A/N: HEY GUYS. New story, yahyah. This first chapter is sort of slow, as it's just introducing the dysfunctional mess that is Kendall Knight. It gets better.. I mean Logan IS a drug addict. I'm excited to write this, I think it'll be fun.

As far as updating, I can't promise, but I'm pretty sure there'll be a new chapter every other day.

Review & Comment and what not! Thanks for reading!

Kendall Knight reclined in his grandfather's chair, letting his eyes unfocus as he skimmed the last few pages of an outdated, pop-culture magazine. He tried to at read the last of the "who wore it best" critiques, and shook him self each time he began to doze off. He couldn't help it, though; Not only was he exhausted by the dedication senior year required, but he also hadn't slept in weeks. It wasn't that he was up until two in the morning, injecting him self with heroine and dousing his liver with alcohol like the norm of his generation. He wasn't partying, dancing vibrantly, grinding against the crotch of an under age girl, as went everyone else's excuse. In fact, Kendall woke up at 5:30 each morning, to get him self and his sister ready for school, then tried his hardest until 2:05. Hockey practice began at 2:15 and ran up until 3:20, giving him 10 minutes to spare before his evening shift at the local grocery store. He was tired, because he tried.

It was Kendalls first day off from work in what he assumed to be at least six months, with the exception of Wednesday afternoons, which were reserved for his therapist, and all the Jewish holidays his grandmother made him take off. He bagged groceries and scanned eggs until 9 at night, the purple bags under his eyes only dropping farther as he returned home, and began to unload the text books from his school bag.
He did his homework, finishing somewhere in between 10 and 11pm, and then he'd walk sluggishly to the kitchen to collect any remains of the dinner his grandmother prepared. Kendall would bring the food back to his bedroom, and talk to the friends that were still awake at this hour on Facebook chat until around 1 in the morning, which was usually the time went to sleep.

Kendall hated work. He hated school, he hated waking up at such an uncivil hour of the day. He hated all his responsibilities he hated all his commitments, and though his entire life had consist of unrewarded labor, a small dab of hope overwhelmed the back of his brain, insisting that one day all the good he put out into the world would come back around. He understood that sitting on his couch each day would land him no where, and he knew that the only way to progress, would be to push. Kendall was a rare hybrid of drive and potential, but his therapist credit his maturity to his traumatic childhood.

His mother had been in school to become a nurse, during the time his father had been diagnosed with liver cancer. He had died long before Kendall had graduated Kindergarden. The death was almost as abrupt as the diagnosis.

Kendall recalled coming home from school one day to see his mother, draped over the kitchen table, her tears clinked as they hit the glass frame of a wedding picture she held in her white hands.

"Oh," She breathed, looking up to her son as he walked through the front door after the carpool let him off at his mailbox. Kendall wore a blue baseball cap over a thick shag of yellow hair. As a five year old, he stood on his tip-toes, and the top of his head could hardly touch his mother's long waist.

"Hi Mom," He said, quietly, tightening his grip on the red back pack straps that fell over his shoulders. He hadn't seen his Mr. Knight in weeks, as his mother had stopped taking him to visit his father in the hospital, after it was guaranteed he was on his death bed. Kendall knew his father was sick, though he couldn't understand why the doctors had such a hard time fixing him. He had only been to the hospital for one other occasion, and he had emerged in a matter of minutes, with a Scooby-Doo bandage wrapped tight around his middle finger. Maybe they were out of bandages, and thats why his father was gone for so long.

He missed him so much, it hurt, though. He badgered his mother night and day, desperate for his return.

Eventually, he stopped asking, though, as he saw the strain his "Where's Daddy's?" were having on the poor woman. "I don't… Kendall, please." She would say. When Kendall's mother stopped responding all together, he had the feeling that he shouldn't ask anymore, as she sincerely couldn't answer.

The moment he walked in that day, he sensed the tension. He knew what had happened the moment their eyes tied. He's gone, He concluded.

Mrs. Knight tried to look at the boy, but the green eyes her husband had given their son stared sharp into her flesh, making her skin burn, making her heart race even faster.

"Is Daddy…" Kendall began, catching him self as he felt his eyes water. Aw man, He thought, bitterly.

She threw her head back into her arms and sobbed, until Kendall climbed the narrow stair case up to his bed room. His mother sat at the kitchen table as she did that day for the next few months, unable to move her self, unable to find the motivation to continue her life.

"Mommy, I drew this picture in school today," Kendall said a first grader now, and almost an inch taller. His mother tried to smile. "It's a picture of our family." The small boy unrolled the long piece of construction paper, only to reveal a crowd of stick figures, standing on a poorly drawn heart. He referred to the brightest of all the characters, which was drawn with pink and orange crayon, his personal favorite colors.

"It's you, there," He explained, beaming with pride at the minuscule portrait. Mrs. Knight bit her lip, "And it's me, and it's baby Kate, and it's Daddy-" And then his mother threw her face into her hands, and howled, soaking her blouse with salt tears. Kendall looked to the woman, mortified.

"Mom," He said, his voice soft and desperate. Her head bounced in acknowledgement. "He's gone, but I'm still here." She tried to look to the son she'd neglected for about three months, now. He wanted her to hug him, and scoop him up into her arms, rock him back and fourth and tell him that she loved him.

"Mommy?" He tried again, his voice quivering. She couldn't. The following week Kendall's grandmother moved in, as his mother was in no condition to look after a 6 year old, and a three year old. She needed to focus on fixing her self, before she could care for anyone else.

About two years later, Mrs. Knight passed away, from what Kendall believed to be a broken heart. He tried not to cry, as he knew that if he began, he would never stop.

Kendall could only piece together fragments of Mr. Knight, and hope his interpretation of the strong, gentle young man had been accurate. Though he was young, still he remembered riding on his fathers shoulders, buying corn dogs in the park. He remembered holding a baseball bat, and attacking the ball his father had thrown as if he were playing a violent round of golf. He remembered the man's laugh, his dimples, the vibrant, lively green eyes he inherited, that made his heart sink every time he looked into a mirror. He prayed his memories weren't deceiving him, as he wanted nothing more than to believe his father had loved him up until his last day on this earth, unlike his mother, who gave up years before she left.

Kendall and Katie had moved in with their maternal grandparents, who lived in a shabby condo-complex in a different town, a month or two before his mother had been permanently admitted into the hospital.

11 years later, and Kendall still hadn't adjusted to this uncomfortable, dysfunctional way of life. It wasn't that he didn't love his grandparents; he did, of course. He sincerely believed they didn't want to be parents, again, especially after they'd already begun to research senior homes. The pair was dangerously close to their mid 70's, and seemed perpetually exghauted, even from the time the kids were smaller. Kendall only hoped they had left himself and Katie a significant amount in their will, if they were planning on dying any time soon.

Kendall finally gave in to his body, and allowed him self to relax though he should have spent his day more productively than he had. His first day off in 6 months, and he spent it watching television, and making mental remarks about Britney's whacky attire. Though the comments were witty, he hated feeling as if he'd wasted an entire day, especially while he could have been doing something else. Anything. As Kendall began to drift off into a well-deserved sleep, letting the magazine slide down his stomach, and fall off the chair.

Hardly a minute later, the hunched silouehtte of an elderly woman posed in the door frame.

"Kendall?" She called, pushing the door open with the side of her body, as she clutched an unattractive, floral purse to her chest. The woman had thick, oval glasses that consumed the majority of her shriveled face. She had fluffy hair, that lay in curls at the top of her head, and she was plump and stout, and wheezed as she spoke. "I've got groceries in the car. You know I can't carry them." Kendall repressed a sigh. His first day away from "paper or plastic", and his grandmother decided to visit the supermarket.

"Coming, Gramma." He mumbled, pushing him self from the recliner, bitterly cursing the irony.
"Oh I know," The old woman laughed as her grandson huffed past her. "I know, it's so hard being Kendall. I know, Kendall hates his life. I know, I know." She teased, amused by his reluctance.

Kendall didn't hate his life, though he certainly agreed that it could be easier.