The manor house has forty-three rooms, spanned over three towering storeys, forty-three rooms that need constant attention, forty-three rooms Kenny must clean. As a young boy, thrusted a brush and bucket, the task appeared daunting, told to keep the household immaculate, worthy of those important enough to own such a lofty abode. It was made very clear, upon arriving, that this place was not his home, would never be his home, that he was no more important than dining room chair, than a marbled bannister, than a lump of coal in the grand fireplace. He understood, even then, that he would never enjoy such comfort or luxury, that he was a servant with a duty, a serf under another's ownership. Perhaps that made things easier, kneeling on the floor to scrub away grime, standing atop stools to dust high shelves. Kenny is just a piece of furniture, with nothing of his own.
The afternoon sun cascades through pristine glass, light spilling out over travertine tiles, flooding the halls with springtime's blinding luminance. Rich velvet curtains ornate frames, the red hue shared by the long carpet running down the corridor. He walks down the avenue of doors, all closed and locked, hiding rooms that sit disregarded and fallow. Tomorrow, though, Kenny will awaken at the first ray of sunlight, with a brand-new set of chores. He'll walk to this hallway, and find all rooms unlocked, because Cartman will say they require his immediate attention, despite ignoring them in previous days' lists. So, Kenny will dust off the literary volumes Cartman has never once read, polish the piano keys he's never once played, and shine the stately armour he's never once worn. He'll switch the sheets in of the guest rooms' soft and supple beds, then retire to the attic where he'll sleep beneath the eaves. But he won't feel resentful, because he'll be too goddamn tired to feel much of anything at all. The fire inside dimmed years ago, when Kenny realised that he would never be able to afford his own freedom, that he would never have a home like when he was a child, that he would never amount to more than the labour he provides.
Kenny's gaze glides along the moulding, absently checking for any high cobwebs or minor cracks, any imperfections he will need to cover up. Forty-three rooms is an awful lot of space, an awful lot for him to manage. Cleanliness is Kenny's jurisdiction, and Kenny's alone. The others have their jobs, with more limited scopes and contained requirements. Cartman, of course, does whatever it is lords do, which, as far as Kenny can tell, is sit around thinking of ways to make people miserable. Butters, as his steward, does anything his master does not want to do, like actually managing the estate, obeying orders like the dog, too naïve to realise that's how Cartman sees him. Wendy works as a cook, Bebe as a chambermaid, and while neither of them are thrilled with their position, they know Kenny shoulders the brunt of the work, rising at the crack of dawn, slumbering in the night's wee hours. Fortunately, the gruelling conditions have not hardened the girls' hearts, sympathising with him and helping when they can, contributions furtive and discreet.
Really, Kenny wishes they would stop risking themselves, value their own lives before his. Cartman can do nothing more to him, nothing meaningful anyway, but Wendy and Bebe have families, parents tethered to this estate as lowly farmers, all too vulnerable to vindictive taxation. If Wendy gets caught replacing Kenny's water, or Bebe is seen changing his rags, Cartman will extort all his tenants, push them to the brink of starvation out of petty spite. Kenny asks them to stop, that he can handle everything, but the two are as stubborn as they are caring, simply wishing there was more they could do. Escape, Kenny them, escape this dreaded place, as soon as they can, without looking back. After all, the two of them have that option, through the holy route of marriage, while Kenny does not. He never will.
Squeak! Squeak!
Squeak-Squeak!
SQUEE—EAK!
His ears perk, catching the quick conversation of a few chatty rodents. All houses of this size have their fair share of problems, but few suffer from this severe decay of disuse. While Cartman claims the vast emptiness is an extension of his wealth, his home is as hollow as the title he stole. This manor is loneliness manifested, plagued by a dilapidating sickness that infects all who toil within. Perhaps madness is a symptom, because when Kenny wanders from his path, a smile forms on his face. Gathered at clawed feet of a candelabra, he spies a trio of rats, one dark brown, one sandy white, and one spotted black. Clyde, Tweek, and Craig live between the walls, forging for food and scurrying about, fearing most humans on account of their violence. When Kenny first met them on his rounds, he had a different response, scooping them up in his bucket and carrying them up to his room, where he told them they'd be safe. Perhaps they feel indebted to him, and that's why every night they take refuge in the garret with him, or perhaps they just feel bad for him, knowing Kenny must be desperate to talk to common vermin. Either way, they are his friends, and they shouldn't be milling about in the open so recklessly.
"Hey guys," Kenny speaks in a low whisper, to keep his voice from echoing down the corridor. He still startles the three, all tensing up, freezing for a moment. Kenny kneels down, hunches over them, and Craig looks up, relaxes. Clyde gives Kenny a glance, then wags his tail, swishing along the tile. Tweek glances around, nose twitching, before noticing Kenny, then reluctantly calms down. Kenny extends a hand, lets them approach and sniff, tickling his palm with their whiskers, "Whatcha doin' out here?"
Tweek starts chittering, but Kenny can't understand. He doesn't comprehend the language of his trusted companions, doesn't know what they mean when they cheep and trill. He can gather their moods from their behaviours or figure their feelings from their reactions. Why, he's even gleaned their personalities—Craig is aloof and acutely observant, Tweek is lively and quite anxious, Clyde is sensitive and a bit dim—defined by their traits, so Kenny might ascribe them words, pretend he knows what they're saying. In this case, Kenny imagines him saying something like, "We got bored hanging around downstairs, figured we'd change things up."
"Yeah," Clyde chirps, tuft of brown waving as he nods his head, "And Jimmy's asleep so we can't bother him."
"Well Jimmy's a cat," Kenny says, drawing back his hand. While Cartman has a personal pet, Mr Kitty, he purchased a barn cat to prevent the likes of Craig, Tweek and Clyde from roaming the manor. The kitten he got was crippled, with a stammering meow and back legs that dragged as he tried to walk. Cartman considered leaving him to die, but the others intervened. Kenny fashioned some braces from spare lumber, Bebe sewed a harness to keep them in place, and Wendy lobbied for Jimmy to be the pantry's live-in guard. For whatever reason—uncharacteristic generosity or lack of investment—Cartman allowed Jimmy to stay, despite being terrible at catching mice.
"Stop putting words in our mouths, dickhead," Craig squeaks furiously, sitting up on his hind, "It's not our fault you don't have any other friends."
"Y'know, I'm just helping you out," Kenny frowns. He wonders why he puts up with being backtalked by a rat, then remembers he's the one assigning him a voice in the first place, "You gotta go hide. It's dangerous up here for lil' guys like you."
"What? Scared Butters will find us and tattle?" Clyde mocks him, squeal mimicking a laugh.
"Or Cartman finds you and stabs you to death 'cause he can?" Why, if Cartman knew of Kenny's sad attachment, his pathetic friendship with a few wayward rodents, he'd hunt them down for sure, call Kenny to his office and slit their tiny throats in front of him. Kenny would stand there, as dark red stained their fur, and try not to cry, try not to amuse Cartman more with his pain. Then he'd be told to dispose of the mess, to wipe up the blood and take their corpses out with the garbage. Kenny isn't allowed to have any friends, or anything that might make him happy.
"Cartman?!" The fur on Tweek's back stands up, "No, no, no, we're too quick for him, right? He won't find us?"
"Course he won't," Craig settles down, "That'd require him moving his fat ass from his chair."
"Yeah, but which does he hate more," Clyde grinds his teeth, "Moving or Kenny?"
Tweek and Craig squeak in unison, "Definitely Kenny."
Kenny lets out a sigh, turns his head. He peers down the hallway, squints to see the door to Cartman's office. Once his friends are gone, he'll walk the rest of the way down, knock on the door, and report to Cartman all he's accomplished. He'll inform him that, in accordance with his orders, he mopped the foyer and the ballroom, swept the parlour and the gallery, buffed all the dining room silverware and fluffed all the drawing room pillows. Then, Cartman will amend his list, adding a slew of extra chores, ensuring Kenny has no moment's rest. This is their routine, as inevitable as the clock's midnight toll, no way to avoid, only to endure.
"Listen," Kenny looks back to the rats, tilting his head to the side, "You three skee-dat and I'll try 'n getcha a treat for later. I'll ask Wendy for some extra pumpkin squash or somethin'. Deal?"
Tweek, Craig, and Clyde discuss amongst themselves, chattering at a pace too swift for Kenny to follow. He assumes they agree, since Craig scampers to the corner rosette of the nearest door frame. With his snout, he pushes the light block aside, revealing a hole perfectly sized for a rodent. He squeezes into the darkness, the other two at his tail, and continue their day's activities in their tunnels. Kenny taps the wood back in place, keeping their entrance a secret, and laughs. How many nooks and crannies conceal their passageways? And Kenny always assumed he knew the manor house best.
Kenny rolls his shoulders, rises to his feet. In the window, he glimpses his reflection, captured by the sleekness. He inherited his father's height, but even with his subtle muscle he gives the appearance of an old candlestick, lanky and crude. His clothes are basic, plain frock and wool pants, with an apron at the waist to hold smaller supplies. Golden hair sits in a tousled mess, no comb strong enough to defeat the constant disarray. He's been told he has gentler features, Wendy noting a softness in his face, Bebe boldly proclaiming he could pass as a girl if he pleased. Kenny doubts he could go that far, but admits a lot has to do with his eyes; light sky blue, they display his emotion, mirror what's inside. He's learned to conceal his feelings, out of necessity, but every now and then he betrays himself, in a flash of anger, a flicker of contempt. Every time, Cartman is there to remind him the importance of repression.
He resumes his journey, each stride heavier than the last, marching to a scolding he's received a thousand times. At least he was the one sent here, not Kevin or Karen. Though he hasn't seen them since the day their father sold them, he hears of them, through the tenuous networks set up between household servants. Communication is sporadic, messages exchanged only when occasion arises, all contact curt and indirect. Apparently Kevin fares decently at House Stoley, as the manor's head groom, granted his own cottage near the stables. At House Black, Karen thrives as the Lady's maid, even given a modest education in the rudimentary subjects. They haven't dealt with the same levels of abuse Kenny has, but he doesn't mind. He'd rather they be happy, live their lives, and, as he reaches the door, prays they never meet someone like Lord Eric Cartman.
Knock-Knock!
"What're you waiting for? Get your ass in here!"
Cartman is in a superbly shitty mood. Just his luck.
Kenny breathes out, grabs the handle and pushes open the door. He leaves the halls' stark embrace, sucked into the office thick with shadow. Although candles sit lit in sconces on the walls, their flames are weak, emitting feeble yellow glows. The fire, however, heats the room, Kenny stepping into sweltering warmth, humid with accruing sweat. At the centre of the room, Cartman lounges, seated in his fine armchair, his feet resting atop his immense desk. His heels slide against the easily tarnished wood, deliberately crafting more scuffs, entertaining himself with Kenny's future misery. Butters stands at his side, a bunch of scrolls tucked under one arm, another unfurled in his hands. He furrows his brow, struggling to read the finely penned letters, decipher the meaning of the fanciful phrases. Butters must be summarising documents, drudging through the dense lines of text, then telling Cartman anything relevant. Meanwhile, Cartman tunes him out, more focused on his bowl of balled cheese-bread situated on his gut, scooping up handfuls and shovelling them in his mouth.
When Kenny shuts the door, Butters jumps up in surprise, pale grey eyes darting over. The freshest addition to the staff, Cartman largely forbade him from interacting with those under him, saying Wendy and Bebe were temperamental due to their sex, and citing Kenny as a particularly corrupting influence. Thus, Butters largely steers clear of lower servants, unless his instructions dictate otherwise, spending a majority of his time with their master. Such prolonged exposure has poisoned him, but not completely, not irreversibly. He maintains his folksier mannerisms, despite his friendliness being a fault in Cartman's eyes, bubbly and genial with everyone he addressed. A wide grin dominates his face, Butters cheerily beaming, "Hiya, Kenny!"
"Hi, Butters," Usually, Kenny doesn't acknowledge him. He prefers their few conversations remain brief and terse, to avoid hearing Cartman's lies filtered through another's mouth. He's been trained to act as his pawn, and furthermore trained to view Kenny as an unruly and forward pet. He held nothing against Butters, not personally; in fact, he detests Cartman that much more, for warping someone so wholesome into someone vile like himself. This, however, is a rare opportunity, to encourage rebellion through passive means. Maybe, someday, he'll defy his indoctrination and despise the fat fucker too.
"Ugh," Cartman's glassy brown eyes flit to Butters, face scrunching into a glare. Butters blanches, threatened with disapproval, a shrill yelp escaping his lips. Reverting to docile subservience, he pointedly stares down, intently focusing on his shoes. Kenny can only see thin yellow hair crowning a mostly shaved head. Then, Cartman clears his throat, draws Kenny's eyes back to him. Slowly, he brings another round lump, rips it in half with his teeth. He looks at Kenny, a sneer carved on his doughy face, and talks with a full mouth, "'Bout goddamn time, Kinny. What took you?"
Kenny, he thinks, with an 'eh' not an 'ee' get my fucking name right.
"I got here fast as I could," He doesn't know whether that counts as a lie, but supposes it doesn't matter. He could've burst into the room panting, after sprinting from up flights of stairs and down countless hallways, and Cartman would still ask the same question, "Finished the list."
"Oh, did you?" Cartman leans back. He stuffs the rest of the bread in his mouth, without swallowing the previous bite. Despite his gentleman's lessons, he chews with his mouth open, so Kenny can see the saliva coating bits of gooey flour. He is a glutton, demanding dinners the size of feasts, and a sadist, eating his enormous portion then watching the rest rot. The servants have their own food, meagre staples supplying bare nutrients, enough to keep them functioning without spoiling them. Once he grinds his food small enough, "The foyer?"
"Mopped."
"And the ballroom?"
"Uh huh."
"The parlour?"
"Swept. Gallery, too."
"You get to the silverware?"
"Every knife, spoon, 'n fork," Kenny smirks, struck by pride, "Then I got all the damn pillows."
"Hmm," Cartman huffs, gulps. He taps his plump fingers on the rim of the bowl, pensive intensity brewing in the brown. There are plenty of things Kenny can do, but what would be the most degrading and humiliating? What would wear on that pitiful spirit and corrode that pesky attitude? What, in his humble opinion, would make Kenny hate his life more than he already does? Possibilities dance before his eyes, a sick smile growing the longer he stares.
"Uhm, my Lord?" Butters' high voice quavers, dripping with trepidation. He looks at Cartman from under his lashes, bends the scroll, bringing his hands together. He rubs his fists, the wood rollers knocking lightly, as he stammers, "M-my neck kinda hurts..."
The smile vanishes, Cartman blinking once, twice. He cocks his head to the side, anger engulfing his eyes in a blaze. He never learned to control his rage, never matured out of boyhood tantrums. As he aged, his fits worsened, with no one to scold him, no one to punish him, no one to tame him. Some might feel bad for him, but not Kenny. He's watched that rage burn too many for him to pity a monster. In a roaring snarl, Cartman screams, "Then stand up straight, retard!"
The shout reverberates, bounces off the stone bricks and wood panels. The candles' flickers shiver, and Butters drops his scrolls, curled parchment plummeting to the floor, clattering on the tile. His eyes bulge, frightened by his own error, entire body shuddering as he throws himself to the floor. While he panics, Kenny stands unfazed, too accustomed to the outbursts to fear them, their occurrence too frequent, their malice too commonplace. He rocks on the balls of his feet, confident that Butters' innocent interruption earned Kenny an even more excruciating torture. Nothing personal, simply fact.
"And you," Cartman takes his feet from the desk, leans forward in his chair. His gaze is decisive, executive, like the glint of a broadsword, swinging down to the chopping block, to sever some poor soul's head. Kenny has died to that look hundreds of hundreds of times, but he always comes back. Sometimes, he wishes death would tap his shoulder, wishes Cartman would kill him on the spot, so he can achieve liberation in some afterlife. That will never happen, though, because Cartman will never let him leave this hell, "You will do everything over again, 'cause I'm sure you screwed up somewhere. And after that you'll wash the dishes, and clean the bathrooms, and polish the fucking doorknobs 'til they shine like diamonds. Am I making myself clear, Kinny?"
Eat shit, he wants to yell. He wants to rush right up to him, put his hands around his throat, and wring his bulky neck. He wants everything he values to be taken from him, the way he's taken from so many others, the way he continues to take and take and take. He wants to ask why he makes people suffer, what he has against people, against him. He wants to know the reason he loathes Kenny with a passion, why he's so vehemently devoted to running Kenny ragged, what Kenny ever did to inspire such pure and unbridled hatred. But instead, Kenny forces a simper, because Kenny is not allowed to do anything he wants, anything that might make him happy. His cheeks ache, as he adds a chipper edge to his voice, "Yes, sir."
Kenny bows, then turns to leave. He opens the door, pauses in the threshold, blinded by the pouring sunshine. His eyes flutter, adjusting to the light, and envies the sun, the stars, the moon. They declare of their own schedules, the hours determined by their wills alone. They don't need to listen to anyone, let alone murderous thugs, safe above humanity's heads. If only he could be a star, embedded in night's safety, protected by day's cloak.
"Oh, and Kinny," How silly, Kenny thought he might have the last word for once, "One more thing..."
Kenny barely glimpses over his shoulder, when he sees the bowl fly through the air, hurtle towards him. He ducks, scarcely avoids direct impact, feels the rim graze a few tall strands of hair. A few of the breaded balls roll around his feet, too leaden with cheese to soar the full distance, and the bowl meets its fate, slamming onto the carpet. Even with fabric buffering its fall, the bowl cracks, breaks into several jagged hunks, a fine potter's craftsmanship reduced to mere shards in an instant. He stares at the shambles, for a good while, before turning back to Cartman, to brown eyes glazed with morbid delight.
"Clean that up, will ya?" Cartman speaks casually, waves his hand dismissively. A smug grin on his lips, he plops back in his chair, placing his feet back on the desk. He scuffs the glossy surface, puts his hands behind his head. He scans Kenny's face, for cracks in his mask, for any emotion bleeding through. He lives for this shit, "Someone might hurt themselves."
There are so many things Kenny wants to do, so many things Kenny cannot do, because if he does, Cartman wins; Cartman always wins. He exhales through his nose, a measured and calculated breath, as his cheeks go numb. He refuses to let his smile waver, let Cartman see him flinch, let Cartman claim another victory over him. No, Kenny swallows his emotions, lets them sluggishly slip down his throat, lets them choke him.
"I'll get right on it," Choke, he wishes he could choke, but knows he'll keep breathing. He wishes he could die, but knows he'll keep living. He wishes a lot of things, but knows none will ever come true.
After all, Kenny is just a piece of furniture, with nothing of his own.
A/N: So I'm a little late updating. This is my silly, happy story, but frankly after I finished the prologue I entered a time in my life that wasn't all that happy, so every time I started this chapter, I just ended up getting upset that it wasn't good enough. But I'm back on my feet and, y'know, I'm PUMPED to do this all again. Thanks to all of you leaving comments, kudos, and frankly just reading. I really hope you enjoyed this long overdue update, and hope you look forward to seeing Kenny continue his path to Disneyhood (again).