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It’s quiet.
Ken swivels around in his seat, trying desperately to focus on the photos in front of him. They’re supposed to be finished next week, but Ken likes getting a head start on them. Colt’s coming home from a seven-week shoot at the end of the week, and Ken always makes him something nice when he comes home.
“What should I make this time, Cheddar?” Ken pets his cat absentmindedly. She looks at him as though to say, How should I know?
“Don’t give me that look! Maybe I’ll make salmon. If you’re good, I’ll give you some.” Cheddar meows, and Ken nods. “Yeah, I’m serious. Don’t sass me, Little Miss.”
Ken turns just in time to see Jean Claude tilt his head. “Yeah, you’ll get some, too. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t deprive you. Not that Dad would let me.” His French isn’t as good as his husband’s, but Jean Claude always seems to get the gist.
Ken misses Colt, but it’s nice being alone with the pets. There was a time when being alone terrified him, when it meant no one wanted him or he was on the alert for an attack. But now he gets to sit here with his pets, editing his photos, music playing softly from his phone. Cheddar leaps off his desk. “Leave Jean Claude alone! I don’t want to hear you two fighting!”
Is this what talking to toddlers is like? Probably.
–
It’s the middle of the afternoon, and he’s on the couch watching a movie, huge bowl of popcorn in his lap. He shares with Jean Claude. Cheddar perches precariously on the edge of her cat tree, tail swinging in her sleep.
He should text Colt, he thinks. They haven’t spoken all day. It’s not unusual, but Ken likes to text him little updates about his day and send pictures of the pets.Just as he reaches for his phone, there’s a loud, booming knock at the door. Cheddar hisses, and Jean Claude tenses, readying himself.
“Shit!” Ken jumps, and popcorn flies out of the bowl. The knock comes again, and Ken rolls his eyes. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”
Ken yanks open the door and freezes.
An LAPD officer stares back at him. He stands stiffly, and though he keeps his face neutral, his steely gray eyes widen in surprise as he takes in the dog, the cat, and the abandoned popcorn bowl on the couch. He’s older than Ken, maybe in his 50s. His hair is already graying.
His first thought is that something happened to Colt, but then he remembers that Colt’s in New York, and a doctor or one of Colt’s crewmembers would’ve called first. Maybe it’s Barbie? Ken swallows nervously and cringes when his voice cracks. “Can I help you, Officer?”
“Mr. Handler, my name is Peter Walsh. I’m a detective with the LAPD.” He flashes his badge and gives Ken what he thinks is supposed to be a reassuring smile but looks more like a grimace.
“Seavers,” Ken corrects faintly. “I’m married, and I changed my name and - um. Okay, okay, sorry, but…What are you doing here?”
“Do you know a Patrick Murphy?”
There’s ringing in his ears. Patrick, of course it would be about Patrick. But he hasn’t seen or spoken to the other man in years. What could a detective want with him? “Unfortunately, he’s my ex. What did he do?”
“You haven’t seen the news?” Ken shakes his head, and the detective sighs. “Mr. Seavers, Patrick’s partner Daniel was murdered and we have reason to believe he’s the number one suspect.”
His skin breaks out in a cold, clammy sweat. The ringing in his ears crescendos, and his heart thumps erratically. He shakes his head, even though part of him isn’t surprised. Ken knows what he’s capable of. Patrick Murphy is a monster, a monster that he’s spent years running from. His throat constricts. Are those hands around his neck? No. They can’t be. Ken clears his throat and uses the doorknob to brace himself. “What did he do?” He tries to sound brave, but his voice comes out small and broken. Just like him.
“Daniel McCarthy was strangled.”
–
Ken places a steaming mug of coffee in front of the detective. Walsh offers a small, grateful smile and takes a sip, and Ken takes a seat across from him. Jean Claude leans against him, and Ken tries his best to focus on him. He jiggles his leg up and down, thoughts whirring a mile a minute. Daniel McCarthy was strangled . The tension in the room is so thick that Ken could cut it with a knife. Every time he thinks he’s free from Patrick, the man proves that his grip will never loosen. Only now, he’s stolen a life. Ken’s hands make their way to his own neck. Why did Patrick stop with him? Ken remembers the look of terror on his face, how Patrick had held his hands in front of his face like they were someone else’s. He’d sprinted out of the apartment, leaving Ken gasping for air on the floor, desperately fighting the blackness threatening to overcome him. But why? Why had Ken been spared?
Ken is pulled from his stupor by Detective Walsh clearing his throat. He straightens as the other man pulls out a recorder and a notepad. “Do you mind if I record this?”
“Go ahead.” What other choice does he have?
Walsh nods and presses play . Ken stares at a spot on the table, far too anxious to look the detective in the eye. It’s not the first time he’s spoken to police about Patrick, but this is the worst case scenario. A heavy weight settles in his bones as the detective begins his questioning.
“How did you meet Patrick Murphy? How long ago was it?”
Ken hums. “I met him about six years ago at a networking event. We’re both photographers. He came up to me when I was getting a drink at the bar, and that was it.”
“How long were you two together?”
“Two years.”
“What was Patrick like when you were together? Did he ever give you any indication that he could get violent?”
Ken whistles slowly. Where to even start? “Not just indications. He was violent. He hit me, kicked me, slapped me, broke my ribs, sprained my wrist…I could go on.Oh! And he strangled me. That’s the big one. He stalked me and my now husband for months until he just stopped one day.”
Detective Walsh stifles a yawn, and Ken bristles. Is he bored ? He wishes Colt were here. Colt’s always been more assertive. Ken tries, but at the end of the day? He just bellies up and takes it. Pathetic . “How would he act when he did these things? Did anyone or anything set him off?”
Maybe Walsh doesn’t mean it that way, but Ken hears What did you do to make him hit you? Ken glares and grits his teeth. “Nothing I could ever figure out. I went out with my friends, and I got yelled at. Was a little later than I said I’d be? He’d slap me and accuse me of cheating. I fell asleep? He’d kick me in the ribs to wake me up. He liked to pick fights, and I was always punished for talking back. He tried to strangle me after he found out I was leaving.”
Walsh clicks his pen repeatedly, and Ken’s eye twitches. This is exactly why he refused to go to the police after the strangulation. He predicted the apathy. “After he tried to strangle you, why didn’t you make a report?”
Ken presses his lips into a thin line. Why am I being interrogated? “I was scared of him. I thought he might come back if he found out I went to the police. I just wanted to move on, ya know?”
Ya know? Could you sound any dumber?
“You wanted to move on, yet you broadcasted Patrick’s behavior and your alcoholism all over TikTok.” Ken’s eyes widen in surprise, and Walsh waves a dismissive hand. “You don’t want us to find out about it? Don’t post it. You had no problems blasting it all over social media. I just find it a little strange that you were too scared to make a report.”
“Am I a suspect?” Ken asks incredulously. If this is how Walsh speaks on recording, he shudders to think about what he says to people behind closed doors. “What is this?”
“Not a suspect.” Walsh rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. “We only have one. I’m just trying to build a profile - “
It’s eerily reminiscent of the time Ken and Colt actually went to the police after months of stalking and harassment. A brick flew through their window, and the cops hadn't done a thing because there was no proof it was Patrick. The threatening texts didn’t matter. Showing up outside of Ken’s studio wasn’t a big deal.
Detective O’Hara rifles through papers on his desk. He hasn’t looked at Ken or Colt once. “Nothing would come out of it. It would be your word against his.”
“With all due respect, he tried to strangle me - “
“And I’m telling you, Mr. Handler, that nothing would come out of it. You should have come in here sooner. Is there anything I can actually do for you today?”
“So you build a profile on Patrick by reminding me of everything I did wrong? I already know! I know I should’ve gone to the cops! And for the record? He stalked me and Colt and the rest of my family for months. You wanna know what happened? I went to the LAPD and guess what? They did nothing. Wouldn’t even take my report. Didn’t listen to my husband. Wouldn’t even look at me. I never bothered after that, because there was no point.”
Walsh groans in frustration, and Ken’s nostrils flare. His cheeks flush with rage. He needs to be angry. He refuses to fall apart in front of a cop. He can shatter into pieces later. “I’m sober now. I have been for two years. I talk about it because I wanna help people. It helps me move on. I’m really happy now, and I’ve spent years trying to rebuild my damn life. I just wanted to forget.”
“I understand.” Walsh drums his fingers on the table, and Ken studies him. How could the man across from him understand? How could he understand what it’s like to try your best to please someone and always come up short? To get slapped for the tiniest hint of attitude? To get a sprained wrist for going out with friends? He can’t.
The conversation lasts for hours. Ken feels raw and exposed by the end of it, and he can’t wait to get in the shower and scrub his skin until it bleeds. It’s not fair. All he wants is to move on, to be happy, and Patrick ruins it at every turn. Maybe he’s doomed to be miserable forever, to wind up cold and alone. Colt should run when he has the chance. Doesn’t he see how toxic Ken is?
“Here’s my card.” Detective Walsh all but shoves his card into Ken’s shaking hand. The detective looks bored, but the judgmental glint in his eye is all too evident. .”If anything happens, give us a call.”
Detective Walsh stands, and Ken follows, feeling like a scolded child. He follows the detective to the door and opens it, lips pressed into a thin line. And you wonder why people don’t trust you .
“Have a good day, Mr. Seavers. Thank you for your time.”
“You too.”
Ken slams the door behind the detective and shakily slides down to the floor, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He stares blankly around the house, taking note of his guitar, his and Colt’s favorite surf boards, Colt’s bonsai trees, and the homey furniture. Does any of it belong to him? This isn’t his house. He doesn’t have a house. He lives in an apartment with blue walls and colorful furniture. There’s a shelf in the hallway donned in horse figurines, a beautiful mantel with family portraits.
He blinks. A wedding photo stares back at him. It’s him and Colt on their wedding day, his suit a classy lavender and Colt’s a dashing navy blue. But that’s not possible. He’s with Patrick. He isn’t married. He would never marry someone so vile, no matter how many times he begged, but that isn’t Patrick’s face. It’s Colt’s. Ken lifts his left hand, taking note of the gold wedding band. Is this really his hand?
Fuck.
Ken clamors to his feet and races to the kitchen, haphazardly flinging open every cabinet. There has to be wine in the house. He wouldn’t throw all of it out, would he? But he would, because he and Colt promised each other that they’d get sober together. He whines and chokes, but he’s not sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. Sober! Why would he want to be sober? Whose idea was it? Probably Colt’s . It couldn’t have been Ken’s idea. He’s a worthless doll who blindly obeys every command, doomed to follow his script, to be boxed forever.
He needs a drink, but he can’t have one. If he drinks, then Colt will relapse, and if he relapses Ken will never forgive himself. But what else is he supposed to do?
He jumps when something vibrates in his pocket. He stands there dimly for a moment, only vaguely paying attention, when he realizes it’s his phone. He fishes it out of his pocket and releases a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.
Barb Handler
His hand is sweaty. It takes a moment for his phone to recognize his thumbprint, but right on the last ring, it finally registers. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ken!” Barbie says brightly. “Are we still on for dinner tonight? I’m still at the dealership, so I might be a little late.”
Dinner tonight? Dinner tonight. They’ve had these plans for days. Ken swallows. It feels like shards of glass. “Um. I….I don’t think so. Sorry. I can’t.”
The answer is immediate. “What’s wrong?”
Ken hates that she knows him so well, but how could she not? He was made for her, and even though she wasn’t made for him , the bond they have is special. Extraordinary. And she’s known him for over six decades. There’s an implicit understanding between them, one that Ken usually treasures. It’s easier when he doesn’t have to explain anything, especially regarding Patrick. But he’s never been able to hide anything from her. “Patrick killed someone,” he chokes out. “He fucking killed his boyfriend and he’s on the run and the Goddanm cops showed up at my door and I really need a drink.”
The silence on the other end is far too loud. She’s judging him, he knows it. He should have gone to the police, but he already knows! She doesn’t need to say it! If she says it, Ken will break and Colt can’t come home to a broken husband, and Colt! What is he supposed to say to him?
“Where are you?”
Ken jumps when he’s pulled out of his spiral. “Uh, what?”
“Where are you, Ken?”
“Home,” he says quietly. “I’m home. It’s just me and Jean Claude and Cheddar and I need to lock the doors, and…Barbie. I need you to hide my car keys. I really need a fucking drink and..” Ken wipes his nose on his sleeve, not even caring about how disgusting he looks. “I don’t know what to do.” Whose voice is shaking? Is it his? Ken looks around the room; he’s alone, but that’s impossible. It doesn’t sound like him. He feels like he’s floating, watching everything like a horrible movie. He watches his mouth move, but hardly comprehends the words. Is this his life? Is this real?
“Don’t worry. I’m on my way.”
–
Less than half an hour later, Ken’s shoulders tense as someone knocks on the door three times. They’re gentle knocks, but it could be a facade. Quiet and gentle don’t mean anything. It’s Barbie it’s Barbie it’s Barbie . Still, he grabs the baseball bat he’d taken out of the closet. He and Colt kept them everywhere around the house for months, but they haven’t had use for them in ages. Hopefully his swing is still good. He opens the door, readying himself, but then his entire body goes lax with relief.
“Ken,” Barbie says breathlessly. Her hair is falling out of its ponytail, eyes wide and frantic. She’s terrified, yet something inside of Ken relaxes. Barbie’s here. Barbie always knows what to do.
Ken holds out his car keys with a shaking hand. “These first. I need a fucking drink but I can’t have one and I don’t trust myself.”
“Shhhh.” Barbie takes the keys from him, giving his hand a tight squeeze before letting go. “Go sit down. I’ll take care of it.”
Ken sits down on the couch, clamps his eyes shut, and covers his ears. He’s not sure how long he sits like that before Barbie comes back. He feels the other side of the couch dip, and he turns to look at her, trying to decipher the look on her face. But she keeps it carefully neutral. He hates it when she does that.
“What happened, Ken? Take as much time as you need. It’s okay.”
Ken takes a deep breath. How many times is he supposed to go over this? He feels raw and exposed, and he shudders against the feeling of hands around his neck. By the time he’s done talking, this voice is little more than a croak. Just like getting strangled .
"They asked why I didn't go to them about Patrick." Ken leans back against the sofa and wipes his eyes. How could his life have flipped upside down in a matter of hours? Again ? "They basically told me this is all my fault."
Isn't it? Another man is dead. Two parents mourn a son,, a group of friends splinters, there’s a new empty seat at every table. Images of Daniel McCarthy flash behind his eyes. He's already stalked every social media profile, scoured the news for scraps of information. He'd nearly thrown up when he saw a picture of him. Tannish skin, blond hair, bright blue eyes. The resemblance can't be a coincidence. He'd scrolled back about four years, watching the liveliness drain from Daniel's eyes photo by photo.
Patrick Murphy destroys lives, steals what doesn't belong to him, resembles a demon more than a man as he chokes the life out of his lovers.
Ken jumps when Barbie gently nudges his calf with her foot. She stares at him sadly and holds out her hand, shoulders slumping when he curls up and wraps his arms around his knees.
"It isn't your fault, Ken. The only one who's responsible for Patrick, is Patrick. There's nothing you could've done."
Ken huffs. "I coulda talked to the cops. You, Gloria, and Ryan begged me and I didn't listen, and now a guy is dead because - "
"Because of Patrick," Barbie says firmly. " Not you. You were scared, and something horrible had just happened to you. And don’t forget, you did go to the cops, but they refused to listen to you. Nobody blames you for wanting to try and forget about him. Patrick fucked up, and the police didn’t do their jobs. You can't control other people's actions.”
But Patrick controlled him for two years, didn't he? He took everything he wanted, never gave Ken the chance to say no, told him when to come home and who to talk to, when to eat, and when to sleep. Ken felt more like a doll than he ever had in Barbie Land, boxed in by an ever-restrictive script that he'd been so eager to escape.
Ken vividly remembers pinching his own skin, watching in relief when it stretched and turned red. I'm not plastic .
"I dunno, Barb," he says after a too-long silence. "He sure as hell controlled mine."
Barbie doesn't respond, but Ken doesn't blame her. What else is there to say?
–
“Does Colt know?”
Ken looks up from his pizza. There’s a rock lodged in his stomach. He’ll probably vomit if he eats. “Not yet. I don’t even know what to say to him.”
Barbie leans forward and fixes him with a soft, sad smile. “I know. He’d want to know, though, wouldn’t he? When’s he coming home?”
“Two days.”
He wants to tell Colt. He wants to scream , to throw things and break something. Coming to life was a mistake. He’d been miserable in Barbie Land, but if he’d known what was in store for him here, he would’ve stayed a miserable doll for eternity. He wouldn’t have met Colt, but he would have been none the wiser. All he does is drag his husband down, anyway. Colt worries because of him. Colt relapsed because of him. Colt’s life has been filled with anxiety and drugs and trying to get sober again for years, but there’s only one common denominator.
“I can hear you thinking,” Barbie says. “Stop it. He loves you, Ken. He wouldn’t have married you if he didn’t.”
“I know.” Does he?
–
Colt calls later that night, and Ken’s decision is made for him. His eyes flit about the room, praying for anything else to happen, anything to avoid this conversation. Maybe a mudslide. Would that work?
It wouldn’t. Not with Colt. He’s stubborn.
Ken takes a deep breath and picks up on the third ring. “Hey, hon.”
“Hi, dollface.” Ken’s lips quirk upward ever so slightly. He’ll never tire of the nickname. “Everything okay? I haven’t heard from you.”
“Tell me about your day first.” Where’s the damn mudslide? “And then I’ll tell you about mine.”
Colt yawns, and Ken flinches. He’s not a cop, he’s just tired, he’s not the stupid cop, he’s just tired . “I’m beat. I just got back to the trailer, like, ten minutes ago? Turns out being a stunt coordinator is more exhausting than doing the stunts. Who would’ve guessed?”
“Well,” Ken drawls teasingly, “of course it’s exhausting. You have to use your brain for that. I know it’s a lot.”
“Ha ha ha.” Ken smirks. The eye roll is almost audible. “Look at you. You’re a real comedian.”
“And you’re stuck with me forever! Aren’t you lucky?”
“I am, actually.” Ken blushes as something inside of him relaxes. Maybe this conversation won’t be so bad. Colt’s always had a way of putting him at ease, even from across the country. “Seriously, though, how was your day?”
“Oh, you know…” Ken plops onto the sofa, shooting Jean Claude an apologetic grin when the dog glares at him. “I hung out with Jean Claude and Cheddar. I did some work. The cops showed up at the door.”
“I’m glad you had a - Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” Colt sounds wide awake, and Ken can almost picture him pacing his trailer nervously. “Ken. What do you mean the cops showed up? What happened?”
Ken closes his eyes and sinks into the sofa. He wishes Colt were here. Cheddar jumps into his lap, and Ken pets her. She purrs, and Ken tries to focus on it. “It’s about Patrick.” Ken’s eyes are wet. Jesus Christ . “Colt, Patrick killed his boyfriend. He killed his boyfriend and ran and the cops came to ask me questions.”
“Holy shit.” The words come out like a gasp, and Ken nods even though Colt can’t see it. “Why did the cops come talk to you? You haven’t even seen him in years!”
“I know. They’re building a profile on him, and I guess they’re talking to his past partners to get a clearer picture. The detective was such an asshole, Colt. He asked me why I didn’t go to the police and basically implied that it’s my fault for not making a report. But I did! We did! We went to them years ago and they didn’t give a fuck!” Ken tries to take a deep breath, but chokes on a sob instead. His lips taste salty. He needs a hug, but cringes at the thought of being touched.
“Slow down, honey,” Colt soothes. “Okay, okay, I know this is really fucking bad, but take a deep breath. Are you alone?”
“N-n-no.” Ken shakes his head. “Ba-B-Barbie’s here.”
“Good. I don’t want you to be alone. Lock every door and close the curtains. Did the cop seem worried about you?”
Ken laughs bitterly. “Of course not. He basically told me it was all my fault. He didn’t even have to say it! I already - “
“Don’t finish that sentence.” Colt interjects. Ken’s taken aback by the firmness in his voice. “This isn’t your fault, dollface. You can’t con -”
“I can’t control what he does, I know, I know! Barbie said the same thing! But he had me under control for two years! How is this different?” Please tell me it’s different; please tell me I’m not a murderer, please don’t go anywhere.
“He terrorized you, Ken. That’s what he did. He Goddamn terrorized you.” Colt sounds so sure of himself. Ken grips the phone so tightly that his knuckles crack. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I wish you were here.” He hates how small and broken he sounds. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. I need a drink . “I haven’t had a drink. I made Barb hide my car keys.”
“Good idea. I’ll be home in two days, okay? Maybe a day and a half if we wrap things up sooner.” Colt yawns. “But I’m betting it’ll be the full two days.”
“I know,” Ken says softly. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”
“I’m really proud of you. You could’ve gone out and gotten a drink before calling Barb, but you didn’t. That’s a big deal, babe. I’m proud.”
“Thanks.” Ken doesn’t feel proud. He feels small. Alone. Numb. “I know you’re tired. I’ll let you get some sleep. Barb’s still here, so I’ll be okay.”
“Okay,” Colt says reluctantly. “If you need me, call me. I’ll hear it. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
As soon as they hang up, Ken turns the shower to the hottest it’ll go. He scrubs his skin, paying no mind to the way it blisters in the heat.
He has to wash Patrick off somehow, doesn’t he?
–
“You can go.”
He and Barbie sit side by side on the bed, watching something on his laptop. There’s a huge TV in the living room, but the living room is too exposed. In here, he’s safe. “I’ll be fine.”
Barbie doesn’t leave. She grabs something from under the bed. ”What are you - “
She brandishes her duffle bag, quirking up an eyebrow. “You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving you alone.”
–
Ken clumsily unlocks the door and turns to wave goodbye to Barbie, Gloria, and Ryan. His face is warm from the cocktails, and for once, he feels relatively okay. Patrick didn’t pitch a fit, didn’t blow up his phone, didn’t speak to him much at all tonight, actually. And the handsome man complimented his singing, flirted with him all night long. Does he feel guilty? Maybe a little, but he made it clear to Colt that he’s a taken man. Somehow, though, they’d exchanged numbers anyway, with Colt shrugging and saying he could use more friends. So long as Patrick doesn’t find out, he’s in the clear.
He crosses the threshold to his apartment and jumps when glass crunches under his feet. He scrambles to turn on the light and immediately sobers when he sets his gaze to the floor. His horse figurines are in pieces, family photos knocked off the mantel, shattered glass glistening on the floor. His heart pounds in his chest and he frantically makes his way to the living room. Who the hell got in his house? And how? The door was locked, he just unlocked it and he double checks it every time he leaves, and Patrick - Oh, fuck.
“Patrick!” He calls out. They don’t live together, but they may as well. Pat’s here enough. “Pat? Are you all right?”
He stops in his tracks and starts. Patrick’s on his side of the sofa, arms crossed, glowering like he’s been waiting for hours. Ken’s stomach drops. He’s not sure if it’s from relief or terror. Maybe both? “Hi,” he says quietly. “What the hell happened to my - “
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Patrick snaps. Here it comes. Ken stops himself from rolling his eyes, but only just. “This is what happens when you go out without me.”
What the fuck? Ken stares at him for a moment, mouth agape. Who does this asshole think he is? Those figurines were hard to come by, and so many of those photos were taken by him with his very first professional camera. Now they’re on the floor, shattered into pieces, and for what? “You didn’t like that I went out, so you broke my shit? You had no right! Some of those were expensive! Pat - “
“Pat,” his partner mocks. “You never learn, so I had to show you. Jesus Christ, are you really about to cry? You always fucking cry because you can’t handle the heat. Stop being such a fucking pussy. You’re a grown ass man.”
There’s nothing wrong with crying, but he knows better than to say that to Patrick. Last time he did, he got a split lip. But Patrick doesn’t understand. Those figurines were some of the first things he’d bought when he finally had enough money, a symbol of how far he’d come in being Real. But Patrick doesn’t know that he used to be a doll. Not that he would believe him anyway. Ken blinks rapidly, cheeks flushing with shame when Patrick shoves the broom and dustpan into his shaking hands.
“Clean it up. I’m going to bed.”
–
Ken wakes with a start. The bedroom is pitch black, but he can just make out a full-length mirror, his dresser, Barbie’s sleeping form next to him. His hands tremble, and he licks his lips. The itch for a drink is so strong that he just wants to claw off his skin. His brain hadn’t even gotten to the worst part of that memory, and he’s a mess! If he closes his eyes, he can hear his tipsy refusal to clean up Patrick’s mess, feel glass shards cut his face as Patrick shoves him to the floor.
“Not so tough now, are you? That’s what I thought.”
Ken shudders and swallows the bile rapidly rising in his throat. It hurts. The glass hurts, and he’s about to cry, dammit. He’ll get in trouble for crying. But it hurts, and now he’ll have to explain away the nicks on his face! How is he supposed to do that? Ken’s breath is too quick. His chest burns, but he can’t let Patrick catch him crying or -
“Ken?” Barbie? Is that Barbie? She can’t be there, she can’t - He turns just as she shoves herself up onto her elbows. “It’s okay, Ken. You’re having a panic attack. Here, follow me.” She sits up and scoots next to him, taking his hand and putting it just below her collarbone. “Try to take deep breaths. Just like this.”
Her breaths are slow and measured. Calming. Reassuring. Ken tries desperately to follow her, but he chokes on every breath.
He can’t even breathe right. What can he do?
–
When Ken pulls on the turtleneck, Barbie doesn’t comment.
It’s the beginning of spring. The windows are open, and Ken hears birds chirp in the distance. Ken’s skin is sticky with sweat, but the idea of anyone looking at his neck makes him dizzy with terror.
He absentmindedly picks his lips, gaze focused on the wall in front of him. He draws his knees to his chest, trying to ignore Barbie talking into her phone from the kitchen.
“He’s not doing well,” she says quietly. “He’s been having flashbacks all day. I don’t know what to do.”
It’s either Gloria or Colt. He hopes it’s Gloria, though he has the sinking feeling that it isn’t. Gloria won’t bombard him with texts and worry when he doesn’t answer. It’s not like it was with Patrick. Colt has legitimate reasons to be afraid, but Ken still can’t bring himself to answer. His arms feel like lead every time he reaches for the phone.
What is he supposed to say, anyway? Colt knows everything. There’s nothing else to say.
“So quiet,” Patrick mutters, Ken splayed underneath him. Ken fixes his eyes on the ceiling, imagining the bright blue sky and pastels of Barbie Land. “You’re so beautiful when you’re like this.”
How can he be beautiful if he doesn’t want any of this? How can he be beautiful when he’s tainted?
Ken buries his face in his knees and yanks his hair. It needs to stop, he wants it all to stop, why won’t it stop? There are always hands where they don’t belong, taking, taking, taking, and haven’t they taken enough?
All he’d wanted was someone to love him.
“I just don’t know what I did wrong.” He’s crying again. Always fucking crying. Barbie sits across from him on the coffee table and grips his hand, the only contact Ken will allow. Everything else feels too heavy, like hands that don’t belong to any of them. “Am I that much of a fuck up?”
“Don’t talk like that.” Barbie chides gently. She runs her thumb across his knuckles. The gesture is oddly soothing. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m disgusting.” Dirty. Tainted. Broken. All words he’d used when he told Colt what happened. To this day, he’s the only one who knows the full extent of what he went through at Patrick’s hands, but he suspects that Barbie’s figured it out. She isn’t stupid. “Don’t fucking look at me.”
It’s his karma, he’s pretty sure. Karma for Patriarchy. Who was he to think he’d just get a clean slate? He’s a Ken.
I’m just Ken.
A broken, malfunctioning Ken.
–
Ken doesn’t leave the couch.
Barbie tries to coax him into eating, but he shoves the plate away. His mouth tastes like ash, and he highly suspects it’ll just come back up anyway. What’s the point? His pant leg rides up ever so slightly, and he hastily shoves it back down when he sees Barbie’s watery eyes staring at his ankle.
He couldn’t find his car keys. He searched high and low, but Barbie did exactly as he’d asked. If he can’t drink, he’ll do the next best thing. He didn’t set out to cut himself. The start of his sobriety journey had been rough, and for a while, he’d just traded alcohol for cutting his hips and thighs. Now he feels sick whenever he looks at the scars, some thin, some thick and calloused. But the burn of the razor helped him forget, even if only for a moment. Now his entire world crumbles around him, and if he can’t drink, he might as well cut himself, right?
Colt will be upset when he sees. Ken can’t hide anything from him; hasn’t been able to since the day they met. His ankle stings, and he pretends not to notice when Barbie gathers every sharp object in the house to hide.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway.
–
It’s past midnight when the door opens.
Ken doesn’t react. His heart beats steadily; he doesn’t bother sitting up. If Patrick is here to kill them, then fine. Let him. Surely being dead would be better than this? So long as he leaves Barbie alone, at least. She doesn’t deserve Patrick’s wrath.
A shadow casts over him, and Ken’s face crumples as soon as he sees his husband’s face. Colt looks exhausted; his beard is scruffy and eyes bleary, and Ken is so relieved to see him. His face feels wet, but he doesn’t care. Colt’s always had a spell on him. With only a look, he knows how to knock down the walls Ken’s built around himself. How does he do it? Ken sits up, but doesn’t reach out.
“Hi,” he croaks. His throat hurts. How long has it been since he’s spoken? Or did I get strangled again?
“Hi, dollface.” Colt reaches up to brush Ken’s bangs out of his face, and Ken frantically shakes his head, scrambling to the opposite end of the sofa. Colt holds up his hands in surrender, and Ken hates himself even more for the disappointment that flashes across his husband’s face.
“Don’t touch me.” He pleads. Please hug me. Don’t. I don’t know. “Don’t. I’m sorry. I - I - I can’t, and I - “
“Shhhh.” Colt puts his hands down and shakes his head. “You don’t have to be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“But there is.” Ken cautiously makes his way back to Colt. He aches to be close to him, to feel his husband’s presence properly for the first time in weeks. He rests his head against Colt’s shoulder, relaxing when Colt makes no move to touch him. It must be awkward for Colt, kneeling on the floor with Ken almost curled into him, his own arms hanging loosely at his sides. Colt doesn’t comment. He just lets Ken sit there and soak in his scent. Colt never makes him do anything. I don’t deserve you , he wants to say. You should run . He’s always been so needy, so desperate for any scrap of affection; he can’t bring himself to say the words. He’s selfish . “I fucked up. Again.” Do you hate me?
“You didn’t do anything.” The rumble of Colt’s chest eases something inside of him. Ken clings to the front of his shirt. “Patrick fucked up, dollface, and I’m so sorry that this is happening. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Barbie said the same thing. Surely if the two people who matter to him the most are saying it, then it must be true, right?
So why does it feel like a lie?