SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! MY COMPUTER DIED!

Hey folks! How are you? We begin, yet again, another heart wrenching and horrible chapter of Salty Kisses. In this upsetting installment Cartman will begin his new life as a Goth. We will be introduced to Bebe as a central character and delve deeper into the roots of Eric's depression through his mother.

There are characters getting high in this chapter. I have never, ever gotten high and I don't plan to. My only knowledge is of how weed is smoked is from movies. So please correct me if you know. Do not correct me on the smell of it, I asked my parents and this is what they described. They grew up in the seventies.

Do not mind mentions of girls being pretty by Eric. He may be gay, but he's not blind. Even homosexuals can see the appeals of the opposite sex even if they are not attracted to them sexually, just like straight people can with the same sex!

LeAnne Cartman has proven to be a perfect antagonist for Eric, though she will not prove herself to be the main point of Eric's woe. That honor is placed on another person in the cast who has only been mentioned briefly until now, and no, it is not Kyle or Bebe.

LeAnne is not a very good mother; I feel that her treatment of Eric is vile. In the episode, Tsst, you feel sympathetic towards her. As if Cartman were some sort of horrible child and it had nothing at all to do with her sub par parenting.

Perhaps Eric would not be so loathing if she was not a whore who treated him with a saccharine sweet attitude trying to compensate for her terrible treatment of her son with food. She and Eric need to have a better relationship. They horribly misuse one another with little to no regards for the other's feelings.

I know that LeAnne has never struck Eric. I don't care, call it writer's license.

The end is a little choppy, I feel. I tried my very best to tie it the way I needed it to be tied but I'm not sure I like it. The next chapter is going to be very, very bad ass.

Main Pair: Eric/Kyle
Secondary Pair: Stan/Wendy
Featured Pairs: Kyle/Rebecca, Bebe/Clyde
Mentioned Pairs: Tweek/Craig, Butters/Token

Warnings: In this story, Eric becomes bulimic and begins cutting. There is mention of homosexuality, sex, violence, and abuse. This story is all about angst. So deal. There is a lot of focus on recovery and self-mutilation, both physical and emotional. Those with weak stomachs should not read this.

Dedications:This story is dedicated to every reader and reviewer. It is dedicated to every person who has ever forced themselves to vomit or cut. To every person whose parent has ever struck him. To every person who has ever been abused at school for simply being themselves. This is for you. This is to let you know, you are not alone. There is always someone out there who wants it to improve for you. I am here for you.

South Park © Trey Parker and Matt Stone
Fanfiction and Poem © Luffykun3695

Songs:

"Animal I Have Become" by Three Days Grace
"I'm Not Alright" by Sanctus Real

Chapter Five: Tainted Home

Sin…

Sin is the most powerful word in any language. More powerful than the words hate, love, and God combined. A sin is something that cannot be forgiven. It is something more than a mere imperfection of humanity that results in the utmost of evil. Sins are powerful, powerful things.

A sin can be anything as simple as eating meat on a Friday to something more hardcore, like murder, or rape, and most of all… homosexuality. Mel Gibson says that being a faggot is the worst offense to God that there is to offer. Better to be found with a dead girl than a live boy, isn't that the saying? Well, I didn't have either, and I sort of wish I was the dead one.

I have come to accept this fact as my own reality, that I am sin. I am more than the word itself; I am the embodiment of its meaning. I am more than some fag. I am evil, vexatious, and full of nothing but self-hatred and malice.

I am Eric Cartman.

I can't escape this hell…

So many times I've tried,

But I'm still caged inside…

Somebody get me through this nightmare

I can't control myself!

Somebody wake me from this nightmare

I can't escape this hell!

So what if you can see, the dark inside of me?

You'll never change the animal I have become!

Help me believe,

It's not the real me…

Somebody tame this animal I have become…

They say misery loves company…

If that's so, then I just hit the mother fucking jackpot; because I had four misery lovin' amigos that were primed and ready to tell me just how great life isn't and remind me of my own worthlessness as well as elaborating on their own.

Ah, friendship.

It had been three weeks since I had hooked up with the Goths and I had come to find that while my new companions might have been quiet and self-loathing, I fit in with them just fine. All they did was sit around, get drunk and high, smoke, and read poetry, but I didn't care. I didn't drink or get high, nor did I smoke, but I wrote poetry… books and books filled with my woe in no time at all.

Flippy was quiet, even when he was drunk. He barely ever spoke, except to put in his two cents with a casual flip of his bangs. His words were careful and well chosen. He wanted to make sure each one of them stung with the power of one thousand needles.

Blair was much more talkative than Flippy. His effeminate voice filled he room often. He chain smoked when he talked and was constantly complaining about his parents divorce and other seemingly unimportant miseries. He was a drama queen. Blair had a talent for making a simple splinter seem as devastating as 9/11.

Salem was another story entirely.

He was virtually mute. He rarely spoke and all of his words were filled with such loathing I felt my heart stop whenever his crackling voice filled my ears.

He cut himself often. I found myself mesmerized when he took off his shirt for the first time. His thin, bony form was covered in bandages. He had them wrapped around his stomach and arms, fresh blood seeping against the bindings. The rest of him was covered in scabs and scars. The dark haired boy looked like a corpse that just came out of autopsy.

He sliced himself in front of us. He didn't care.

Salem would take his switchblade out of one of the many pockets on his black Gothic pants and flip it open. He would place the cool knife against his mangled skin and drag it across slowly. I couldn't blink when the blood pooled to the surface with the movement of the blade. It was like a bubbling cauldron filled to boiling with his mass of hate. And when he did it, he always looked so serene; I wondered if it was really as relieving as he acted like it was…

He would wrap his cuts with the long, thin white bandages that martial artists use. The bandages were always stained. He did his entire routine without saying a word. Not as much as a yelp of pain would ever escape his thin, white lips.

Henrietta was our leader. She was charismatic in her own way. It wouldn't have been exaggerating to say that she was in complete control. Henrietta dominated the Goths like a queen, directing our every move as a unit. What she said was law, and I wasn't going to be the one to fight her since she could probably fuck me up.

She had taken a liking to me; I would have to have been fucking retarded not to notice it. I could always feel her violet eyes on me, examining me, probing me… I pretended to ignore it, but I wasn't going to fight it if our leader liked me the best.

It didn't seem to bother the other Goths that she favored me. It was much easier to go with Henrietta, than it was to go against her. A fact, I'm sure the others were well aware of by that point.

We spent most our time in her room. It was a haven for Goths. The floor was covered in plush, plum shaded carpeting and the walls were painted a menacing black. Posters of bands were scattered on the walls, taped shoddily, some with burn marks blacking out the musicians' eyes.

The floor was covered in candles, many of them lit and all of them dripping wax onto the carpet. A crystal ashtray on the floor was overflowing with cigarette butts. Books were piled around the room and the lush purple curtains were always pulled shut, plunging the room into near darkness.

Henrietta's bed was large and ornate. It was made of cast iron that rose in an arc of spiking pieces of metal. Heads of stuffed animals were skewered on the spikes. Their faces pulled into perpetual frowns, stitched in their fur forever more. She had a large skull armchair seated in the middle of her room like a throne. She always sat in it, overseeing us as if we were her servants, exuding a dominance over her men that was beyond my comprehension.

"Eric," Henrietta's wispy voice drew my attention to her. She smiled at me. A rarity, that so far had been awarded only to me. Her smile was cruel, but lovely. It was filled with malice and self-confidence. She demanded respect.

"Hm?"

"I want to hear one of your poems," she told me. I froze. I didn't want to read anything but I knew refusing was not an option. I snapped open the skull clasps on my bag and pulled out my notebook. I flipped it open and flipped through the grey pages to find the poem I was going to present. I chose one that was about Kyle. Actually, all of my poems were all about Kyle, in one way or another…

Loneliness is a disease,
That eats me from the inside out
My heart bleeds black
I'm all alone with no way out

If I told you, that I love you
Would you hold me to your heart?
If I told you, that I need you
Would you make it so we'd never be apart?

My loneliness consumes my soul
I'm all alone, with no one to hold
You threw me out in the cold
I love you, I hate you
GET OUT OF MY HEAD!

I finished and looked up at the Goths. Henrietta was smiling approvingly, her dark eyes glittering in the pale light. I felt a slight bit of satisfaction at her look of appraisal, but not enough to break my Gothic persona.

"Deep man," Flippy whispered. His throaty voice held slight compliment, though his tone remained monotonous and bored. I looked into his dull blue eyes and gulped. I could swear on my life that he could see who the poem was for.

"Yeah, deep…"

Henrietta paused for a moment. She was silent, her black lips pursed. The soft whirls of smoke from the cigarette in her left hand swirled around her head like a silvery smoking halo. She looked me over and then without breaking her gaze said, "I want a j-roll," Blair nodded and leaned over to his backpack, pulling out a small plastic bag of what looked like green soil and some small flat pieces of paper.

He dropped to his knees on the plum carpeting and slowly tapped a small amount of the pot onto a sheet of paper. The sickly sweet smell was thick in the air just from him opening the bag. My stomach dropped, I hated that smell. It was that smell that drifted from my mother's room so often when she had over her special friends.

Blair's pierced tongue snaked out; the stud caught the light momentarily as he licked the corner of the sheet and rolled a clean roach. He lit it with the end of his cigarette and handed it to Henrietta for the first drag. She took it long and slow, enveloping the scent and taste of the vile weed. I felt myself beginning to grow sick. I hated the smell more than anything. The sweet smell with a scent of wickedness laced throughout it. It smelled like my mother.

My mother…

As the smell and smoke of the weed enveloped the room I closed my eyes and let myself drift away. I wasn't the only one who refused the joint. Flippy chose instead to drink from a small black flask he pulled out his bag, while Salem waved it away in exchange for his blade and the sweet plume of blood.

My thoughts focused on my mother and I felt my stomach turn. Was the word even suited to a woman like her? Mother… they're supposed to be caring, sweet, and nurturing. Well, she cared about her next fix, was phony sweet, and nurtured her sex addiction. Is that motherly?

I guess for years I just played with her insecurities to get what I wanted out of her: toys, food, video games. It didn't matter; she always gave them to me. I tried desperately to fill my gaping hole in my life that should have been filled with motherly affection. I just stopped caring after a while and thus, here I am, sitting in a room with three drugged out Goths and a little boy who cuts himself for entertainment.

I didn't end up leaving Henrietta's until damn near one in the morning.

- 0 -

When I got home, I reeked of pot.

I went to the bathroom and showered. After I got out and dried off, I flipped up the lid of the toilet and crouched on my naked knees in front of my ceramic savior. I shoved my finger down my throat as far as it would go until I felt myself gag and the bile rise. I vomited into the toilet and stared at it for a moment. It was yellow today, speckled with brown flecks.

I coughed another few flecks out into the bowl before flushing away my daily depression in the way that I hoped so desperately would fix my problems.

As I was washing out my mouth with Listerine, I heard the door open as my mom arrived home. I spat out the green stinging liquid and walked down the stairs to find my mother sprawled out on the couch, her hair falling over her face. An open vodka bottle was clutched in her hand.

She had left the door open and I closed it in silence, taking care not to slam it. I didn't want to wake her yet.

I frowned at her slumped form. She reeked of alcohol and the same disgusting pot smell that I had just managed to wash off my body from liberal amounts of scrubbing. She was dressed in a shirt that resembled a black bra, which upon closer inspection, turned out to be a bra. Long silver chains dangled between her nearly exposed breasts. A black and purple plaid skirt hung low on her hips, a sideways studded belt on top of the skirt on an angle. There was vomit stains on the toes of her pleather stiletto boots.

I sighed; I would have to help her up to bed. I shook her slightly and she opened her dull eyes. They looked past me and her lips curved upwards in a small smile. "Hey poopshykins," she greeted me in slurred words and sloppily propped herself up, tipping slightly. "Where have you been schweetie?" she asked, rubbing her eyes, smearing mascara down her cheeks.

"I hung out at a friend's house." I told her, knowing she'd forget in a few seconds. Knowing that by morning everything I said would have rushed through her head. Knowing that by morning she would be dressed like the perfect mother and pretending that the night before she hadn't gotten high and slept with tons of men. Knowing that in the morning, everything would be the same…

"Oh? Thatsh nice." she grinned, her eyes unfocused. She tipped her head back and finished off the vodka floating in the bottom of the smudged glass. The pale lighting in the room made it look like urine. She was drinking piss. I frowned and shook my head, trying to change the image. "Can you help Mommy up the shtairs?" she asked, innocently. Like a small child requesting a cookie.

"Yeah, come on mom. I'll take you upstairs." I placed my hand on her arm in a half-hearted attempt to help her off the couch. She was so damn sloshed that she couldn't stand up straight. Suddenly, she looked up at me as if I had just stabbed a puppy and tossed my hand off of her.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she glowered at me, her glazed over eyes glaring underneath furrowed brows. I opened my mouth to say that I was helping her up like she asked, but she didn't give me the chance. "I know what you're doing, you shick little fuck! You're trying to have sexsh with Mommy!" she screeched at me, rising to her feet quickly. I took a step backward, trying to tell her that she was wrong. That I was simply trying to help her get up to bed, but she wouldn't have it.

"Mom, please—"

"SHUT UP!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. I flinched, cowering underneath her. She held the empty vodka bottle in her hand like a knife, the neck clenched in her hand. The last few drips of the urine shaded liquid dripped down her arms and wrists. "You're a fuck-up!" she announced, screeching it to the ceiling. "YOU'RE HERE TRYING TO GET INTO MY PANTSH AND THINKING YOU KNOW ME? YOU THINK I'M SUCH A FUCKING WHORE I CAN'T GET MYSHELF UP THE SHTAIRS?" her slurs made no sense and covered me in spittle and anger. She drenched me in her hatred, coating my face in her spit.

I didn't mean to, but I started to cry. An overwhelming amount of fear and loathing overtook me. I hated that woman more than anything in the entire world. The tears stung my eyes and spilled down my face, shining beacons of my weakness. Even in her intoxicated state, she didn't miss them.

"You're crying!?" she screamed, laughing in my face with one stench filled "HA" she smelled like cum and pot. Her breath made my already wet eyes water. However, her momentary laughter at my weakness faded as soon as it had come, only to be replaced with fury. "YOU'RE WEAK, YOU LITTLE FAGGOT!" my heart stopped in my throat for an instant before I realized there was no way she could tell that I was a queer. She was just tossing insults because of how fucked up she was. She threw her vodka bottle at me and by the grace of God, I got out of the way as it smashed into the wall. I ran up the stairs amidst her screams of rage. "RUN FAGGOT BOY, RUN!"

I ran directly into my bathroom to my sweet salvation.

If weakness is a wound that no one wants to speak of
Then cool is just how far we have to fall
And I am not immune; I only wanna be loved
But I feel safe behind the firewall

Can I lose my need to impress?
If you want the truth, I need to confess…

I'm not alright
I'm broken inside, broken inside…
And all I go through, it leads me to you
It leads me to you…

The next morning while I was getting ready for school, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I was walking out the door. I am thinning out. My black Goth pants were hanging low on my hips and my coat has begun to engulf my body, but I don't see it. The scale says that I've lost twenty-one pounds, but no matter what the scale says, I still look fat. A mountain of lard peering into the mirror from underneath brown bangs. Disgusting.

At school, I stood at my locker alone, quietly piling books onto my arms. Usually, Henrietta and the other Goths would wait while I got my books before they went out behind the school to smoke but none of them were there today.

Henrietta sometimes skipped school to go to midday poetry readings at Benny's and get high with Blair. I didn't bother with drugs, so they usually didn't invite me. Flippy rarely got high either but he still went with them on most occasions, though I knew that he was busy today sleeping off the bottle of scotch he had chugged last night. And as for Salem, he was in Middle School. But I didn't feel any sadness at his failure to skip school as he often did to join me at my locker. Fucking freak.

I closed my locker and turned to find myself nearly touching noses with Kyle Broflovski.

My heart stopped beating. I could feel his breath on me; it smelled like mint and sugar. I could feel the uncomfortable hardening beneath my baggy pants. I was so close, close enough to…

"Cartman," I snapped back to reality and took a large step backwards, replacing my look of lust with one of feigned hatred. It was extremely difficult, since he was dressed in a sexy blue tee shirt that caressed his six-pack and a pair of ripped jeans that hugged his tight ass. He looked absolutely delectable. I nearly drooled on myself.

"What the fuck do you want, Jew?" I snarled, but he looked completely unfazed. He didn't come to let me ruffle his feathers. He'd obviously come to… oh who was I kidding? I had no idea what the fuck he'd come to do!

"What's with all this Goth shit?" he asked, gesturing to my outfit. I shrugged and glowered at his beautiful creamy face, sprinkled with freckles like a soft dusting of pepper. How I longed to run my fingers across each one in turn. I wanted to tell him so, but fought it.

"What do you care?" I asked furiously, "You're too busy with your small tits girlfriend!" his fists clenched as I took yet another misplaced stab at Rebecca Coutswald. He ground his teeth. He looked like he was going to hit me. I didn't exactly blame him, not with all the times I'd insulted that girl simply because I was terribly jealous of her.

"I don't care." He told me, dropping his gaze to my feet.

"Then leave me the hell alone,"

"Maybe I don't want to."

"Maybe you should, you goddamned Jew!" he pushed me as soon as I said the word Jew. My back slammed into the lockers and a lock jammed into the small of my back, sending a searing pain up my spine. I let out a yelp.

A guttural sound escaped my lips and threw my books to the floor with a huge bang. The clatter caught the attention of the other students in the hallway; they began to gather around us encouraging us to fight. I threw a right hook, but Kyle easily dodged it with spectacular form honed from years of basketball and I flew past him. He kicked me in my back and I sailed forward, my face slamming into the tile. "Had enough, fat boy? Why don't you just stop being a dick? You're never going to win."

Shakily pushing myself up, I turned on him like a wolf preparing for the kill. I nailed him in the stomach, putting all of my weight behind my clenched fist. I rained blows on him until his fist collided with the bridge of my nose.

"Eric, STOP! NO!" my conscious begged. I was taking out my pent-up aggression and love on the very object of my affection in a sick metaphorical way of trying to express the feelings. Blood was dripping out of my nose and into my open mouth as I struggled for breath and Kyle's lip was bleeding. There was a nasty gash on my cheek. I was dripping tons of blood onto the tile that was as red as Kyle's hair. I stood up and growled "Fuck you,"

He glared directly into my eyes before throwing a running tackle into my gut that knocked the air from my lungs. We slammed into the ground with him on top of me and our eyes locked and for a moment, we stopped moving. The world around me faded into nothingness. The pain in my eye and back ceased to be and the catcalls faded into silence as I was trapped in those emerald pools.

I wanted to kiss him, but fearing that he could feel my boner against his leg, I did the only thing I could think of. I used my palm and uppercut his chin to send him flying. I pushed myself to my feet unsteadily.

- 0 -

I waited in the nurse's office while Kyle was in with the principal. Nurse Roberts gave me a paper towel to stem the bleeding from my nose while she dabbed anesthetic on my cheek. The sting made me cringe. I sucked a quick breath of air between my teeth. She put a bandage over the cut.

Bebe Stevens entered the Clinic.

Her eye was puffed up and purpling. Her shiner was even worse than mine. It looked fresh too, like someone had just made it. The nurse looked at her and didn't even blink. It was as if she was unimpressed by the huge black and blue monster engulfing the tiny blonde's face like Indian war paint. Nurse Roberts nodded and jerked her head towards the beds. She turned away from us to write Bebe's name down in the log.

Bebe sat next to me on the hard plastic bed and folded her skeleton fingers. She looked even thinner than she had a few weeks ago. Her wrists were bony and protruding, the skin was pulled over them so tightly they may have ripped. Her skin was so pasty it looked almost see though.

She looked over at me and I smiled slightly. "What happened to you?" I asked, playfully "Walk into a door?"

Bebe grinned, touching her swollen eye "Yeah, I fell down the stairs." She joked, laughing weakly. I was afraid if she laughed too hard she might collapse into herself like a paper lantern.

The nurse turned to back towards us and handed an ice pack to Bebe to place over her eye. "What happened this time, Bebe?" she asked, unable to hide her skepticism. As I suspected, Nurse Roberts must have been used to seeing the frizzy haired blonde in her office. Bebe swallowed, I could her tiny Adam's apple bob in her throat.

"I g—got hit in the eye with a baseball in Gym," she stuttered her explanation.

"More like baseball bat!" I muttered out of the corner of my mouth. She glared at me. I ignored her and turned away, pressing the tissue to my nose.

I could feel Bebe shaking like a leaf while Nurse Roberts stared her down, searching her pallor face for the truth. She sighed and shook her head. "You need to be more careful." She said, looking directly into Bebe's watering brown eyes. Her cynicism bled through every word.

We left the Nurse's Office at the same time, walking side-by-side. It was already lunch and truth be told, I didn't feel like going to any of my classes. Bebe looked over at me, "So, what happened to you?" she asked, politely gesturing to my busted nose and bandaged cheek.

"Got in a fight," I said gruffly.

"Oh, so you're the bad ass now, huh Cartman?" she smiled gently, the mere gesture made her skin stretch over her bones to a point where it might rip. "Who did you fight with?" she pressed, the curiosity in her voice was evident. Heh, it had been over six years since we last spoke one-on-one and she was still as big of a gossip as she had been in the fourth grade.

I glanced at her from underneath my slashed brown bangs. "I got into a fight with Kyle." I admitted, staring down at my feet. Suddenly, she burst out laughing. I looked over at her. "What's so funny?"

"I'm just really, really not surprised." She told me, flipping her blonde curls with a quick flick of her scrawny wrist. I frowned, once she spotted the look on my face and giggled again. "Well, would you be? You and that boy have been at each other's throats since you were in diapers. I'm surprised you're even still friends!" she laughed to herself and I felt a stab of pain. I knew that Bebe had no intention to upset me, but she was right. Kyle and I were always fighting. If only she knew why…

"We're not."

"What?"

"We're not friends." My voice shook more than I intended it too. My eyes were locked on my black and white star shoelaces. I could feel tears forming in the corner of my good eye. Kyle and I weren't friends anymore. It was obvious he didn't consider us friends. I was finished with Kyle and he was most definitely finished with me.

"Oh," Bebe whispered, then seeing me she added "I'm sorry." I shook my head, telling her that it was nothing to worry about. She smiled weakly, playing with the hem of her shirt. "Hey, wanna blow this joint? We don't really look too suited for class." She laughed and took my hand. I baulked. "Let's get some coffee."

- 0 -

The coffee shop was dim. The smell of cigarette smoke and marijuana hung heavy in the air. Barely anyone was in the shop and thankfully, I didn't see any of the Goths. I didn't want to have to explain Bebe to Henrietta. She directed me to a corner table and went up to the counter to order us drinks. She got us two steaming lattes. She paid for them and brought them back to the table.

The drinks she placed in front of us were served in fancy glass mugs with whipped cream and a dusting of cinnamon. It was by far the gayest drink I had ever laid eyes on, but my God it was delicious. I practically chugged the whole thing in two minutes. We drank in silence.

Finally, Bebe spoke, "So Cartman, why so Goth?" she asked, swirling a biscotti in her latte. She pulled it out and took a bite. Chewing slowly, she looked up at me, waiting for an answer I didn't have.

"I…" I stuttered over my words. I looked down at my nearly empty glass and frowned. Why had I gone Goth? Why had I chosen this path? Was it simply because I was in love with Kyle and wanted to avoid him or was it something deeper? Over the last three weeks, never had I once considered why I had made this decision in the first place. I settled on an answer, "I needed to get away from the dickweeds friends I was with for people who understand me better."

She frowned and sipped her latte. "That's so brave of you." She whispered into the glass, the steam from her mouth fogged the sides. I looked up at her inquiringly, I was quite positive that absolutely nothing about me was brave.

"What?"

"Well, I mean… to be able to just stop like that. To just say no more, that's really cool." I could see the tears in the corners of her doe eyes. She looked like she was going to cry when she met my gaze. Why was she telling me all of this? Why was I here? What did she want?

"Bebe, what are you talking about?" I asked her. Her gaze became pained. She bit her lip and shook her head ferociously. I was almost afraid that the pounding of her frizzy locks on her face would shatter the thin bones.

"N—nothing," she covered badly, chugging the rest of her latte in mere seconds. She slammed the glass down on the table and wiped the condensation from her forehead.

"Bebe, you're not telling me something." I pressed; for once I was actually heeding my conscious without it actually having to speak to me. I could see someone in trouble and I wasn't running away. I was actually just offering my services without any pressure from my conscious. What in the world had happened to Eric Cartman?

"I SAID IT WAS NOTHING!" she screamed, the tears fell freely down her sallow face now. She stood up abruptly and ran from the coffee shop. I sat at the table, staring at her empty glass. Well, for once I tried to be nice and look how it turned out for me. I was most definitely never, ever going to make that mistake again. I shook my head. I would just stick with the Goths and remain completely impervious to any type of human emotion.

"Shut up, Eric."

- 0 -

When I got home, my mother was cooking. She was dressed in a green turtleneck with a long gold chain around her neck and tasteful corduroys. It was just one of the many outfits she kept in her secondary wardrobe. The one she wore when she was trying to pass herself off as a human being instead of a sperm dumpster.

She whistled while she stirred what was on the stove. I studied her movements with dull observation. A stray wisp of her brown hair had escaped her perfect bun to fall on her forehead. She looked like the picture perfect mother. It was like she had danced off the cover of Good Housekeeping and into our kitchen, but I knew everything was a façade. I wondered why I bothered with it anymore. I should just call her out on it.

"Hey pookie!" Mom squealed when she spotted me, her eyes lit up with faux affection. I wish she could've seen herself last night. "I'm making a stew, would my cuddle muffin like some?" she cooed the question to me as if I was a child.

"No,"

She stopped stirring abruptly and turned to me, "Why? Poopsy, you haven't been eating a lot lately. What's going on?" she pressed slightly. My mother's voice was so saccharine sweet it was like being spoken to by a pixie stick.

I swallowed, I didn't want her to catch on and I could always puke it up, "Fine, bring it up to my room." I told her. I walked out of the room without another word. Mr. Kitty wound between my legs as I walked into the living room. I stopped for a moment and picked her up. I carried her up the stairs and into my room.

"You're food will be up in a minute my Sweetie Bunny!" my mother called up the stairs as I closed the door on her voice.

I sat Mr. Kitty on my bed and lay next to her. I stroked her soft as silk charcoal fur with the tips of my fingers and sighed. My breath blew her fur in the opposite direction. She looked at me with wide green eyes filled with loving adoration. She was the only one who truly loved me. She didn't see the nastiness in me. She couldn't. How could she? Her simple green eyes that could see so much at the same time saw so very little. They drifted closed as I stroked her fur. The soft rumble of her purr filled the floating silence of my room.

I reached over to my bedside table and grabbed my notebook and pen. I flipped it open to a blank page and began to write, pouring my tortured soul out onto the pages. My mother, Bebe, Kyle, the Goths, everything…

I could hear my mother whistling downstairs. She thought we had the perfect fairy tale life, that we were the greeting card family, minus of course the father. I guess I never had the heart to tell her exactly how wrong she was. That our entire life was a façade, that every time she put on a nice outfit, anyone who knew her realized that underneath it was her trashy lingerie and the crotchless panties. Everyone knew that she had no idea who my fucking father was. That she was a coke head and a total god damned whore. It was as if she thought the whole world was oblivious to her fuck ups. Or to mine, like no one knew that her son was a sordid asshole. Fucking greeting card family...

Yeah Right.