A/N: I've been playing Call of Duty Nazi Zombies for the past several days and this shit crapped out my ass.
It makes perfect sense though. Kenny dies a lot, so why not make him a zombie? Bear with me, the genre is horror but it's also
romance. I'm sorry for that. I find it kinky. D:
As if They Cared.
I stared down listlessly at the patch of dead grass situated at the top of his grave, a bouquet of white lilies and vermilion roses bunched up within my hands. I pressed the flowers to my chest, a fresh wave of tears spouting forth from my eyes where they trailed down the length of my cheeks and pooled at the crevice of my collar bone. I rubbed at my eyes then, a few tear drops splashing down onto the flowers.
"Why doesn't anyone ever care?" I asked breathlessly, rubbing frantically at my eyes. The tears were increasing at a rather fast pace, raging down my face like a set of waterfalls. "T-they don't care that you're d-dead. They never care."
Tears still cascading down my cheeks, I dropped to the soggy earth beneath me, knees planting into the wet grass. It would have been nice if the grave had a marker or tombstone on it, but they hadn't bothered to trifle with one this time. I patted the ground, placing the bouquet of flowers where his head would be.
"These are for you, Kenny," I whispered, voice quivering. A few tears escaped, crashing to the earth at an alarming speed. I let them seep into the dampened ground, a shaking sob wracking my body as my shoulders hunched in on themselves. Kenny's deaths had been increasing as of late – his periods of life were growing shorter and any sane person would begin to wonder or worry over it, however you couldn't expect the residents of South Park to ever be concerned about anything that didn't affect them directly.
But I was.
I was worried, heck, I was always worried when Kenny died. This time, he hadn't even been alive for three days and bam – he was dead again. He had been crossing the train tracks on his route home, but his shoe had gotten caught between the metal beams. In the end, his right arm was severed and his chest was punctured, but thankfully he wasn't too bloodied or mangled. It was enough to allow an open casket at the funeral.
I shivered as a gust of wind raked through my pale blond hair, scratching at my neck as a reminder to start heading home. The funeral attendees had left hours ago, not bothering to pay their respects in a timely and appropriate fashion – some had even left while he was being buried.
"Whenever this happens, I worry about you," I said aloud, my voice watery and tangled in phlegm. "Sometimes I think you might not come back – that's what scares me."
With a tender stroke over the ground with my palm, I leaned back on the balls of my feet and lifted myself up while dusting off any tendrils of grass that had clung to the front of my black slacks. I adjusted my tie and looked down at the flowers, a watery smile consuming my lips.
"Till next time, Kenny."
Two days had passed since the funeral procession, and I still wasn't feeling too good. As each day drawled on, I constantly wondered when Kenny would return from the dead. Each and every minute that ticked by frightened me to no end. What if he didn't come back this time? What if he was dead for real? Tears stung at the corners of my eyes, desperate to be released, but I willed them back by blinking frantically.
"Hey Kenny, can I copy your homework?"
"Kenny's dead, fat-ass," I heard Kyle respond curtly. I picked my head up and silently glared at Cartman and his insincerity, draping my arms over my desk.
"Again? Well fuck," Cartman replied, a chuckle escaping him.
"You were at the viewing, 'tard," Kyle stated while scribbling something in his US History notebook.
"Must've forgotten then."
I furrowed my brow, burying my head into the reprieve of my arms. I could never understand why Kenny's closest friends didn't give a care if he died or not, I mean, I know Kenny died a lot but that still didn't give them the right to forget about him entirely. I really wished I had the courage to tell them so and stick up for myself and for Kenny's memory with the bravery that Kenny had. He was always doing what he wanted to do, adding his two-sense everywhere he could and getting himself into countless trouble. But that's what I admired about him: I admired the way he let himself be himself without others bringing him down or following the crowd, and that's why I felt he didn't deserve to die so much, and so gruesomely.
Plus, he gave really good advice. Sometimes I'd find myself sneaking over to him and away from the prying eyes of the general public, eager to spill my problems and willing to hear anything he had to say to me. I told him my surging hate for my father, the confusion over my sexuality and basically anything and everything I had left in me. In a way, he was like my own personal therapist who was always listening intently, even though he never looked it. From the naked eye, people thought he was a slacker, always whoring around from place to place never to go anywhere in life.
But I knew differently. He cared for the people he knew; he was resourceful, even if he lacked support from his environment and surroundings, and he was one heck of a listener. Basically, he did what he could, and for that, I was grateful.
At the end of the period, thankfully the last period of the day, I quickly shuffled my things into my book-bag and slung the strap over my shoulder, eager to exit the school. Today I was heading over to the cemetery to pay my respects to Kenny. Whenever he died, I would always waste no time in visiting him, because no one ever did. It always depressed me whenever I visited him to find that I was the only one who ever brought him flowers. When a person died, they deserved to be remembered right? But for Kenny, it wasn't like that.
He was forgotten.
"Hey there Kenny!" I chirped as brightly as I could given the circumstances. I ran the pads of my fingers over the wilting bouquet of flowers, enjoying the sound of the wrapping crinkling beneath my fingers. I furrowed a brow curiously when my eyes anchored on the patch of grass that was dead and dried the day of his funeral. For once, it was green and lush, which never, ever happened in
all the years of Kenny's off and on life. Maybe one of the groundskeepers sprinkled some of that plant growth formula on it – I've seen it done before but to other graves, never Kenny's. I shrugged my shoulders, letting the thought pass.
"It was a boring day today," I began, situating myself on a patch of grass. I crossed my legs and brought my book-bag into my lap, fingering the strap. "We didn't do much, but Mr. Camble assigned us a research project. And guess what, we can work in partners!"
I laughed heartily, letting a small smile spread across my lips. I leaned in further, eyes and voice directed at the patch of grass that was miraculously greener than the grass surrounding it. I patted the mound fondly. "When you come back, we can work together."
The rest of my visit was spent filling him in on what he had missed during the past few days.
A/N: So, that's the start of it. Review, yeah? It'll make me pretty happy. :D