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When he was six years old, Liane took Eric with her to visit a “friend.”
The man's apartment smelled like weed and wet terrariums. The curtains were drawn, but green light glowed from the corner of the living room. That’s where Eric saw it: a massive glass enclosure-almost the size of a walk-in closet-lined with damp earth, coiled branches, and artificial mist rising like breath from the jungle floor.
Two enormous reptiles lay sprawled across a tree limb, half in shadow. Their scales shimmered a deep, wet green mottled with dark patches. They looked prehistoric-wrong, somehow. Unblinking eyes the size of walnuts tracked every movement. Their skin clung tight to thick, muscular bodies. One lifted its head as Eric entered, tongue flicking.
“Wow,” Liane breathed, stepping closer. “What are they?”
“Iguanas,” the man said with a smirk. “Black spiny-tails. Imported from Honduras. Not the shit you see in pet stores.”
Eric pressed himself closer to his mother’s side.
“Look how big they are,” she said, laughing lightly. “Like tiny dragons, right?”
Eric didn’t laugh.
Liane turned to the man. “Can we see them up close?”
“Sure. They’re chill,” he said, already unlocking the enclosure. “Just don’t startle them.”
The hiss of the sliding glass made Eric’s stomach twist. The man opened the door wide, and Liane stepped right inside like it was a zoo exhibit. She picked Eric up under the arms and hoisted him close, balancing him on her hip. His little sneakers dangled inches from the floor of the enclosure.
“There we go, sweetie,” she said brightly, “Look! He’s blinking at you!”
The nearest iguana was just a foot away now, head tilted. Its chest swelled with a slow, alien breath. Its claws-thick, curved things-gripped the branch like it could launch forward any second. Its tail alone looked longer than Eric’s body. The ridges along its spine jutted like razors.
Eric didn’t move. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
He didn’t want to scream. He just wanted out. Away from the heat, the smell, the lizard-eyes.
“Isn’t this cool?” Liane cooed. “See? He likes you. You’re not scared, are you, baby?”
Eric swallowed. His voice barely worked.
“It’s looking at me,” he whispered.
“Of course it is!” she said. “You’re so handsome, even lizards want a peek.”
She laughed, delighted at her own joke, and stepped closer to the beast. Eric flinched and turned his face into her shoulder.
“Okay, okay,” she said at last, amused. “You little scaredy-cat.”
She stepped out, adjusted her purse strap, and chatted with the man a few minutes more while Eric stood silently by her leg.
They left.
Years later, Eric would realize what kind of “friend” the man really was. The iguanas, the imported heat lamps, the smell in the back room… it all made sense. He hadn’t been to see reptiles.
Yet he'd been held inches from the jaws of a cold-blooded animal, while his mother smiled and called it bonding.
.
.
.
Eric didn’t have plans after graduating high school.
He told everyone he’d figure it out. Start a business, become an influencer, sell “Cartman”-branded protein shakes or some shit. Whatever sounded delusional enough to keep people from asking follow-up questions.
But the truth was, he couldn’t leave his mom.
He just… couldn’t.
It wasn’t like she said “stay” outright. Liane never gave orders, it was useless with Eric. Orders made him snap and explode.
So she did what she always did with men. She made suggestions that wilted into the air like perfume. Soft little thoughts she’d voice while folding laundry, or sipping her coffee too slowly, like it physically hurt to drink alone.
“God, the house would feel so empty without you.”
That’s what she said when he mentioned maybe applying to colleges in Denver. Just a maybe. She smiled after saying it, of course, but her hands shook a little as she set down her mug.
Another time, he asked how she’d feel if he got a night job, just to bring in some cash.
“Oh, honey, why would you do that,” she’d said, eyes wide, like he’d proposed joining the military. “It wouldn't work very well, who would fix things around the house!”
If he pushed-if he tried to bring it up again-her mood would shift like a curtain caught in wind. She’d go quiet. Still. She wouldn’t cry, but she’d look off at nothing, like she was trying to remember something painful that had slipped away.
And then, eventually, she’d smile and say, “Forget I said anything. I’m just silly. You do what you need to.”
But by then, Eric would already feel like a monster for bringing it up.
He knew what it looked like when she spiraled. The silent dinners. The closed bedroom door. The long stretches of her being “asleep” at all hours of the day.
So he stayed.
Because it was easier than the guilt.
Easier than watching her go vacant. Easier than wondering if the next time she didn’t text back, it wasn’t because she was sleeping-but because she jumped out the window.
He told himself he’d leave eventually.
Just not right now.
She needed him. He needed her too…
Not in the way a son needs his mother. That part was long dead. But in a twisted, familiar sort of way. Like how you miss a tooth that’s been pulled, you keep tonguing the empty spot, even when it hurts.
They had routines. Not schedules - God no - but rhythms. She’d wait for him to bring her coffee, though she never asked.
He’d remind her to take her pills, though she never thanked him. They watched old murder documentaries late into the night, saying nothing, sharing silence like a secret language.
When he laughed, really laughed, she’d turn to look at him like he was glowing. And sometimes she’d say things like:
“You’re so handsome, sweetie. I want to keep your smile forever!”
And once, when he made a joke about moving in with Kenny to split rent, she just blinked and said, flatly:
“If you leave, I’ll die.”
Then she smiled. Brushed his cheek. “Kidding!” She laughed.
He laughed too. Because what else could he do?
But the words stayed with him.
If you leave, I’ll die.
Joking, not joking. Light, but heavy as lead.
She never hit him. Never screamed. Never locked the doors. But he still felt trapped-by love that bent too far inward. Love that felt needed, because if there wasn't love, there would be guilt.
He began to feel like the walls of the house were soaked in her. Every room had her scent. Every cabinet whispered a task he hadn’t done yet. Every breath felt borrowed from her lungs.
Sometimes, when he lay awake, he’d imagine just walking out the door. Just leaving. No fight, no note. Just gone.
And then, in the dark, he’d feel himself cry, just imagining what she would feel like. The pain she would go through.
Liane wasn't a functional adult. Eric didn't do that much to help. He did chores. He managed her when she was high or having a bad trip. He spent time with her. That was about it.
Yet he had a feeling that the only reason she was holding together was because of his presence.
“My father never said ‘I love you’, not even once,” she told Eric, one evening, as he was braiding her hair in front of the TV.
“Wasn't he kinda a psychopath?” Eric commented lazily as he pulled a strand of her hair in the braid.
“Oh yes! The man was insane. Good thing he died before you were born.”
Eric raised an eyebrow. Liane was strange when it came to family. She mentioned countless times how awful her parents had been to her. She had siblings but cut ties years ago. Eric never met any of them.
Liane smiled at the braid in progress, holding a mirror, tilting her head slightly as if to admire the way it tugged at her scalp.
“He had this way of looking at you,” she said, voice light, conversational. “Like he could see through your clothes. Through your skin. Like your bones were the part he wanted most.”
Eric paused, fingers tightening slightly on the next strand. She didn’t seem to notice.
“He was awful to my sister,” she went on. “Much worse than with me. I think that’s why she started doing meth. Or maybe it was the other way around.” She laughed-soft, breathy, detached. “Anyway, she always said I was his favorite. Lucky me.”
Eric didn’t say anything. Just kept braiding. The room was quiet except for the buzz of the TV.
“I once told him no,” Liane said, almost dreamily, like she was trying to remember the shape of something long lost. “He hit me so hard I pissed myself.”
A soft chuckle. She leaned back against the couch, letting him finish the braid.
“He used to say I was pretty when I cried.”
Eric’s hands stopped. His chest felt tight. Hot. Like someone had poured tar down his throat and told him to breathe through it.
“Gross,” he let out. He didn't even have time to think about it. It spilt out of his mouth.
“I know,” Liane whispered.
It was hard for Eric to stomach how much his mother had been through. It created a tangled mess of feelings in his chest.
Pity.
Revulsion.
Love.
Guilt.
Some other thing, dark and shapeless, that pulsed just beneath all the rest.
He finished the braid. His hands were shaky, but he tied the end with a scrunchie like always. Liane reached up and touched it delicately.
“You always do them so tight,” she said, almost impressed. “You’ve got your daddy’s fingers. Strong.”
Eric blinked slowly.
“My real daddy,” she added, catching the look on his face. “Not… you know.”
Eric stood up, needing to move. The room felt wrong. Stale. The smell of her shampoo clung to his skin. He rubbed his palms on his sweatpants, then crossed to the window, cracked it open.
“I think I’m gonna take a walk,” he said.
“Oh,” Liane replied, like he’d just cancelled dinner plans. “Okay, sweetie. Just text me when you're on your way back, so I know you're safe.”
Her voice was normal. Pleasant. As if they hadn’t just stepped into the belly of her trauma and sat down for tea.
Eric didn’t look at her when he left. He didn’t want to see her smiling.
Outside, the air was cold. It snapped against his face, sharp and clean. He walked fast, trying to outrun the way his stomach churned.
He couldn’t get her voice out of his head.
He used to say I was pretty when I cried.
Eric had said terrible things to people. He’d bullied, humiliated, manipulated. But this was different. This was rot, soaked into her bones before she ever became a mother.
And now it was in him too, somehow.
Inherited.
He lit a cigarette. Took a drag. Cursed himself for not quitting.
Maybe he’d call Kyle. Or maybe he wouldn’t. What was there to say?
Hey man, my mom told me her dad molested her and I’m scared it’s leaking into me, too?
He flicked ash into the street.
He didn’t want to think about what Liane’s dad - his own grandfather - had done.
Or about what Liane had done.
Or about whether, in some fucked-up cosmic balance, that meant Eric was doomed to hurt people too.
He thought of the harm he'd done. Of how he always picked and bullied Kyle. He regretted that he never knew how else to be. That he let himself be that version of Cartman.
He was really tempted to call him to apologise… but Kyle was in law school now. Living his best life. He'd even got a boyfriend from what Cartman saw on social media.
What would an apology from Cartman do? Aside from reminding Kyle of his shitty childhood.
And so, he didn’t call.
.
.
.
Eric didn’t like the way the doctor sat down.
He didn’t like the folder in his hands, the way it stayed closed. He didn’t like the silence before he spoke, or how Liane was swinging her legs like a child waiting for ice cream.
He especially didn’t like how cold the air felt, suddenly, even though the room was small and still.
“Ms. Cartman,” the doctor said, slow and measured, like someone delivering bad news on TV. “Your test results came back. It’s liver disease. Specifically, late-stage cirrhosis.”
Eric blinked.
Cirrhosis.
That sounded… fictional. Like a pirate illness.
He looked at Liane, expecting her to flinch. Cry. React.
She just tilted her head. “Is that serious?”
The doctor paused. “Yes. It means your liver is severely scarred. It can’t heal anymore. You’re showing signs of decompensation. This is… very advanced.”
Eric felt the phrase very advanced sink like a stone in his stomach.
Liane smiled a little, like she’d misheard.
“So, what do I do? Surgery? A cleanse?”
The doctor glanced at his notes. “We’ll talk about symptom management. But I need to be clear-there’s no cure. The damage is permanent. You’ll need to stop drinking immediately. There are medications that can help slow things down, but-”
“She doesn’t drink that much,” Eric cut in, weirdly defensive. That wasn't true and he knew it, yet he felt the need to protect her from any accusation.
The doctor looked at him, gently. “I understand this is difficult. But the labs are very clear.”
Eric’s palms were sweating. He rubbed them against his jeans under the chair.
She doesn’t drink that much.
Except she did. He knew she did. She drank enough to forget things. To forget him.
To forget dinner, birthdays, her pills.
To forget herself.
“How long does she have?” he asked. His voice cracked on the word have.
Liane laughed, a bright little giggle. “Eric, please.”
The doctor hesitated again. That was worse than anything he could’ve said.
“Months,” he replied finally. “Maybe a few years. It depends on whether she stops using. Whether there are complications. Whether she follows treatment.”
Liane leaned back, her smile still painted on.
“See? Could be years,” she said.
Eric stared at her. She looked so calm. So stupidly calm. Like she was hearing about someone else’s body. Someone else’s blood turning to poison.
Years.
Could be years.
That didn’t sound like a promise. It sounded like a sentence.
The doctor said something else - about salt, ammonia, something about fluid in the belly. Eric didn’t catch all of it.
He was stuck on that first word: cirrhosis.
Like it meant something more than just a diagnosis.
Like it confirmed everything he’d always feared: that she was already rotting inside, long before today.
And now it had a name.
.
.
.
Suddenly, it was all reversed. Eric didn't want to leave his mom anymore. Didn't want a job, didn't want to go to college, didn't want a relationship.
He just wanted his mom. He didn't care that she wasn't perfect.
“I can't live without you,” he said to her that night, crying.
She smiled, like she was pleased to hear him so desperate. The way she sounded sometimes when she was drunk, and begged for him to never abandon her.
She hugged him, but her arms felt weak around his shoulders.
The next couple of weeks passed in strange rhythm.
At first, nothing changed.
Liane still got up late. Still called him her “little lovebug.” Still sprinkled Valium into her coffee like it was sugar. She told him not to worry. That doctors always said the worst thing first, to scare you into behaving.
“I’ve always had a sensitive liver,” she said one morning while smoking on the porch. “Ever since I was twenty. They just didn’t have names for it back then.”
Eric didn’t argue. He just brought her breakfast-toast she didn’t eat, vitamins she forgot to take.
But things were changing. Quietly, in ways they couldn’t laugh off.
She started forgetting what day it was.
At first, it was funny. She asked if it was Tuesday on a Saturday. Then she asked it twice in the same afternoon. Then she woke up panicking at 3AM thinking she’d missed a dentist appointment she didn’t have.
Her face swelled. Her skin yellowed slightly-barely enough to notice, unless you were Eric, who saw her up close every day.
Her moods began to swing like they used to when she was on something-except this time she wasn’t high, just sick.
She cried over TV commercials. Then accused Eric of hiding her pills. Then forgot she had cried at all.
The bloating came next. A softness in her belly that looked like weight gain but wasn’t. Eric googled “ascites” and stared at images of fluid pooling under skin. He didn’t know what was worse-the pictures or how normal her stomach still looked in comparison.
He started keeping track of her medications. Hid the alcohol. Checked on her in the middle of the night, just to see if she was breathing.
She hated that.
“Stop treating me like a patient,” she snapped one morning, her voice sharp as broken glass. “I’m still your mother.”
But she didn’t stop drinking. Just got sneakier.
Eric found a bottle hidden in the laundry basket. One in the dishwasher. A flask tucked into her purse, wrapped in a scarf like jewelry.
He didn’t yell. He just poured them down the sink, one by one, quietly, while she pretended to sleep on the couch.
He started doing more around the house. Grocery shopping. Cooking. Cleaning. Calling the pharmacy. Making appointments. Talking to nurses.
It was a strange kind of maturity. He didn’t feel proud-he felt numb. Like a faucet that had been left running too long.
He kept a spare change of her clothes in the bathroom now. There had been an accident-she’d wet herself and tried to hide it, stuffing the underwear behind the hamper like he wouldn’t notice. She wept when he found them, then laughed like it was a joke. It wasn’t.
Sometimes, when she got really confused, she called him by the wrong name. Just for a second. Sometimes she called him “Jack,” her father. Once, “Danny,” an ex she hadn’t seen in fifteen years.
It hurt more than he thought it would.
He barely saw his friends. Didn’t text anyone back.
What would he even say?
Hey. My mom’s dying and I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a person who isn’t waiting for someone else to fall apart.
He considered it. He knew they would be there for him. Kenny was still in South Park - it was only a short walk away…
But every time Cartman was about to reach out, something more urgent needed his attention.
A missed dose. A dizzy spell. A flood of tears from nowhere. Or a laugh that didn’t sound quite right. Or a bottle hidden behind the laundry again.
He couldn’t let go. Not even for an hour.
Because he wasn’t just a son anymore. He was her everything. Liane became incapable of caring for herself at all. Too much was going on. Every single cell of Eric’s brain was focussed on her and her only.
One night, she threw up blood.
She told him it was from strawberries. But Eric hadn’t bought any strawberries.
He sat with her for hours that night. Didn’t sleep. Just watched her chest rise and fall. Memorized the pace of it.
Just in case it ever stopped.
When she woke up and noticed he was there, she sighed… and then told him he needed rest.
Eric had been crying. He felt so small, smaller than he'd ever been.
She patted the spot beside her on the couch and gave a sleepy smile. “Come here, sweetie.”
He didn’t think. He just moved. Slipped under the blanket and pressed himself against her side, like he used to when he was little and scared of thunder. Her body was warm, but not steady. She smelled like sleep and old perfume and something metallic he didn’t want to name.
She pulled the blanket over them both. Her fingers ran lightly through his hair, slow and uneven, as if memory had started fraying even in her hands.
They lay there in silence for a while. Just breathing.
Eric stared at the ceiling. He didn’t want to sleep. He just wanted her to stay warm. To stay breathing.
“I was thinking about those iguanas,” he said softly, not even sure why. “The ones from when I was a kid. Remember? That guy with the big glass cage in his living room.”
Liane hummed. “Mmm. The jungle setup? Oh, I remember.”
“I thought they were gonna eat my face.”
She chuckled faintly. “You were so scared. Clung to me like a baby koala.”
He smiled, but it didn’t last.
“Was that… was that one of your boyfriends?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
She paused. “No, honey. That was my dealer.”
Eric turned his face into her shoulder, the truth sliding over him like warm mud. Heavy. Familiar. Not even shocking.
“I figured.”
She kissed the top of his head. “You were always so smart.”
They stayed quiet after that. She traced slow circles on his back. He closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep. Just listened to the dull beat of her heart beneath her ribs.
.
.
.
She’d been doing better.
Eating, a little. Sleeping more. Laughing again, at stupid reality shows and Eric’s old impressions from school. She even baked cookies one night-burnt them horribly, but insisted they were “rustic.” Eric almost believed they were turning a corner.
He let himself relax. Just enough to remember what breathing felt like.
Then one evening, she didn’t come back from the store.
It wasn’t that unusual-she wandered sometimes. Took too long, forgot why she left. But this time, hours passed. Her phone went straight to voicemail. By the time she stumbled in, it was past midnight.
Eric smelled the alcohol before she even said a word.
“Hi sweetie,” she said, voice syrupy. Her lipstick was smeared, her jacket open, eyes glazed and shining.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
She blinked. Swayed slightly. “Out.”
“You drank.”
“I had a sip,” she lied, stumbling toward the kitchen. “God, Eric, relax.”
“You can’t drink!” he shouted, blocking her path. “You know that! You know what the doctor said!”
She tried to push past him. “Don’t yell at me. You sound like your father.”
That was the line.
Eric snapped. “You’re fucking killing yourself!”
She laughed. “So what? It’s my life.”
“No it’s not! Not when I’m the one picking up your pills and cleaning your vomit and checking if you’re still fucking alive in the morning!”
She slapped him.
It wasn’t hard. It was clumsy. Weak.
He stepped back. She stared at her hand like she didn’t recognize it.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Then louder: “You made me do that.”
He walked out.
Went to the porch. Lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. The street was empty. Everything felt far away. Like the world had moved on without them.
He stayed out there a long time.
When he came back inside, the lights were off.
“Mom?”
No answer.
He found her on the bathroom floor.
Collapsed. Unconscious. A small cut on her forehead, from where she hit the sink. Her lips were pale. Her breathing ragged. There was vomit on the tile.
“Mom-shit-Mom, wake up-”
He called 911. He tried to lift her head. He pressed her name into her shoulder like a prayer.
They arrived fast. He rode in the ambulance, her hand in his, already cooling.
She died two hours later. Massive internal failure. Liver couldn’t handle the alcohol. It just gave up.
The last thing she said before slipping into a coma was, “Don’t be mad.”
.
.
.
When Eric was ten, he remembered wanting his mother to die.
It was one of those phases where she had a new dumb boyfriend and let him discipline Eric. The man treated him like a dog.
Eric resented her. More than him. She was supposed to protect him. Not bring strange men home. Not let him be abused like that. Not get home drunk every other night.
And the thought crossed his mind that if he just… if she could just… disappear. Die. Leave. His life would be so much easier…
As he held her cold hand, he felt awful for having ever been mad at her. He couldn't even cry. He felt numb.
His mother had died.
This was the end of months of him being her caregiver.
The end of years of alcoholism.
The end of being someone's child.
Eric left the hospital room and sat on a chair, looking at nothing.
This is what freedom tastes like, he thought bitterly. Or loneliness. There wasn't one without the other.
.
.
.
Eric didn’t move for a long time.
He sat outside her hospital room, the hallway lights buzzing faintly above him, casting a pale sheen on the linoleum. People passed. Nurses, doctors, someone wheeling a squeaky cart. None of them looked at him.
He didn’t cry. His hands were still cold from holding hers. He could still feel her fingers-slack and cooling-as if his own skin had memorized the temperature of death.
Eventually, a nurse approached. She spoke softly, too softly, like he was a glass of water about to spill.
“Would you like to see her again before we move her?”
Eric blinked.
“No,” he said. “I already did.”
She nodded. Left him alone.
Another woman came, different uniform. Administrative.
“We’ll need someone to make arrangements,” she said gently. “Do you have a funeral home in mind? Or someone to contact?”
Eric stared at her blankly.
He was nineteen.
He had no fucking idea how to bury someone.
“Uh… I’ll figure it out,” he said. “Can I do that tomorrow?”
She smiled with the kind of pity he already hated. “Of course. We just need to know if you’d like the hospital to hold her body until you decide. There is a… holding fee, after the first twenty-four hours.”
A holding fee.
For his mother.
“Yeah. Okay. Hold her, I guess.”
.
.
.
The next day was worse.
There was paperwork. So much fucking paperwork. Death certificates. Authorization for cremation. Or burial. Or organ donation. Eric sat at the kitchen table, filling out forms with hands that didn’t feel like his.
He Googled funeral homes. Called one. Tried not to sound like a kid pretending to be an adult.
“How much is a basic cremation?” he asked.
They gave him a number. He almost laughed. He didn’t have that kind of money. He didn’t even have a credit card.
“You can set up a payment plan,” they offered.
“Sure,” Eric said, already feeling sick.
He didn’t want a ceremony. There was no one to invite. No cousins. No siblings. No Liane’s long-lost friends or estranged siblings. Just him.
An orphan.
He didn’t even like the word. It felt melodramatic. Like something from a Dickens novel. But it was the truth now.
There was no one left who called him “sweetie.”
No one who sang to him while brushing his hair.
No one who made the house smell like old perfume and pancake batter.
He was alone.
And the house felt it. It was quieter now. Not peaceful-just empty. Her shoes were still by the door. Her robe on the back of the couch. Her pills scattered on the counter, like she might come back and swallow one without looking.
But she wouldn’t.
The funeral home gave him a time to pick up the ashes.
He stared at the email, unsure what to do with it.
How do you pick up your mother?
When he got her ashes, he felt so weird. This was his mother in that deep blue jar.
He hugged the cold ceramic. This was the only hug he'd ever get, now.
Finally, he cried. Hot tears, stinging his eyes. He remembered how they fought, just before she died. He regretted it.
Liane had been hurting for many, many years. Her scars were deep. Alcohol had been an escape for her. And he… yelled at her over that.
All the memories hurt now. The good and the bad. Her hugs, her smell, her soothing voice. The alcohol, the men, the way she constantly insisted he was handsome.
The loneliness.
And yet… the loneliness wasn’t new.
It had been there all along. It just didn’t have space to breathe before. Not with her body still moving through the rooms. Not with her voice calling him “poopinsky” from the other side of the door. Not with the constant chaos of survival.
But now-now there was nothing in the way.
And the loneliness unfolded like a tide.
Eric kept the urn in her bedroom.
He didn’t want it near his own bed.
He didn’t want it in the kitchen, or the living room, or next to the TV.
He couldn’t look at it while eating cereal. That felt wrong.
He laid it on the nightstand next to her old perfume bottle. The scent had faded. Everything was fading.
The first week, he did nothing.
Didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. Barely slept. He cried. Again, and again, and again. It physically hurt. He missed his mother like lungs miss oxygen.
He wandered from room to room like a ghost. Turned lights on. Turned them off again.
Watched the dust gather on surfaces he used to clean daily. Wondered if it was worth vacuuming.
He kept expecting to hear her voice. Kept thinking he saw her in the corner of his eye-curled up on the couch in her robe, or standing in the hallway with that vacant, floaty look she got when the pills hit just right.
He didn’t talk to anyone. What was the point? And then again… What would he even say?
Hey. I’m motherless now.
Everyone would ask questions, and he didn’t have the heart to explain to whoever that he had been motherless for months now. Ever since she got ill. Or maybe he had always been. He didn’t miss her like a son misses his mother. He missed her like gravity. Like a phantom limb. Every second without her, knowing that she was gone for ever, was torture.
One night, he opened her closet. Just stood there.
Staring at the floral dresses. The blouses. The shoes. Her blue heels from that one Easter where she got too drunk to walk. The sequined cardigan she wore to Eric’s middle school talent show.
He pressed his face into them, breathing in whatever was left of her.
It made him sob. Ugly, shaking sobs that scraped his throat raw.
He whispered, “I’m sorry,” over and over, not sure what part he meant.
Sorry for yelling.
Sorry for not being older, better, enough.
Sorry she hurt so much.
Sorry he sometimes wanted her gone.
Sorry for surviving her.
A thought crossed his mind. His face turned to the pills on the nightstand. How easy it would be. Because, what kind of life was this?
“Mommy,” he called, sobbing, as he got closer to the bottle.
And then… a knock on the door.
Eric thought he imagined it at first. But someone knocked again.
He moved to the front door, still crying, not even bothering to hide it. He opened.
“Kenny?” He said, his voice breaking.
He hadn't spoken to Kenny in ages. Yet here he was, looking… worried. Shocked. Concerned.
His blue eyes were soft. He took a step closer.
“Dude, I- I heard about your mom,” he said, and fuck, it was the first time in days that Eric heard the voice of someone else.
Kenny stood there in a hoodie and beat-up sneakers, one hand gripping the strap of a messenger bag like he wasn’t sure whether to drop it or offer it. His face was open. Gentle in a way Eric wasn’t used to.
“I didn’t know if I should come,” Kenny said. “But… I did.”
Eric blinked hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling again. It didn’t work.
Kenny stepped inside without asking. Closed the door behind him softly.
The house smelled like dust and old perfume. Like stillness.
“I haven’t really talked to anyone,” Eric said, voice hoarse, cracking. “I don’t know why you’re-”
Kenny cut him off by stepping forward and hugging him.
It wasn’t a dramatic hug. It didn’t lift Eric off his feet or break something open. It was just arms. Warm. Steady. Real.
Eric stood there, rigid for a second, before he broke.
He clutched Kenny’s hoodie like a life vest. Buried his face against his shoulder and cried. Messy, snotty, gasping sobs that sounded more like someone coming apart than mourning.
Kenny didn’t let go.
“I didn’t know how to tell you, or Stan, or Kyle,” Eric whispered. “I was gonna-I almost-”
“I know,” Kenny said softly. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
They stood there for a long time. Eric didn’t ask how Kenny found out. Didn’t care. He was just glad someone had.
Eventually, Kenny pulled back and looked at him.
“Have you eaten?”
Eric shook his head.
“Okay. You’re gonna sit down. I’m making you something. No arguments.”
Eric didn’t argue. He followed Kenny into the kitchen like a child.
Kenny rummaged through cabinets, muttering under his breath, while Eric sat at the table, eyes glassy, still stunned.
“You still hate cucumber?” Kenny asked, glancing over.
Eric blinked. “No. I don’t care.”
“Cool,” Kenny said. “You’re getting cucumber sticks and tea. Welcome to grief gourmet.”
Eric huffed out a small laugh. Just one. But it surprised them both.
Kenny set the plate down in front of him. It was the best thing Eric had tasted in days. And when he was done, Kenny stayed.
And Eric realised that despite being a jerk to him during his whole childhood… Kenny was there. And Cartman wasn't being a jerk now. He was just a child without his mom, navigating a hard life.
When Eric started sobbing again, grief hitting him unexpectedly, Kenny hugged him again.
“It's okay,” he said, “I'm here for you.”
And Eric felt the loneliness dissipate a bit.
“Kinny,” he muttered against his shoulder. “I don't want to see a drop of alcohol ever again.”
Kenny chuckled.
Eric knew it was a stupid request… but Kenny, who was known for being quite the drinker, actually quit drinking after that. Or didn't do it anywhere near Eric, at least. Which meant a lot to him.
Because it was a proof. A proof that people changed. And it gave him hope that he could become a better person.
.
.
.
It was a bright, dry afternoon. The kind where the sky looks scrubbed clean and everything feels just a little too sharp, too real.
Eric wandered ahead, camera in hand, the weight of it warm against his chest. Kenny trailed a few steps behind, sipping a soda, talking about some guy at work who got fired for microwaving fish.
Eric wasn’t really listening. He liked Kenny’s voice more than he cared about the story. It was nice. Calm. Familiar now.
They were at the zoo, an outing Kenny suggested. Eric almost said no, but didn’t. It felt like something normal people did.
He’d already snapped a dozen shots. Birds. Shadows. A kid with a balloon. It wasn’t about the animals, really. It was about light. Timing. That invisible click when a moment becomes a picture.
Kenny nudged him with his elbow. “Yo, you gonna take a pic of those freaks?”
Eric glanced up.
There was a glass enclosure to their right. Thick jungle greenery inside. Humid, artificial heat pressing faintly against the barrier. Two massive reptiles sprawled across a branch, motionless, their skin a textured mosaic of black and grey.
Iguanas. Spiny tailed ones.
Eric blinked.
He stepped closer.
The air shifted around him. Something inside his chest curled in.
They weren’t the same iguanas, of course. Different city. Different life. But the way they looked; their size, their stillness, the faint flick of a tongue… It hit him like déjà vu dipped in dread.
For a second, he was six again. Small. Held in her arms. Staring into yellow, unblinking eyes behind glass.
He felt his grip tighten on the camera. Just slightly.
“Dude?” Kenny’s voice was soft now.
Eric swallowed. “She took me to see some like this when I was little,” he said. “I thought they were gonna eat my face.”
Kenny didn’t say anything. Just stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
“She was seeing her dealer,” Eric added. “I didn’t know then.”
He took a breath.
Raised the camera.
Click.
The sound was soft.
“She liked them,” Eric said. “She thought they were cool.”
“You think they’re cool now?” Kenny asked.
Eric looked through the lens. The lizard blinked. Lazy. Indifferent.
He smiled. Not bitter. Not broken. Just… quiet.
“Yeah,” he said. “I kinda do.”
Kenny bumped his shoulder gently. “Wanna grab lunch?”
“Yeah,” Eric said. “Lemme just get one more shot.”
Click.