyes completely bloodshot.
"K-Kenny..." she sniffles. "Go to...g-go to your..." she trails off, her voice ending in a broken crack.
"I ain't goin' to my room," I say firmly. I'm not dealing with this. Not now. That's always been her way to keep us kids out of Dad's line of fire: sending us to the other end of the house trying to take the brunt for herself. I can't stand seeing herself do this over and over again, and I'm not going to run off and hide in my closet like little six year old me did all the time. Not when she's messed up like she is now. "C'mon," I say gently, grasping her arms and pulling them off her face. I feel absolutely nothing but rage. A clear black eye is starting under her brow, her lip is gashing something fierce, there's a large bruise just beginning to tinge on her cheekbone.
I'm going to kill that fucker I swear to God.
I manage to beat down my anger and focus on her, pulling her up onto her feet and leading her to our table. I kick a chair out and set her down in it. "Wait here," I say, hurrying off back to my room. I take an angry breath, ripping open my closet and reaching around my top shelf until I hit a cloth bag and snag it down. I had bought a first aid kit months ago when Kevin came home from a goddamn bar brawl torn up something nasty. I guess for a family in our circumstance, it really should have been a no-brainer to have a surplus lying around.
I scurry back to the kitchen, finding Mom staring down at the floor, her shoulders heaving in sobs. I lick over my lips and sigh, walking over to the sink, wetting a washcloth and letting the water cascading down overshadow her cries for a moment. I need this moment. My mom is by no means a saint. She's a pill-popping, alcohol-drowning mess that no one would want to admit they're related to...But she's the only parental figure I really have that's actually linked to me via blood. Stan, Kyle, and even Cartman's moms can fill the void from time to time, but coming home to hear my mom just say hello to me now and again was a nice treat that I often tried to indulge in. She's no model citizen, but she stepped in-between my father and us kids way too much for me to just pretend she's as much of a shit bag as he is.
I finally turn off the water, wringing the rag and cringing at her continued sniffles. I walk over to her chair and kneel down in front of her, tossing the kit at my feet beside me. I try to find words, unable to as I watch the woman who gave life to me breaking into tiny pieces. Reaching up with my rag, I gently wipe it across her busted lip, trying to clean up what I can. As I work, look over her body and sigh, finding a large gash in her leg. I'm guessing that's where the puddle came from.
I look up as she pushes the rag from her face and stares down at me sadly. "Kenny, you ain't gotta-"
"Yes, I do," I cut her off, taking the rag and gently rubbing it over her leg. "Ma, what happened?" I ask softly. I know it was Dad, but I should at least have the reason he did this before I start stabbing him.
"H-he left," she whispers, hiding her eyes in her hands. I look up, my face dropping as I realize how her fingernails are all jagged and broken from fighting off my dad, how she has gray speckles lying within her hair. I wonder if it was always like that. I wonder if she and my dad ever really loved each other...It's terrifying in a way, to imagine that they did. Turning on the person you love in such a horrible way just seems like the worst possible scenario on Earth. The back part of my mind can't help but wonder if it was all a pregnancy thing, but I shake off my wonderings. Other matters are a little too pertinent to want to know where my parents fell into each other right now.
"Whaddya mean left?" I blink. It's way too early for the bars to be open.
She sniffles and I pull down the washrag, opening my kit and glancing up at her every so often as I gather materials. She's looking up at the ceiling, her mouth fumbling a bit like a guppy waiting for the hook. "He...packed a bag...took his clothes..." she trails off again.
I freeze, looking at her with wide eyes. Is she serious? Is he really gone? "A-are you...are ya sure he..." I can't find the words. I'm so overrun with conflicting emotions right now. Pure and utter joy that he could possibly be out of my life forever. Rage at the condition he left Mom in. And most of all, just pure bafflement. He never threatened to leave, that was Mom's schtick. And he certainly never packed a bag and walked out.
"There's...another woman..." she says bitterly, her fingers twisting into her hair. I reach up and untangle them, not wanting her to hurt herself even further. I lead them down to the edges of her chair, letting her tighten her grip around that instead. A part of me is in complete shock, the other isn't really all that surprised. Dad finding some whore sounds right in his ballpark. I grab an antiseptic wipe and slowly rub it over her leg wound, listening to her hiss and patting her knee sympathetically.
"Did ya kick him out or did he leave on his own?" I inquire, refusing to raise my eyes to hers.
She sniffles, her hands clenching and unclenching methodically around the chair, and I can't help but think of Kyle and his apples. "He left," she finally works out defeatedly. "Just...just came home a few hours ago 'n...told me that was it," she slumps a bit in her chair.
"Why'd he hit ya? You try to stop him?" I ask, grating my lip as I begin to fumble with a roll of gauze and my scissors.
"No," she whispers. "I-I told 'im...I told 'im good. T' git outta my house 'n let that whore deal with his shit."
I nod, "Good response. I woulda said the same." I look up at her and try to give her a smile. She attempts one back before it falters.
"He just...lost it," she says blankly.
I sigh, "Not surprisin', Ma. He tends t' do that, ya know."
"I know, I know," she nods solemnly. I sigh again, finishing wrapping around her leg and clipping it off. My promise to Kevin starts ringing through my ears and I chuckle under my breath to myself. Guess that shithead got through to me after all. Her voice nearly startles me as I start putting things back into the case. "Kenny?"
"Yeah?"
She stares down at me, grating her busted lip gently. I get to my feet, tossing my case on the table and grabbing a cold-pack from the bottom. "Do ya...do ya hate me? For lettin' 'im stay so..." her body just slinks guiltily.
I stare at her, mindlessly crushing the pack in my hand. How do I even respond to that? I do hate a part of her. I really do. She shoulda picked us kids up and ran off long ago. She should've never gotten herself hooked on pills to the point where if she's not tweaking out, she can't function. She never should have taken Stuart McCormick's fucking name. But...I'm not an idiot. I went through the same health class bullshit that everyone does. Abusive relationships are ones you can't run from all the time. Sometimes you're just trapped. But regardless, she should have called for help, she should have told us kids that it'd be all right. She should have been a mother above all else. Not just a victim constantly under the influence. My long silence is getting to her, her face dropping further and further with each moment I let go unbroken. "No, I don't hate you," I lie a bit. "I just wish you woulda..." I sigh, finishing cracking the pack and handing it to her.
She stares at me silently, pressing it up against her cheek and taking a long, heavy breath. "Kenny...I'm so sorry," she whispers. "You 'n yer brother 'n sister...ya didn't deserve this."
I shrug, closing and zipping up my case, grabbing the bloodied washrag and walking over to the puddle, cleaning it off the floor as best I can. I keep my eyes down on my work, meticulously scrubbing. "No, we didn't," I finally manage to murmur. I hear her take a shuddery breath and bite my cheek. I finish wiping off the blood, staring at a dirtied reflection of myself in the scuffed beige tile. It's so distorted and disgusting, like everything else in this goddamn house. I finally pick myself up and toss the rag over into the sink, washing my hands as best I can. I watch remnants of her blood flowing down the drain and my shoulders sink. This isn't the kind of life anyone should be living.
"I'm so sorry," she repeats blankly.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that this is my mother above all else. Yes, she's a mess. Yes, mine and my siblings' lives have been pure hell because of her inability to stand up for herself. And yes, she hasn't acted motherly to me. But she is still my mom. And I love her, even if it's buried under eighteen years of bitterness and hate. I turn around from the sink and walk in front of her, grabbing another chair and sitting down facing her. "He's a piece 'a shit," I say firmly. "Ya deserve better, Ma."
She nods slowly. "You kids deserve better."
I shrug, "Well, too late for Kev 'n me...but Karen still needs ya."
"It ain't ever too late to make a change, Ken," she says. I chuckle a bit to myself again. I think that's the first motherly thing she's said to me in years. I just shake my head, getting up out of the chair again and heading to the fridge. I can feel her watching me as I reach into the far back, hidden behind Dad's Pabst and grabbing a couple Dr. Peppers that Kyle gave to me. I walk back over and hand her one and she stares at it like I just handed her foreign currency.
"Ya don't need t' get hammered this early," I say pointedly, opening my soda and taking a long drink.
"Yer right," she whispers, quietly popping her can open and taking her own sip, tonguing over her lips. She laughs quietly, "Been a long time since I had pop, I'll tell ya."
"Well...maybe it's time t' get back to that," I shrug. "Toss out everythin' that reminds ya of that sack of shit, includin' the booze." I highly doubt it'll work, but hell, it's worth a shot.
She stares at me a bit, her head cocking slowly to the side. "Somethin'...somethin' about ya is so different, Ken."
I have to resist rolling my eyes. Not this again. "I ain't different, Ma," I easily parry. "Yer just sober fer once so ya can see what I'm really like."
Her face drops embarrassedly and she stares at her soda, stroking her finger along the aluminum and leaning her cheek deeper into the cold-pack. "I know I ain't been a good mom."
I sigh, taking another sip and nodding a bit. "No, ya ain't...but ya did what ya could with him runnin' the house. I don't blame ya for what he did, but ya gotta know that you ain't handlin' the problem well."
"I know," she agrees. "Trust me, Sheila 'n Sharon love t' tell me how t' be a mom," she rolls her eyes. I can't help but snort. She's always considered Kyle and Stan's moms to just be too far up their own asses when it came to being mothers. She always thought that they believed their methods were perfect regardless of the fact that Sharon and Randy divorced time and again and Sheila had a knack for starting literal wars.
"They ain't the best, I'll give ya that," I say. "But...they try. They love Ky and Ike and Stan and Shelly. They don't always do the best but they try," I emphasize. "Ma, you ain't tried to be a mom fer years," I wince.
Once more, she nods along with me, her eyes scanning over my face and a large sigh escaping her nose. "I miss this," she says quietly.
I raise my brow. This? What, her bleeding and me cleaning her up? Because that's never happened before, I work too damn hard to stay out of the goddamn way. "Miss what?"
"This," she gestures between the both of us tiredly. "Us talkin'. 'Member how...when ya were a little guy and I'd read ya stories and we'd talk 'bout yer day?"
I nod, "Yeah. That was before ya decided pills were more important than yer kids."
"If I could go back and change it, I would," she admits softly. She leans back in her chair and her eyes go back to the ceiling, shining lightly in our one working light bulb. "Oh, Ken," she says brokenly. "It was just like with you..."
"What was?" I ask confusedly.
"Watchin' him walkin' out...I-it was just like when you said you were leavin' all that time ago..." she starts sobbing again and I watch in amazement. "I-I didn't know...what t' do..." she works out, choking on her cries. She puts down her soda, leaning forward and clasping around my frozen form, crying into my t-shirt. I gulp, putting down my own drink and timidly wrapping my arms around her. I haven't hugged her in so long. I didn't know her back was so bony, I didn't know that she was so tiny under her oversized shirts.
I bite my lip, gently rubbing a hand up her spine. "I ain't goin' nowhere," I say quietly, my chest burning in guilt. She clings onto me tighter and I flinch at a mark appearing underneath her sobbing face. I gulp a bit, holding onto her just a little tighter.
My eyes wander around the kitchen, unable to continue looking at the broken woman clasping onto me. This house is a disaster. Wallpaper falling down, paint peeling, probably smells to clean people like a literal landfill...I sigh, leaning my head down on hers. My sight flickers to my shoddily repaired platter lying on the counter and I shudder. I can't fix her. I know I can't. She says she regrets what she's done, how she's raised us kids, but I know her well enough to know that even if the guilt is genuine, she's not going to concede and make herself better. It's just not in her personality to do so.
But clinging around her, feeling the essence of a stale home echoing around us, knowing that my father is well and out of the picture, that I may never have to see his abusive, ugly mug again...a part of me is awakening. It's a part that I haven't felt in a very long time. For the first time in what seems like an eternity, there's a small silver lining trying to peak through the cloud that is my life, and it fills me with a muted, but invigorating rush of hope.
A/N: Ken loves his mom, even though he wants to punch her in the face. Is it okay to say that since she's an abused woman? Eh, my story, I say what I want.
Thanks for R&Ring!
