KYLE'S POV
I feel myself slowly come to consciousness, and I instantly realize that I'm not in my bed. Rather, I'm in a sleeping bag on the floor in a hospital room. I pop up, remembering the situation with Ike. I push myself off the ground to check on him. To my surprise, he isn't laying in his bed. I step to the bathroom and knock. Nothing. I notice that it's unlocked so I go ahead and open it. No one's in here.
"Ike?" I ask as I step outside our room.
The hallway looks eerily empty and sounds like a ghost town as well. I stand still and I vaguely hear something from the far distance.
Yelling... Crying, even?
I walk in the direction of the sounds. It sounds like a child. But somehow this child sounds familiar, as if I used to know this person a long time ago.
I keep following this sound and eventually the hall dead-ends. I see one last room with large sealed windows. I look inside and see Ike, around 7 or 8 years old.
And then I see it. The bastard is cornering Ike, and Ike is screaming, "No! Don't touch me!" he locks eyes with me. "KYLE!"
I look for a door but can't get in. I bang on the window but I find out quickly that it's thick plastic; not glass. I proceed to slam my body against it, hoping it will still break.
"Get the FUCK away from him you sick fuck!" I scream, hitting the window.
But I can't get at him. I'm not strong enough to break through. Still, I keep banging at it and banging until...
I bolt upright, letting out a heavy breath. "Shit," I whisper to myself. "I fell asleep."
I stand, stretching my limbs before glancing at the time on my phone. Well, at least I wasn't asleep for long. I glance at Ike, who is still fast asleep. He looks peaceful for a split second, but then his eyebrows draw together. He's probably having a nightmare. I continue watching him, debating whether or not I should wake him. He'd probably just be angry if I did.
I want more than anything in the fucking world for him to just talk to me. I want him to let me help and support him in any way I can. It can't be easy going through it all alone. I want him to let me in... but he never does.
"Ike," I murmur, standing at his bedside. I take his hand in mine, realizing that our hands are the same size. When did that happen? It's been so fucking long, I feel like I missed watching him grow up.
I sniffle a bit. I feel a sob ready to erupt from my throat, but I don't let it. I keep quiet.
There are so many damn things I want to say to him, but I can never get the words out. Maybe I could do it right now, while he's asleep. Then he'd listen without even realizing it.
"I'm sorry I was never around," I whisper, "but that will change... if you want it to." I let out a shuddery sigh, the more I talk the weaker my voice gets. "I know I want it to change," I say softly. While I hold his left hand in my left hand, I use my right hand and pat his forearm. But something feels not right. I look and I see some thin, long scabs peeking out from his rolled-up sleeves. Softly, I let go of his hand and roll up his sleeve a little more, only to expose more scars and scabs.
Jesus Christ.
I stagger backwards and sit down on the nearby chair. I knew that we both struggled with depression. I knew that our religious and overbearing upbringing messed with our heads. I knew that we had a few things in common. But to find out that Ike is a cutter too? All this time and I was so wrapped up in myself that I couldn't see the obvious!
I wonder if Mom and Dad knew. If so, why didn't they tell me?
"Ike..." I say, too speechless to say anything else. I feel my eyes getting watery. "I didn't know you were hurting that bad," I continue, now truly empathizing with him.
I put my head in my hands, leaning forward in a slumped position.
I can't fucking believe this. I don't know what else to say to him. I don't know how to tell him how I'm feeling. I don't know how to tell him how much I love him.
After a few minutes, I raise my head and stare at him intensely, like I'm trying to telepathically communicate it all to him.
He looks so young and small lying there. Then I remember he is. The world has just hardened him. He's always acted older than he was. It's just gotten worse as he grew up.
While I'm deep in thought, my phone rings. I see it's Cartman.
"Hello?" I ask, trying to stable my voice as much as possible.
"Kahl?" he says. "How's it going? Have you talked to him yet?"
"No not yet," I breathe. "He's been asleep, for the most part."
"I'm sure he needs to rest," I hear him say. "I'm on my way over, by the way."
My eyes widen. I look at the clock on the wall.
"Christ, Cartman, it's 4:03 AM!" I exclaim. "Don't you have more important matters to take care of besides me?"
"I told you I would bring you coffee," he says. "Plus I'm not sleeping too well myself."
"But nothing's open," I say.
"I'll think of something," he retorts.
"It's too late anyway," I murmur. "I ended up falling asleep."
"It's only natural," he says. "You were probably tired. I'll be there shortly."
I force a weary chuckle and then say, "All right, thanks."
"See you in a bit," he responds before hanging up.
I put my phone back in my pocket, pacing around the room on quiet feet.
My parents will probably be back in a matter of hours. Things will be hectic for a long time. I don't really want to think about what things are going to be like long-term, but it is going to suck.
It wasn't long before I heard a knock. If that's Cartman, damn he's fast!
I open the door and sure enough it's him. He's actually carrying what looks like to be coffee in his right hand, in a Starbucks-like container.
"Here's your coffee," he says, handing it to me.
"What is this?" I ask. I tap a sip and I notice the whipped cream on top as well. "Where'd you get this?"
The brunet shrugs. "I made it," he states nonchalantly.
It tastes amazing-like a caramel frappuccino. "How?" I ask, taking another sip.
"I bought one of those pre-made Starbucks frappuccinos from the grocery store but then I added some cappuccino yogurt, more ice, and blended it in a blender," he explains. "And I added whipped cream."
"It's really good," I say before taking another sip. I have to say, I'm kinda impressed that he went to these lengths.
I noticed that he's still standing awkwardly outside of the room. "I'm sorry! I said. "Come in."
I step aside and let Cartman in and I pull up a chair next to mine, which is very close to Ike.
He just smiles.
"Thank you," I add.
"Sure," he responds. "It was nothing."
"It's not nothing," I say pointedly. "It's something. It's more than something. Everything you're doing... It means a lot. So, thank you."
"All right," he murmurs softly. "You're welcome, then, Kahl." He nods to Ike and asks, "When do you
think he'll wake?"
"Hopefully soon," I say with a shrug, "but I don't know. Sometimes I glance at him and I wonder if he's just faking sleep so he won't have to deal with us. He's... always been a good liar when he feels that he needs to be."
"Hm," Cartman muses aloud. "Well, he can't sleep forever- pretend or not."
"I know," I say. I quickly glance at Ike's left arm, then look away.
"What's wrong, Jew?" Cartman asks.
"I... Nothing Cartman," I respond.
He stares at me, not amused. "You're a really shitty liar, so you might as well spit it out,"
"Cartman," I start. "You already know so many of my family's secrets. If I tell you something else, you promise not to tell anyone, right?"
He nods. "'Course, Kahl. I promise on my mother's grave." His expression is solemnly serious.
"Come here," I stand up and very quietly get close to Ike. "Look at this," I gently roll up my brother's sleeve. I stare at the scars again, my heart sinking into my stomach. I turn my gaze to Cartman, whose eyes are filled with sadness- much like when he has felt sad for me.
"Jesus Christ, Kahl," he whispers.
"That's exactly what I said," I quietly respond and I pull Ike's sleeve back down before returning to my chair
Cartman stands nearby and he's silent. He probably doesn't know what to say. Fuck, I don't even know what to say. So, we're both quiet for many long moments.
"He needs help," Cartman murmurs out of the blue.
I can't help but scoff. "He's been to countless doctors over the years... It's never done much good. I feel like you need to be completely ready to get help. Ike never was. Maybe he never will be."
"You don't know that," Cartman challenges. "Maybe he is now."
I just shrug my shoulders. "I don't know," I whisper. "I don't know much of anything."
"Not your fault," Cartman tells me.
I shrug again. "Whatever..."
"Kyle," he pronounces my name correctly, which he doesn't do often. "You can really help Ike out now."
"How?" I ask.
"Talk to him," he says. "Open up to him. Let him know he's not alone."
"But... What if he tells our parents some of the shit that I do?"
Cartman thinks for a second before responding. "Didn't you and Ike used to trust each other a long time ago? Maybe even kept secrets from your parents?"
I ponder his question. Yeah, I think there was a time or two when we both swore each other into secrecy not to tell Mom and Dad something. Usually I didn't rat Ike out unless I felt that Mom and Dad needed to know, like that time he was sleeping with his teacher.
"But Cartman, that was so long ago-"
"He's still the same person," he says, cutting me off. He turns his head to take a good look at my little brother. "Yeah, he's changed a lot from since I've last seen him. Yeah, he has a lot more issues now than he did then. Yeah, he's got some serious shit he's going to have to work on, but it's still Ike."
I stare at my childhood friend, wondering what he's getting at. For whatever reason I'm speechless, because Cartman seems really compelled by what he's saying.
"It really has been the exact same thing for me with you," he adds.
"What are you talking about?" I ask weakly.
"I mean, when I saw how much you changed when I first saw you that one night, I was shocked. It kinda made me sad to see Kyle goodie two-shoes Broflovski be drunk off his ass and sleeping around with random men," he talks with his hands, motioning. "And then it REALLY made me sad to see all the self-inflicted scars on your body. But I still wanted to talk and hang out with you Kahl, because I knew that somewhere deep inside, underneath all the bullshit and baggage that you have held onto because of life getting in the way, you're still the same Jew I knew back then."
I force a smile. "You have a knack for saying the exact right thing these days, y'know."
"I see a lot of your old traits - the traits I remember," he continues. "When we first got reacquainted I thought everything about your old self was gone forever, but it's not. It's just... hidden. Perhaps it's like that for Ike, too. When people are hurt enough times, they put on masks to protect themselves."
"Yeah," I say softly, knowing he's right. Suddenly, I feel optimistic - much more so than I did before Cartman arrived. I just hope that I won't end up disappointed.
I'll be honest with Ike. I'll tell him about my experiences. I might not know exactly what he's going through, but I know what it's like to get hurt. I know what it's like to be sad. I know what it's like to be disappointed by the people in your life. I know what it's like to feel trapped and sick. I know what it's like to hate yourself and I know what it's like to want to die.
"Well," Cartman starts, breaking my train of thought. "I guess I should go back and try to get some sleep. I do need to finish packing my my myum's house tomorrow."
I nod. "I understand. Thanks for the coffee, Cartman, and thank you for stopping by."
He smiles, his big brown eyes looking more beautiful than ever before. "Anytime, Kahl."
.
.
"What do you think your brother will want to drink?"
"I don't know. Orange juice, maybe? He'll probably drink whatever."
I feel the florescent lights hit my eyes while I hear a couple of voices talk close to me.
"Mmm..." I moan as I stretch by arms.
"Kyle?" I hear a familiar voice from above say my name.
"Oh, Kyle is it?" A female voice says and then a face comes into view as she squats down to get closer to my eye level.
"My name is Candy, I'm Ike's nurse." Although I don't go for women anymore, she is definitely beautiful – dark brown hair with blonde highlights, a nice tan, and honey brown eyes. She extends her hand and smiles, revealing her perfect teeth.
"N-nice to meet you," I mumble. "Wait, Ike is up?"
"Yep." I hear a familiar voice to my left. I prop myself up and turn to see that Ike is sitting upright himself, with a tray of breakfast in front of him. He lightly smiles.
I force myself off the floor and – while careful not to hit or knock anything on his breakfast tray – I lean over and give him a big bear hug.
"How long have you been awake?" I ask while hugging him.
"Um... hm, a while," he says, sounding like he had to think about it for a moment.
I release him and watch his groggy movements. He looks pale, but he's awake and he smiled at me. That's something.
"Were you awake to hear any of the things I said to you?" I ask.
He doesn't respond. He just gives me an airy smile - one that says, "You don't know me. I still have secrets."
I hate that look.
When the nurse leaves us, I debate how to bring up what I want to say.
Is it too soon?
Should I wait?
If so, for how long?
I feel myself frown, unsure where to go from here.
"What is it, Kyle?" Ike asks calmly, not bothering to look at me. There's something mocking about his tone, like he finds the situation funny in a way. Or maybe it's just my confusion he finds funny.
"I'm... I'm just glad you're okay," I whisper.
"Hm," he murmurs to himself. "I'm not."
I wince, knowing what he's referring to. "I know," I say, "but I'm glad that you're alive."
"I'm not," he says again, this time with more anger and bitterness.
I remove the metal down on his side of the bed and side on the edge.
"Why haven't you called or texted me at all?" I ask.
"Funny," he says slowly. "I could ask you the same question."
I sigh. "I know I've failed you as your big brother, Ike."
He shrugs. "It's whatever."
"I just want things to change between us, like be closer like we used to be."
"Mmm," he mumbles, and I'm not really sure what that means.
"In fact, I think we have more in common than you know," I state.
He lightly raises a brow. "How so?" he asks.
"Your arm..." I start. My eyes lower to his left forearm. I gently touch the scabs with my right hand.
He flinches and moves his arm, as if it hurts to be touched there. "You're a cutter, Ike," I state gingerly.
"So, what?" he retorts harshly. "Don't fucking say it like that... I'm not some emo freak."
"I didn't say you were..." I let out a sigh, glancing at the door to make sure no one is about to step inside. Then I stand up. I roll my sleeves up, then I lift the hem of my shirt to show him some of my other scars – new and old. I quickly cover myself again and then tell him, "I'm just saying that I know what it's like."
He stares at me critically and I feel like he's burning holes through my body with his eyes. "Since when?" he pries.
"I was thirteen," I tell him.
"Why?" he asks tersely, like the whole thing is making him angry.
"Honestly, I'm not completely sure," I admit. "I guess I felt lonely, so I found ways to hurt myself, people to surround myself with... ways to numb it. Then I felt less lonely."
"But it doesn't last, does it?" Ike questions knowingly.
"No, it never does," I agree.
"So, what else do you do?" he pries. "Tell me some of your secrets, Kyle. Tell me the things you don't want me to know."
I hesitate, not really sure how comfortable I feel divulging more secrets. "Well, I've never really tried hard drugs like you have, but I do drink... A lot."
Ike's expression looks surprised. "Are you an alcoholic?"
I shake my head. "I don't think so. But maybe? Again, I really don't know. I could just be in denial."
"What else?" My little brothers says, expectedly.
"What else?" I ask, almost upset. I try to calm down. "What would you like to know Ike?"
He screws his mouth to one side, thinking. Then he smiles, in that knowing way. "You're gay, aren't you, Kyle?" he says, smiling.
I breath out a heavy breath. "Yes, I'm gay Ike."
"I knew it!" He pipes up and this is the first time I've seen him smile a real smile in the last 24 hours. It makes me smile as well. "When did you know?"
"I guess towards the end of college," I explain.
"You have a boyfriend?" he asks, his smiling broadening.
I shake my head. "No. Well, been on a couple dates with someone, but I wouldn't call that a relationship." I try to play it cool and keep it neutral, so he won't know that I'm talking about someone we both know.
"You know I don't give a fuck," he reassures me.
"Thanks," I murmur. "He's... I don't know. He's just nice."
"And you're not used to that?" Ike guesses.
"Not really," I admit. "I have a bad track record."
I've probably fucked and been fucked by over a hundred different guys. Most of them were assholes, but I didn't really care because I was getting what I wanted in most cases.
"Me, too," Ike snorts.
"Cartman would probably call me an alcoholic," I say as an afterthought, accidentally letting his name slip out.
"Cartman? What else would he say about you?" Ike wonders.
"He'd probably tell me I'm too smart for my own good," I start. "He'd probably tell me I'm too hard on myself, that I have too much self-blame and guilt... that I have too many harmful hobbies, bad habits, poor ways of coping. He'd say I need therapy to deal with my mood swings."
Ike looks mildly humoured. "It seems like he knows you well."
"Sometimes it's like he knows me better than I know myself," I chuckle. "I think he just has a knack for reading people."
"You seem to like him a lot," Ike notes. "Funny... Cartman. I never would've expected it."
"Me, neither," I confess.
Funny how life goes.
"I'm not going to tell mom and dad, so don't worry," he reassures me again, as if he can read my mind.
Funnier, I think Ike and Cartman are the only two people who seem to have that ability.
"I appreciate it," I respond. "So, what about you? Why do you cut?" I ask.
The raven-haired boy shrugs. "Don't know really. I mean, sometimes just out of frustration when I run out of roxies, yah know?"
I nod, not completely understanding his sentiment. But I get doing it out of total frustration and not knowing what else to do. "I wish you would stop."
"I wish YOU would stop," he retorts. I realized that me getting onto him is definitely the pot calling the kettle black.
"So," I start. "You really tried to kill yourself yesterday, didn't know?"
"I did," he whispers, looking at me straight in my eyes.
"I know mom and dad are looking into rehab places," I say. "Will you actually try this time to get better?"
"I don't know," he confesses.
"Will you try?"
"Maybe," he murmurs.
"Maybe?"
"Yeah, maybe. We'll see."
I can tell I'm not going to get any less-than-vague answers out of him today. And I guess that's fine.
"All right," I relent easily. "I know it can be hard."
"How about..." he starts in the same, soft murmur, "I try if you try."
"Sounds like a challenge," I say, forcing a smile even though I still feel like crying. "All right, let's do
it."
.
.
It was around noon when my parents came to trade off. My mom drove and essentially she came to drop off my dad and to pick me up. Of course, they were emotional, not bothering to hide their tears as they hugged and cried in front of Ike. I could tell Ike didn't want to deal with it, nor did he want to answer any of their questions. The doctor came in with the nurse Candy and announced that he needs to stay for a least the remainder of the day. Also, they all agreed on a good rehab for Ike to immediately move into after he is discharged. Just like everything else, my little brother begrudgingly agreed with this.
Now I feel myself having a hard time fighting sleep, sitting in the passenger's side riding back to my parents' house in their car. I'm pretty sure I would fall asleep right now if it's weren't for my mom's gregarious ways. She's trying to be optimistic, but I can tell she's worried. Mainly, she's talking about the rehab, saying, "I think this will be a good place for Ike," and "it has a lot of good reviews online."
I half-awakenly chime along, agreeing.
"So what did you and your brother talk about last night?" she eventually asks.
"He didn't wake up yesterday," I answer. "But we talked some this morning."
"Oh yeah, shnookems?" I hate it when she calls me those lame-ass nicknames. "What about?"
I shrug. "His depression. Life. Why things can't be the way they used to be."
She's quiet for a minute, keeping her eyes on the road. I think the last part of what I said has her thinking. "Sounds like you two had an important talk," she finally says.
"Yeah," I murmur.
"Will you be around much?" she questions.
I can tell she wants me to be. She wants me to be around for Ike, but her and my father probably miss me, too. I'm their son, after all. Me and Ike both are and I know this can't be easy on them, either.
At least they don't have to know about what I get up to. They don't need to have more shit to stress over.
Ike knows now. It felt good to be honest with him. I felt like we connected. I hope he felt that way, too.
"Yeah, Mom," I respond. "I'll be around. I'll visit Ike, too."
She smiles at that, giving me a quick glance before returning her gaze to the road. "I'm glad to hear that."
.
.
My mom drops me off at my apartment and as soon as I get in, I walk to my room and flop on my bed. God, I'm tired. I'm almost too tired to notice my phone vibrating with a text message. It's Cartman.
CARTMAN: Hey, how are you Jew?
ME: Good. Just got home.
CARTMAN: How's Ike?
ME: Better. My dad's with him now. He's going to stay there another day but then he's going to start rehab tomorrow.
CARTMAN: That's good.
I set my phone aside, kicking off my pants and removing my shirt. I place my hand on my stomach, touching the rough skin before staring down at all the marks.
I wonder how long they'd take to disappear if I stopped. Probably many long years, if ever.
My phone beeps again a second later.
CARTMAN: How do you feel?
I roll my eyes and then I tell him that I feel like shit. No point in sugar coating it. He'd just accuse me of lying anyway.
A few minutes later, I hear a knock at my door. Hesitantly, I stand up and move to answer it. I look through the peep hole and see that it's Cartman. I open the door and then stand here in my shorts before self-consciously wrapping my arms around myself, trying to hide what I can even though it's in vain.
"You don't have to do that," he says to me.
I let out a laugh that sounds like a sob. "I feel like I do." I turn around and he follows me into my bedroom. I let myself relax when we're in the dim light of my room. I sit on my bed, up against my headboard. He sits near the bottom.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"No," I murmur. "Why are you here?"
"I didn't want you to do anything stupid," he admits. "I didn't want you to hurt yourself."
"So, distract me," I challenge.
"How?"
"You can fuck me if you want."
He glances away, letting out a sharp breath. "No, I don't want to like this. You're tired and upset."
I scoff at him. "C'mooooooon," I urge, crawling closer to him. "You were so sweet to me last night, bringing me that fancy coffee drink you made. I want to repay you," I reach up, grabbing his shoulder.
Cartman pushes my hand away. "If we're going to fool around, the first time we do that is not being you're upset and you're looking for a distraction, like you said."
"What's the problem?" I ask, kinda getting pissed off. "We've been on a few dates and all we can do it make out? You trying to wait for marriage or something?"
"No, KAHL," he hisses my name, showing that he's getting irritated too. "But I'm trying to do things right here. If we rush into things or sleep together when you already have a ton of shit going on, what good will that do?"
I shrug, half-listening. "I don't know Cartman, but I guess we won't know until we try, now will we?" I wrap my arms around him from behind. I bury my nose in his neck and his college smells amazing. I also squeeze and cop a feel of chest, which is firm and feels very sexy.
Then, I feel my arms being thrown to my sides while the brunet gets up.
"I'm not fucking with you, Kahl," he says, standing in front of me and facing me. "I'll talk to you later," is all he says while he heads for the door.
I quickly follow him. "Why are you being such a dick?"
"Because you don't listen, Jew! You've never been able to listen!"
I stare at him, hurt. I don't know how things turned so bad so quickly between us but I'm in disbelief.
"Look," he says, lowering his voice. "You say you feel horrible all the time, right?"
I nod. Even pissed off, there's no point in lying to him. He practically knows all of my and my family's secrets.
"Then maybe, JUST maybe if you want things to change," his voice gets higher on the last word, "you should try doing things differently."
"Different how?" I ask stupidly.
"Don't do the things you usually do," he starts. "Look at things with a little hindsight instead of just jumping into every situation. Now, listen... I want to take things slow with you because I see potential. What would happen if we just jumped right into things?"
"I don't know," I murmur.
He lets out a sigh. "I want to get to know you. I know there are probably things you still haven't told me. I want you to trust me completely before we do anything more."
I grit my teeth, pushing aside the urge to snap at him. So, instead, I say, "Don't leave. I'll be mad if you do."
He stares at me for a moment, contemplating before finally relenting. "Fine, but I'm taking the sofa."
"No, stay in my room with me," I insist. "I swear I won't try anything. I'll just sleep."
He looks hesitant, but he agrees nonetheless. "All right... but if you do try anything, I'll leave."
"I'll be good," I promise. "Just... just stick around."
He softens. "Fine."
So, the two of us return to my room. I lie down and he sits with me. We're both quiet, but I can tell he's staring at me. He's probably thinking things, trying to come up with some way to help me, even though he knows it's not possible.
.
.
I feel pretty groggy when I wake up, but I slowly stretch my limbs and yawn, realizing that it must be sometime in the afternoon. Or is it?
I glance at the clock on my in-table. 6:22. Shit! How did I sleep so late?
Then something strikes me –
He's not here.
"Cartman?" I ask, sitting in an upward position. I stand up and stalk over to the dresser, where my cellphone is. I notice a long text from Fatass.
CARTMAN: Hey Jew. You passed out really hard and I had to go get some stuff down. Hope you slept well.
Hope you slept well?!
What is that supposed to mean? I told him not to leave! Does he want to get away from me? Is he looking for a way out?
I grit my teeth, throwing my phone against the wall and moving into the bathroom.
How the hell should I even respond to a message like that? It seems to fucking unceremonious. Of course I didn't sleep well! How the hell could I possibly sleep well after the night I've had?
But I guess I should have expected this. I told him he could leave. I just wish he would have stayed and read between the lines, realizing I didn't want him to go. It's always hard waking up alone when you spent the night with someone you care about.
I take a shower, washing and rinsing and then drying off.
Once I'm dressed, I sit on my bed, not sure what to do now. I grab my cellphone and see that no one has texted me while I was in the shower, including Cartman. It's kinda funny, I constantly check my cell phone. In fact I'm kinda obsessive about it. I guess, as much as I hate people, I want someone to give a damn, although I'd never admit it aloud. Oh well.
Then I think about my brother. Ike... I wonder how he is? I think my dad's still there watching him. I bet my mom is sad and alone. Without thinking, I instantly dial her number. This feels so weird, since I'm used to just texting her.
"Hello?" she answers sweetly.
"Hey, mom?"
"Yes, sweetie?"
"How are you?" I ask softly.
She hesitates and I hear her let out a soft sigh before saying, "I'm all right, Kyle. This is just... a lot to handle."
"I know," I murmur.
"Why don't you come by the house?" she asks. "Me and your father have been coming back and forth from the hospital, but I'm home now."
She probably doesn't want to be alone. So, I say, "Sure, Mom. I'll swing by in a bit."
With that, I hang up my phone. I grab something to eat and leave my apartment, making my way outside. I take the long way to my parents' house, musing the entire way over. When I'm standing in front of my family home, I raise my hand to knock before letting myself in.
"Mom!" I call as I swing open the door. I'm immediately greeted with a sweet scent and a split second later my mom appears from the kitchen.
"Hi, sweetie," she says, wiping her hands on her apron. She bakes when she's stressed out. She's probably going to be baking a lot lately. "Would you like some apple pie?" she offers. "I'm almost done with it."
I smile lightly, not even bothering to ask why. "Sure, I'll take some."
"But first, have you eaten dinner yet Kyle?" she asks as she takes my wrist and leads me into kitchen. I suppose either way, I'm about to eat something, hungry or not.
"No, not yet," I answer while I sit down at the kitchen table.
"Good!" she says. "I was just about to eat dinner myself."
I watch her hurry herself in the kitchen and it literally takes her less than 5 minutes to bring out roasted chicken, green peas, and sweet potatoes on the table. Everything smells amazing and I'm excited because I know it's going to taste amazing, too.
"So how was your day, Kyle?"
I shrug. "Okay, I guess. I took a long nap when I got home. I woke up like an hour ago."
"Poor baby, so tired," she says before cutting into her chicken. "I know you probably didn't get much sleep last night, Kyle. Your father and I really appreciate what you did. It gave us a chance to sleep."
"But did you really sleep?" I ask before eating some peas.
She softens before forcing a smile. "Not really," she admits, "but that's okay."
"Is it?" I wonder.
"Yes," she says. "Your brother is suffering. It's not really about me and your father right now."
"I suppose so," I relent quietly.
She puts her utensils down and stares at me. "Kyle, why do you hide away in your apartment all the time? You never come out."
"I don't know," I murmur. "I guess it's easier to just... not be a part of the world."
"Is that how you see it?"
"I guess."
She's frowning by now, looking piteous and guilty. "I'm sorry, Kyle. I'm sorry if me and your father ever made you feel like you were second."
"Don't be, Mom," I insist. "I understand."
She shakes her head. "You know how we constantly had to watch Ike to make sure he didn't do anything stupid," she says. "But we should've kept a better eye on you, too."
After chewing a large piece of my chicken and washing it down with my tea, I scrunch my face. "What do you mean?"
"Kyle," she softens her voice. "I know I don't see you as much as I would like, but even still, I'm still your mother. And I always know when something is wrong. Always."
I shake my head, dismissing what my mom is insinuating. I cut another piece of the chicken. "Nothing's wrong with me, mom." I say, keeping my eyes on the food. "I have a good job. I pay my bills. I'm doing well."
"But sweetie," she starts. "It's not good that you hide away from everyone, from the world. It's not normal." She emphasizes the world 'normal'.
"What's 'normal', mom?" I ask, catching a bit of anger in my voice.
"People need social contact," she says.
"Oh, trust me, I get plenty of it," I say with a callous laugh.
I think she understands what I'm hinting at because the pity in her expression only grows. "Kyle... that can't make you happy."
"It doesn't," I say unceremoniously, "but I've come to terms with that - I'm not happy. I doubt I'll ever be happy."
"So, you've settled?" she asks.
"I guess so."
She clicks her tongue. "Tsk... you can't settle, Kyle. If you do, then nothing changes."
"It's too hard to make changes," I tell her, growing tired. "Every time I think I'm headed somewhere, I end up either sabotaging myself or something goes wrong and it's out of my control."
"And you give up?"
"Yes, I give up," I murmur.
"Kyle, you can have anything that you put your mind to," she says. She moves some hair behind her left ear. "And honestly, sweetie, you deserve better."
I shrug. "It is what it is."
"Why do you do this?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Do what?"
"Treat yourself so badly, Kyle."
"Because..." I put my fork down. "I deserve it."
"Kyle, sweetie," my mom pleads as she reaches and grabs my right hand. "Don't say that," her voice cracks, and I can tell that she's choking up.
I feel my heart sink into my stomach. "I'm so sorry, Mom." I squeeze her hand. "I wish I could be that golden son for you. You know, married, with 2.5 kids and just all perfect and happy." The idea of being married to a women and having kids makes me feel sick, and I'm guessing that I'm showing my disgust on my face. "I mean, I would like that for you, at least," I add.
She just shakes her head. "It's not about impressing other people, Kyle. Do what makes you happy. You can't please everyone else... and for the record, you could never disappoint me. If you don't want children, that's okay. If you don't want to get married, that's okay. And... if you don't want to be with a woman, that is also okay."
I let out a breath, closing my eyes for a moment. "Thanks, Mom..."
"Sure, dear," she says, letting go of my hand. "Now... if you've been feeling this way for a long time, then I think you should seek professional help."
"Like Ike?" I ask with a snort. "Well, we all know how well that's been going..."
"You and Ike are two very different people with very different experiences," she points out. "It might benefit you in a way it hasn't benefited Ike. Please, give it a try. I can make the call for you, if you'd like."
Sighing to myself, I force a smile. "I can make the call, Mom."
"But will you?"
"Yes," I promise.
.
.
After dinner, I help my mom clean up and put the dishes in the dishwasher.
"Oh wait!" she says, before we put up our utensils. "I almost forgot about the apple pie! You have to have a slice!"
I sigh, smiling. "Mom, I'm really stuffed," I try to protest but I knew it's useless.
"No no no, Kyle! I know just how much you love apple pie! And besides, you could use a few more pounds!" She turns to the pie and slices it.
I relent and take my seat back at the table. I am finally old and wise enough to know now that there is really no point in arguing with a Jewish woman.
As expected, the apple pie is simply amazing. It really takes me back to happier, simpler times. Times when my mom would tell me in the afternoon that she was going to make apple pie for dessert and it was all I though about it until I finally got it. What I would give to live during those simpler days again. I savour each bite of the pie, wishing I could eat it every day.
"Yah know, Kyle," my mom starts after eating a bite of the pie. "I think therapy will be good for you.
Maybe you'll find out why you're depressed."
"Why I am depressed?" I ask.
"Why, certainly Kyle," she responds. "With Ike, at least we knew why he was so depressed."
Of course I know she's talking about the molestation.
"I know mom, but..." I trail off, not sure how to explain some of my innermost thoughts to my mom, who I have been so distant to in the recent years. "What if we don't really 'need' a reason to be sad, mom? What if some people are born sad?" I study her face and she looks confused. I continue anyways. "Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, some people are cursed mom? Do you think that maybe this family is cursed?"
She smiles piteously at me. "I don't think we're cursed, Kyle. I think, sometimes, that bad things just happen to good people and we have to take it as a lesson at best."
"Is that how you look at what happened to Ike?" I wonder.
"It's all I can do," she says. "For me and your father, it's a lesson of patience and understanding. For Ike..." she trails off.
"I don't know what kind of lesson it would be for him," I whisper.
She falters, shaking her head and for a few minutes it's quiet – uncomfortably so. "Um..." she starts again, "I raised you, Kyle. I gave birth to you and I raised you. I know you weren't always so sad. You were a happy child."
"I suppose so," I relent.
"Do you feel that we neglected you?" she pries and I can tell that she isn't going to let this go until I at least spill something and give her some sort of answer.
"I don't know, Mom," I mutter. "Maybe when I was younger I felt that way, but I don't know. I understand why it was important for you to always be concentrating on Ike."
"I'm so sorry, Kyle," she says sadly.
I shrug. "It's okay."
"I'm so sorry, Kyle," she repeats, but more emphatically.
"It's okay, Mom," I repeat. "I know."
"Do you really, Kyle?" she asks, pleading.
"Of course I do-"
"Because if I could take it all back- if I could do it all over again- I'm pretty sure... I KNOW that your father and I would do it over again," she explains.
"Don't beat yourself up, Mom," I say sadly.
I can feel myself getting emotional, but I'd rather not start bawling like a baby. I feel like I've been crying too much lately, but I suppose I have a reason for it. So much shit has been happening and it keeps piling up. I feel like I'll never be able to escape these feelings.
Then again, maybe this is why I need therapy. Everyone keeps telling me to go, so maybe I should really just do it.
I force a smile, but it falters.
"Don't do that," she whispers. "Don't... Don't pretend. You don't need to pretend when you're around me. I'm your mother."
"Sorry," I whisper back, letting out a shuddery breath.
If she were to roll up my sleeve she'd see how fucked in the head I am. I'm a self-harming sex addict who drinks too much... but I guess with all these distractions lately I haven't had time for cutting, sex with horrible men or drinking. My three favorite things. I can never say no.
"I promise," I start, as I reach out for her hand and squeeze it tight. "I'm going to make an appointment with someone tomorrow. I need to."
With that she gets up from her chair and engulfs me in a tight bear hug. I squeeze back tightly, fighting the urge to cry. I want to be strong for my mom, even if I'm a pathetic, screwed-up mess to everyone else.
.
.
When I finally leave and everything is dark except for the street lights, I pull out my phone, realizing I totally ignored it the whole time I was with my mom. I see a text from Cartman sent half an hour ago.
CARTMAN: Hey Jew, you okay? I just got back to the apartment.
I guess he DOES care. I start to text him back but instead just decide to call him.
"Kahl?" He answers on the second ring.
"Hey Cartman," I breathe out, a bit worn out from the walking.
"Is everything okay?" he asks, genuine concern in his voice.
"Yeah. I'm walking back from seeing my mom," I explain.
"You just walked there?" he asks. "It's kinda far, Jew."
"Eh, I don't know. I need the exercise, yah know. I need to work on having a great body like you," I chuckle, a bit surprised that I just said that.
I hear a small, embarrassed laugh on the other end and for a second he doesn't say anything. Maybe I really embarrassed him just now? It's actually kind of cute.
"Well, umm, I was just worried because you never texted me back, Kahl," he completely ignores my compliment which actually surprises me.
"Yeah, I'm sorry..." I breathe. Should I make something up about being busy? "I guess I was a bit pissed that you didn't stick around like I wanted you to," I say, a bit surprised at my new found honesty.
"Oh..." he says, sounding surprised. "I wasn't sure if you actually wanted me to stick around."
"Well, I just didn't want to get all clingy," I tell him.
"I wouldn't mind," he admits. "So, next time... just say the word."
"I will," I vow, though only time will tell. "I guess sometimes I just feel like people should be able to know... even though it's stupid of me to expect that."
"It's okay," he promises.
"Is it?" I wonder.
"Yeah, it's okay," he insists.
I feel my lips quirk upward slightly and I smile to myself. "All right, then." I pause as I turn into the parking lot of our apartment complex. "Well, I'm almost home now," I add. "I'm just entering the building."
"You want to come over?" he asks.
"Sure," I respond. "Let me take a shower first."
"No problem, Kahl."
Once I get in, I rush to take a shower. Towel around my waist, I debate what I should wear. I think Cartman really likes my eyes, so I choose an emerald green hoodie and jeans with a hole in the left knee. I put very little product in my hair and go for a messy, curly hair look. I spray on some cologne, grab my phone and wallet, and head over.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Hi, Kahl," Cartman greets me.
"Hi, fatass." I smile genuinely, stepping inside.
"Ay, I'm not fat anymore, Jew!" He closes the door behind me.
"Sorry, habit," I say, still smiling.
I watch my brunette friend walk to the kitchen to fetch both me and him a glass of water. "Everything went well with your myum, I take it?" he asks over his shoulder.
I head to his couch. "For the most part, yes."
Cartman sits on the couch next to me and places both of our glasses on place mats on the coffee table in front of us.
"For the most part?" he asks.
I shrug. "Some of it was kinda hard."
"What parts?" he pries.
"Just... talking about some stuff I wasn't really up for talking about," I say vaguely.
He nods his head slowly and I can tell he's urging me to continue.
"Like, me," I tell him. "She wanted to talk a little about me... which, honestly, I'm not really used to.
She thinks I should help some sort of professional help."
"You should," Cartman says.
I scoff and roll my eyes. "Yes, I know that... but saying I need help and actually getting help are two totally different things."
He shrugs. "At least you're admitting it. That's always the first step."
"I guess," I agree. I stare down into my cup of water, taking one more sip before setting it on the coffee table. I glance back up and look at Cartman. I want him to fuck me senseless, but I know he doesn't want to rush things. I don't understand why. I've never been with a man who wanted to take it slow.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, trying to read me.
I wrinkle my nose and shrug. "Nothing, really."
He gives me a critical look. "Liar."
I chuckle faintly and then admit, "Okay, I'm thinking about sex. I want to have sex."
"Not yet," he says without an ounce of contemplation.
"Why?" I practically whine.
"Because I want to wait and I want you to wait," he says. "You probably still think I'm going to fuck you and chuck you, but I'm not. I want to prove that I'm good enough."
"You are good enough," I insist. "Am I good enough?"
He smirks. "I think so."
"Then what's the problem?" I ask and laugh at the same time, although I am completely serious.
"I just told you what the problem is, Jew."
"Yeah yeah yeah, you want me to know that you care and you want us to really take our TIME to get to KNOW each other," I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes.
"That's right," he responds seriously.
"Fine, Cartman," I say. "What would you like to know?"
"The hell are you talking about Jew?" He raises an eyebrow.
"Go ahead. Ask me anything."
The brunette shakes his head and sighs. "It doesn't work like that, Kahl."
"Okay, then I'll ask questions." I decide "What's your favorite color?"
"I don't know... Red?!" he answers begrudgingly.
"Favorite animal?"
"Kittehs, of course."
"Favorite food?"
With that question, he seriously contemplates before responding.
"That's right, you like everything!" I answer, smiling radiantly.
"Piece of shit Jew!" he yells, suppressing a chuckle and commences to tickle my side. I laugh wildly and immediately try to remove his hands but he reaches again. I protest, wrapping my arms around my sides tightly.
When he finally relents I let out a string of heavy breaths and stare at him angrily. "I hate being tickled!"
He smiles faintly. "I guess I just learned something new, then!"
I roll my eyes at that and straighten up. "Okay, moving on."
"So, are you going to get professional help?"
"I told my mom I would," I admit, "So, I guess I need to make an appointment."
"Do it tomorrow," Cartman says.
"I'll try," I tell him.
And I will. I'll try, but trying is all I can do. Sometimes things are too difficult. Sometimes I'm too difficult. I'm a stubborn person when it comes down to it. Then again, I can also be incredibly permissive. I guess it's all situational. I like to pretend there's nothing wrong with me, but I guess I can't really keep pretending it when everyone is constantly reminding me.
"Hey, why do you look so down?" he asks me, snapping me from my thoughts. "Worry about that tomorrow. Tonight, let's just relax."
"Relax how?" I ask, emotionally wiped.
Before I know it, Cartman's lips are on mine. While it's a soft kiss at first, it's not long before both of us open our mouths and our tongues gently intertwine. His strong arms wrap around me and I wrap mine behind his head. Before I know it, I'm being picked up and lifted off the couch. I do my best to continue kissing him, despite my hold behind his head tightening. While he carries me, it's swift and smooth and I hardly can tell that he's walking. Maybe I'm just too thin and I weigh nothing to him?
He very softly lays me down in the very middle of his bed. He breaks the kiss and stands up, looking down at me, smiling.
"What?" I ask, curious what he's smiling at. Also, I can't help but feel a bit self-conscious.
"Nothing," he says, still smiling. "Maybe I like looking at you, Jew."
"You know... no one has really said that to me before," I admit to him.
"That's because you surround yourself with assholes," he says.
"You're a bit of an asshole," I remind him.
He chortles at that, wholeheartedly unable to deny it because we both know it's true. "Yeah, but maybe I'm the right kind of asshole."
I laugh at that. "Yeah, maybe."
Maybe he's right for me.
I grab a fistful of his shirt, pulling him closer and pushing my lips against his once more. I close my eyes and let him take control as I wonder where this is going to lead.
We kiss passionately yet sensually, not too fast and not too slow. I feel him run his hand through my hair and I dig my fingernails into his back. He slowly moves away from my lips and kisses my cheek softly, then moves down to my neck. His tongue and lips caressing my skin feels like ecstasy, making me completely lost in the moment.
"Oh God..." I moan, not even realizing it as the words escape my lips. Next thing I know, I feel Cartman's hand underneath my shirt, on my stomach. Damn!
I go ahead and take my shirt off. I don't know why I do that so easily, as I know that my skinny body doesn't compare to his. Honestly, maybe I'm just eager to take my shirt off so that he'll do the same.
And he does.
I have to fight the urge to start drooling. He chuckles, reading my reaction. "Like what you see?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Well, I like what I see, too," he responds easily.
It makes me feel good because, honestly, I don't get many compliments on my body. I'm small and scarred and I don't think I'm anything special, especially compared to someone who looks as good as Cartman.
"How far are we going to go?" I ask him.
"Not far," he says.
"You said you wanted to take it slow, but..." I trail off, trying to tell him that what we're doing ISN'T taking it slow.
He doesn't respond. Instead, he leans forward and pecks me on the lips once, twice and then a third time before reaching for the button on my jeans. I lean back, letting him take control of the situation.
I hear him toss my jeans on the floor as I lay there in my boxers, waiting for him to kiss me again, or at least touch me somehow. After I feel no contact for a minute, I open my eyes, wondering what's going on. There he is, standing over me, eyeing me up and down. But this is completely different from just a couple of moments earlier, since I am almost naked now.
"Don't DO that!" I say as I wrap my arms around my chest and stomach.
"It's like I said, Kahl," he breathes softly. "I like looking at you."
"But why?" I ask. I look down and try to cover up one particularly deep gash on my stomach. I remember this scar was right at the end of my last relationship, when he dumped me out of the blue. I almost had to get stitches that night, it was so deep and it felt like it would never stop bleeding.
Cartman slowly gets back on top of me and he grabs my hands and lifts them above my head as he lays down on me. He kisses me softly and, in a raspy voice, says, "Because you're beautiful."
Instead of kissing me again, he looks in my eyes, making sure that I'm hearing him. His eyes are sincere and filled with compassion, accompanied with a light smile on his lips. I try to protest, but feel something in my throat. Somehow, I'm overwhelmed with emotion. I don't know what to say or how to act. Out of nowhere, I feel a tear fall from my right cheek.
"God, shut up..." I mumble, feeling defensive and vulnerable and shy.
He only continues to smile and I let out a laugh that sounds like a sob. "You deserve to hear it," he whispers. "I'll keep saying it until you start believing it... and even after."
He gives me another chaste peck on the lips.
It feels strange. Like a dream.
I've never been with a man who valued me for being me. I've never been with a man who cared about my well-being. I've never been with a man who gave me compliments that meant something. I've never been with a man like Eric Cartman.
I'm so emotional lately and he's only making me even more so... but not in a bad way. He has a knack for saying the right thing.
I know that I'm emotional because deep down I feel like I don't deserve any of this. Deep down, I really don't know what to do with someone who genuinely cares about me and accepts me. In fact,
I'm so overwhelmed with gratitude that I don't know how to show it.
"Thank you," my voice barely cracks out.
"You're welcome," he says with another peck. "You deserve it." Cartman leans in for another long, deep kiss. He kisses my forehead and then maneuvers to my right. He lies down on his back and wraps his arm around me as I nuzzle into his chest. Damn, he has a nice, built chest. I can't help my gently let my hands explore it, feeling the thick muscle. His nipples are perky, which I enjoy touching. I let my hand travel lower to his washboard abs. Who would've known that the overweight pain-in-the-ass bully would grow up to look like a HQ model?
My childhood friend takes a deep breath and squeezes me tightly. For whatever reason, I feel comfortable not saying anything. So comfortable that I slowly lose consciousness as I drift off to sleep, enjoying the heavenly scent and touch of Cartman all around me.