A/N~ I apologize for my un-excused absence, I've just been overly brain-dead on this story...That was a horrible choice of words, sorry! Anyway, I'm trying to figure out a way to end this whole Kyle being a drag about him putting Cartman in a coma...but I can't! I just feel like this would be something Kyle could never forgive himself for, that's why he reminds himself, almost constantly, in EVERY damn chapter that he sucks. Hah. God, I seriously think Stan would have been more of a bitch to him than I made him out to be though, since he always falls victim to peer pressure. I hate Stan. It sounds like Spam. Hah. Yeah. But it makes me feel so bad when I write the things Shelia does to torture her son for punishment. Its cruel! Even though I'm starting to bore of this whole Kyle being a pussy drag, I'll finish the story. EVEN IF I MUST! Thanks for reading, and please review! If you don't, Carman might just die...don't let him die, guys! ~Enjoy more of Kyle's drama!
Finally, the day I had been drooling over came without warning. The day when I was taken from the presence of my fading guilt. There wasn't much to talk about on that day, and know that I think about it, nobody spoke as I was wheeled from the hospital, stitches healed and bruises faded. For the first time in weeks, I remember feeling the crisp winter breeze flow past my face, instead of the uncomfortably cold air conditioner the hospital insisted on keeping on. The winds brought the harsh snowfall that had fallen every night I was locked in my room sprinkling across my nose, the white sparks melting with contact to my skin.
The snow was light, dropping just enough powder to conceal the asphalt, shading it a sparkling white. I kept my hands in my lap, fingers intertwined, watching the wheels on my chair make lines through the snow. It squeaked with every twist and turn, marking a visible path from the decent from the place I had begun to dread. I guess now that I was able to leave, it brought me some comfort. But I knew I would come back, not necessarily against my will, just not sure I was welcome. It made me wonder how often I would choose to come, not that it would make any difference if I did. Even if I plunged into his room, and spilled my heart out, sobbing in his stilled arms, he wouldn't notice. He wouldn't care.
But I knew I would, even if there was no memory of my presence. If he awoke from his never-ending nightmare, I would be by his side. I knew he would be against it, but that was okay. I could watch from the shadows, as he became himself once again. And until then, I'll tell myself that he would appreciate if I came, even if deep within, I knew he wouldn't.
The chair came to a halt, and my father propped open the passenger door while I pulled my weak body from the chair. The nurse held his arms out to ensure I didn't fall, and when I had successfully plopped down on the leather seat, he slowly shut the door. He nodded towards me, so I weakly smiled. Giving a slight grin back, he turned to my father, talking to a police woman. She ripped the cap from her head, exposing her bright orange hair. She took both of her specters hands, giving them a firm shake, before retreating to her cruiser. I eyed as my father hoisted himself into the car, and sat in silence. He kept his gaze at the steering wheel, not uttering a word, before sending the key into the ignition.
And this is how it went for him for the past month. He sat been shooed from the house, and had the door slammed on his face by his own wife. I of course hadn't witnessed it, but the stories of sadness that were told to me everyday, each visit bringing more dread, brought news of life outside my little white room. One day, just a little over a week ago, he told me that him and my mother were getting a divorce. What am I even saying, she's not my mom. I had never even looked at her with so much on ounce of respect, but soon it turned into nothing but hate. She knew I died, and couldn't even care less. When the news struck her that I had lived, and was under critical condition, I imagine she only shrugged. This person I was forced to look up to every day of my life, was nothing close to a motherly figure to me. She was a person I truly despised.
My stomach growled, and my hands instantly went to muffle the sound. Dad peered at me, taking his eyes off the road for a mere second before turning into Burger King. I closed my eyes, and waited for the line to move.
Hunger had become inedible, having only eaten mainly Jell-O since I arrived. I had lost weight, more than I wanted to, and was left stick thin. When the doctors forced me to strip off my hospital gown and bathe, I tore my eyes from the mirrors, not wanting to see my naked body. The one time I recall looking into the glass, I started to cry. I was broken. Bones were poking at my skin, I had dark bags under my eyes, and looked like the walking dead. This was true, in a way I guess. It didn't help, knowing I would return to my normal self in a few months, knowing that that was how much longer Eric would wait to start his recovery. If he even had one.
"Kyle?" I glanced at my dad, who had driven the car to the window.
"Hmm?" I mumble, too tired to talk.
"What do you want to eat?" I look over the menu, and see the most disgusting food in the world. I would never dream of putting that garbage in my mouth, but right now, it looked more than appetizing. "Kyle?" I bring my eyes from the menu, and bite my lip.
"I...I want everything." He manages a lighthearted chuckle, before turning to the microphone. I don't hear what he orders, but when the car jots forward, I open my eyes to see a giant bag in my lap. Concerned he actually took me seriously, I turn to him. He doesn't look away from the road, and sighs.
"Eat your dinner, Kyle." I obey, and open the fast food bag, inhaling deeply. I pull out one of the three wrapped burgers, and fold back the paper, hungrily taking a bite. My father grabs the bag from my lap, and takes out a small container of fries. Again, he sighs at his poor food choice, but shovels it in his mouth anyway. I chewed the burger quietly, an occasional whimper from the new stitches under my jaw.
The car pulled up to an unfamiliar building that I only recognized from when dad had brought me a photo of his new apartment. Even in the darkened light of the evening, the bright red paint of the building stuck out against the dark blue sky. My dad made his way from the car, leaving the now empty bag in his seat. I brought my eyes down as he came across to open my door with a smile. He shouldn't smile. There was nothing to be happy about.
I've heard people tell their kids when a divorce made its way into their life that it was just a difference between the parents, and the kids had nothing to do with it, and were still loved very much. That's just the thing about divorce. I caused it, and no one denies it was my fault. I feel the heat of it all, and I know that now, my mother hates me more than anything.
Dad clears his throat when my lids begin to fall, keeping me awake. I tilt my head just enough so I'm still comfortably against the seat. "Come on Kyle, there's a bed upstairs for you." He says warmly, helping me down. I truly didn't need help, but it felt nice, having human contact other than doctors cold, probing hands. I allowed myself to be lifted from my seat, and tried to smile when my toes hit the ground. I could only bare to stand for a second, before my legs went numb and I toppled over onto the cement driveway. Nothing stopped me from braking down into quiet sobs, laying against the cold ground. My hands were bloody, and my head stung, but I wasn't crying because of any pain. I was sobbing for once, because I was tired.
I felt my body lifted from the cement with a grunt, and continued to cry against my dad's shoulder. He ran his thin fingers through my curls not trying to comfort me, but for his own sake. "It'll be okay, Kyle," He hushed, bringing the keys against the lock, and pushing open the pearly white door. "I promise." For once, I believed that promise.
Since I weighed practically nothing, he could easily sling me over his shoulder, and carry me up the stairs. I was carried past a small bathroom, and another bedroom before coming to another small room. When the door was brought open, I almost started to cry at the sight of its fulness. None of my toys, games, or clothes were here. I knew why.
She had burned them. With my clothes burnt to a satisfactory ash, she threw everything that had some attachment to me in the dumpster, and proceeded by sending me a letter that said I was not welcome in the Broflowski household. My father had only brought worse news when he offered to go to the store and pick me up some clean clothes. I questioned him, and he said my things at home were gone. Every last thing I owned and cared about, brought to flames.
This was my new home now. A small apartment on the outskirts of town, far away from my old life that I wanted to race back to without hesitation. But I couldn't. I didn't even know if my friends would be there when I came calling. And I deserved it. Inside, even if I knew I had this whole mess coming, it hurt. More than anyone could ever imagine.
I sat down on the full mattress, covered by a dark blue comforter. A light smile crossed my face when I saw my favorite green hat resting on one of the pillows covered in a white pillowcase. I snatched it and pulled it on, bringing it over my brow and past the many scars on my forehead. Dad laughed at the sudden action, and sat on the bed, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He pulled me tight, as more tears began to fall. "Don't cry; there's nothing to be sad about right now. Just go to sleep." He said sweetly. I sniffed. "Kyle, in the end, fate always has a plan. It may not be the best plan," He paused to lay his chin against the top of my head. "But, somehow, it always works out." I nodded, and was quickly put beneath the covers. "It really will." Dad smiled down at me, and kissed my nose before leaving me alone.
"Dad?" I shout, suddenly panicked. He re-appears at the door, peeking his head in. "So things...they'll get better, no matter what? Right?" He bites his lip, and pulls out a little further unsure of an answer. "Dad-"
"Kyle, whatever happens happens. And no matter what, I'll stand by your side." He whispers, shutting the door. I'm left, once again, in total darkness.
I close my eyes, and try to imagine that I'm back home. Not here, but in the house I used to call a home. I imagine I'm left alone to the darkness of my room, and it isn't bad, because I have everything that I love in that small space. Everything is okay- I'm okay, nothing broken, nothing that needs to heal. I'm just left to think about the thoughts of the day, having not a worry on my mind. It's peaceful in my room, and the only sound is the crickets outside the window, singing their nightly song. I'm safe, and nothing is wrong. Nothing, exempt the fact that when I open my eyes, the bed that feels like mine isn't, and Eric is still in a coma.
Nothing's okay. But when I close my eyes again, trying to avoid anything that would ruin my sleep, it all fades. When I dream, it's nothing unusual just a normal day. But it's amazing, and I want to hold onto it forever. Keep it present, keep it real. Sadly, it's only real when I sleep, when I dream. And that's all I want- normal. But that's only what it can ever be. Just a dream.
A/N~ Really sorry that was so short! But it was only meant to be a filler for when he came home...so yeah. I promise the next one will be longer! R&R PLEASE! Love you guys! ~M