A/N: Well, this is my way to explain why no one remembers Kenny dying and etc. The chapters will be very short, but please enjoy! Let me know if you like, hate, love or despise it. Warn me about any mistakes, okay? Reviews always make my day brighter; if you have suggestions, I'll be happy to read them.
Warnings: Mental issues, despair and possible overdose. I am not an expert about mental issues and meds, but this chapter won't mention anything specific; for the next chapters—that will mention the illnesses and stuff—I'll use my shrink's help, so it can be more accurate. Please, keep reading, okay?
Disclaimer: (is this really necessary? Anyway) I don't own South Park. Otherwise it wouldn't be as fun.
Oblivion is such a beautiful word, isn't it? There's a place known as such, the dark oblivion, where Cartman longs to throw us, his asshole friends, into.
I've been to Heaven and I've been to Hell too many times to count, but this place, the limbo, the edge between the Paradise and the eternal damnation, is their favorite place to send me to. And by them, I refer to the sick bastard who makes me go through death thousands of times without pity or mercy. By them, I refer to the heartless, hideous being who has the power to make a bullet travel through my brain, guts or heart, and makes me remember it, then, finally, makes me alive again just to experience it all over. By them, I refer to the one who craved the feeling of being stabbed, shot, decapitated, torn apart, burned, ran over, the feeling of fucking dying into a goddamn 10 year old.
Immortality is not pretty cool, you know?
No one knows what it feels like; to live restless, always waiting for something to happen—something only I will remember. A tragedy that sends a rush of blood through my veins violently, or simply interrupts it. Whether I bleed dry or have my head burst, it always fucking hurts, like it doesn't matter how I die, but how much I suffer. Not just here, while leaving my body, but also there. In the shitty dark oblivion. There, where I'm hunted down by creatures too horrible for man to ever imagine, where I'm killed, eaten, crushed like the damn cockroach that is my life's greatest metaphor.
Isn't it too cruel to be true? Well, my parents think so. And that's why I'm on meds right now. And therapy. How can they afford it, I really don't know, but I guess my case is pretty serious; those doctors gave a lot of names to my issues—schizophrenia, autism, self-punishment (because of some scars that remain, apparently caused by nothing else but myself), depression, paranoia, identity crisis.
It really scared the living shit out of me, I mean, to think I might be living some kind of Matrix, as though nothing is real. They all say, "Ken, you'll be okay. It's all in your head."
Let me tell you something, butt faces. I don't think so.
"Hello, Kenneth," she greets me with a plastic smile.
It's a small room. There's only her armchair and the divan where I'm sitting, facing one another with a small table in between; a big window, its view is all white, except for a tree or two, and a car passing eventually on the road outside. The cabinet is always closed, but, when she opens it, all I can see is blank papers, pencils and lots of piled stuff with no organization—those things shrinks use to fuck up your mind in the old Freudian style; and the door, which remains closed until the session is over. All white. Even her clothes; I feel like an orange lost in an asylum.
If I wasn't crazy before, it's this place's fault I am now.
"So, how was your week?" is how she starts everytime.
"Fine," I learned it's always the best answer. They see through anything, those people. Every syllable you spit out is a window to your head; inside here, you're a pattern.
"How many times have you died since last time we met?" she asks, like it's not manipulative at all, maybe trying to trap me into believing she gets what I've been through.
I shift my eyes to the also white carpet, analyzing the threads that jump out the pattern, seriously feeling like pulling them out. Not that I have OCD too, but they just look like they want to get out there. Like me. Like no other thread knows them. Like they want to be saved.
"None," I gaze up back at her, all smilingly, as if trying to say, the meds fucking worked, isn't it nice? Just tell me to stop taking them, they're seriously fucking me up.
"Now, Kenny," her voice reprehends me. She didn't buy it. "You know it's important that you don't lie to me. You can trust me, you know that, right?"
I don't answer for long moments. If there's anything those people are good at, it is waiting; they have a lot of patience, and, if they ask you twice, it's because you took an eternity to answer their (demanding) questions—but it doesn't make me feel less like a rat trapped in a corner, surrounded by starving cats; it must be that predatory look she has stamped on her face. The look Hitler probably was wearing while he brain-washed an entire country; the look that made me need to get out, without even knowing if I was actually caged. The Tweek-like paranoia is starting to eat me up, but, fuck, she wants to hear that I'm better, so I'm fucking telling her I'm better.
"I know," I smile, trying to make my heart stop contorting inside my chest. It also wants to get out there. Everything feels tight. "I'm not lying."
The air suddenly fell heavy, like the oxygen in the room turned into hot lava, its weight barely letting me inhale properly. My lungs hurt, I feel like throwing words up—save me, save me, save me, save me, save me, SAVE ME.Someone, save me. Anyone.
And no one comes. I'm still sitting in front of her; she's waiting patiently for me to say something, to surrender to her hungry eyes. My throat is dry. The clock seems to drag time slower and slower and slower and God, when am I getting out of here?—Wait, she's writing something down. Maybe another medication. It's another medication. It is for sure another one. Just the thought of numbness that stuff make me feel and the insomnia they cause makes so much blood pull through my arteries it hurts, and then it comes back through my veins with such determination, almost making my heart explode. I can even hear the loud thumps crashing on my eardrums, as though they were announcing a war and there was a freaking army marching on my brain; I might go deaf because, God, it's so goddamn loud it fucking hurts.
—And I can hear a voice. A quiet whisper in my brain, washing all the symptoms and chaos out of my head all of sudden. No, the chaos is still there, it hasn't vanished completely, but I can part it from his voice. I picture him, behind her, mouthing silently, Stay conscious.
I need you.
And then all the noise ceases.
"I'm fine, doctor."