Who Is That In The Mirror?
A fanfic from the slightly disturbed mind of the Californian who hates California.
Chapter 1: Where's My Nicotine Gum?
I never really took it seriously when Cartman said that Jews didn't have souls. He was just fucking with me. He was an asshole and that's what he did. But now I'm beginning to think he was right all along.
I wasn't like anyone else at Kenny's funeral. One of my best pals ever died and I never cried. An innocent seventeen year old kid was taken from this world and I didn't shed one god damn tear. I felt nothing. He was dead and it was as if I just didn't care. Watching Kenny's coffin being lowered into the ground didn't have the slightest effect on me. It was like watching the ten o'clock news. Today a man in Denver was shot down in front of Jay's Mini Mart… Who cares? Kenny was dead and I accepted it quicker than anything.
I hated myself for this. I hated not being able to cry like Stan. I hated not being pissed off at the world like Cartman. I hated not being able to feel. But this emptiness-- it really helped when I got in the most fucked up situation imaginable.
Butters was always a pussy. He was always a loner, too. And being a pussy and a loner was what caused him to become suicidal. The poor kid. I tutored him in math and we met every Tuesday and Thursday at his house. One day, I came over like I always had, and he was about ready to shoot himself, except he couldn't do it. He was too scared.
He sat there crying about how fucked up his life was and how it wasn't worth living anymore. I sat there listening… What the hell was I supposed to do?
"Dude, it'll be okay," I said trying to comfort him, "Just… you don't have to kill yourself…"
"I do!" he cried, "I just can't!" He wept louder. It was pathetic. "Kyle… Kyle, can you help me?"
"Well, sure… We just need to get you some therapy--"
"No! I have a therapist, don't you get it? I've had one for seven years! I need you to help me kill myself!"
"Please, Kyle! Oh, please say you'll help me!"
And I did. It was really quite easy. We went into his garage and I told him to sit in the car with the windows rolled down. I told him to start the engine and wait in the car. I closed the garage and left. I knew the carbon monoxide from the car would build up in the closed, contained space. I knew it would kill him and it did. Carbon monoxide poisoning was supposed to be painless. You're death was supposed to be like falling asleep. It was often called, "the coward's way out" which was quite fitting for Butters. The next day I got an invite to another funeral that I would not cry at.
Killing Butters was so easy and after that I started thinking about a lot of fucked up shit. I knew it was fucked up and I laughed about it. What the hell was wrong with me? Laughing about screwed up shit like how I could murder my family by pulling the same trick I did with Butters… it was fucked up… and I liked it.
Why did it have to be this way? Why was my passion this? I didn't want to like this fucked up shit anymore. I tried to get my mind off it, but I couldn't. I would just be walking home from school and there'd be a little girl playing jump rope. An innocent child… and I'd think about choking the kid with her precious little jump rope and throwing her body into some river... I hated it, yet loved it. I was addicted. I was addicted and I couldn't get any help. There was no Alcoholics Anonymous for me. There was no nicotine gum. I was completely alone. Forced to fight with this addiction for the rest of my life.
A couple weeks after Butters died, it was Easter Sunday and the church was holding some easter egg hunt thing. Hell, did I feel out of place, but Stan insisted that I go.
Cartman was being the rat bastard he always was. "Hey, Kyle!" he said waving a colored egg in front of my face. He was fucking wasted. After Kenny died, his after school sport was drinking the shit from his mother's stash. The fat fuck smashed the egg, which turned out not to be hardboiled but raw, on my head. He rubbed the gooey mess into my red hair.
"You son of a bitch!" I said shoving him. I was about to throw a punch, but Stan stopped me.
Stan and I went into the bathroom to try to wash the crap out of my hair. "Just ignore him, Dude," Stan said, "He's fucked up right now. You don't wanna mess with him, Kyle. All he has to do is sit on you and your done for," he joked.
Even though Stan was trying to laugh it off, I was still mad as hell. I told Stan that I was going home to take a shower and left. When I got home no one was there. I found a note from my mom saying that my grandpa was in the hospital and they had to rush off to see him. My dad would be back at seven to pick me up and take me to see him.
I sat down and began watching TV, but I heard something outside. It was Cartman. He yelled a bunch of crap at me, but all I could understand was that he was really drunk. He pushed me and I fell to the ground. He started punching me and I fought back. Some twenty blows later, I had the upper hand. I completely lost it.
Cartman was now the one on the floor, curled up in the fetal position, crying as I kicked the shit out of him. I paused for a bit, to catch my breath, and the fat fuck rolled onto his belly and coughed up blood. But I wasn't finished. I pulled him by the collar and began punching him in the face. One punch, two, three, four… I didn't stop.
"Kyle! Oh my God!" I heard a familiar voice scream from behind. Stan tried pulling my away, and on instinct, I punched him in the face as well, and he fell behind me. I continued to strike Cartman over and over again.
"Kyle! Kyle, stop it!" Stan was now pulling my jacket, desperately trying to get me away from Cartman, "Kyle!"
Stan finally succeeded in pulling me backward. I lied on the floor staring up at Stan who stood looking down at me with wide eyes. I was panting for air, and the only words I could let out were: "He started it." I sat up.
Stan walked over to Cartman who lied motionless on the floor. He gently kicked him with his foot and the fat kid didn't stir. Stan looked back at me with a horrified look on his face. He knelt down and pressed his ear against Cartman's chest. "He's… dead."
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