Disclaimer: I don't own Kyle, Kenny, Stan or South Park in any way. If I did I would never let any of the people out of my sight and they would do many wicked thing's and probably Kyle's mom might not exist. I really hate her that much.
Warning: Boylove. Slash. Perceived suicide. Tears.
Summery: Kyle never thought anything could shake his confidence. He was smart and he was going to a prestigious university far from South Park. He had a future. Then he went to say his final goodbye's to his friends. What he find's shake's him to the core.
Meh To You: Final Moment's. Old story from before I posted on here. I swear to god I love Kenny but he seems like one of the most tragic kid's in SP. He needed to be dramatic.
Love it, hate me? Tell me!
Read on mon bitches!
My hands trembled as I read the very last words again.
The notebook paper was fairly common, simple college ruled blue lines on stark white. The ball point pen that had written the words was of black ink. I couldn't absorb anymore as I stared hatefully at those lines again.
The words that proclaimed my failure.
"At last." My voice cracked as I read the final words of Kenny McCormick aloud to the empty room.
I didn't know why I still had the notebook in my hands, perhaps I was searching and hoping for solace, forgiveness. It didn't matter I didn't find it.
I'm not sure I could ever deserve to be forgiven.
Of all the memories of the time I'd spent with Kenny, in my eighteen years of life and our thirteen years of friendship the most painful was a recent one. It was so telling, so obvious. And as ashamed as I am to admit it, one of the many overlooked opportunity's to save him.
We four, Cartman, Kenny, Stan and I had retained our friendship al through high school and recently into the summer of our senior year. In august we would be separating for the first time in our lives. I would head to Standford, Cartman to Brown and Stan would go to University of Colorado on a football scholarship. Kenny would be staying here and attending Park Community college, not having the funds or grades to go someplace better.
We had planned the summer down to the last minute, to squeeze in the last bit of our youth and freedom together. The plan was to party and enjoy one another's company as much as possible. The memory was of one day in late June.
Cartman, Stan and I had been with one another almost constantly. For some reason or other Kenny kept skipping out, but that day he came with us to Starks Pond. We all wound up with beers in our hands sitting in the back of Stan's pick up.
I was looking over the melted water of the lake thinking of all the adventure's we'd ever been on, all the extraordinary thing's we had done when Cartman spoke out of the blue.
"You guy's… I want to tell you something. It's important. But I need you guy's to tell me something too." Cartman's voice was a bit shaky causing me to turn and look at him.
He had his head down and eyes closed, his right hand in a fist on his thigh and the other clenched around the beer in his hand. He seemed to be breathing raggedly. I was startled.
Over the years Cartman had mellowed slightly. He was still a racist asshole who liked to bag on anyone for the hell of it. He was still a manipulative son of a bitch. But he treated the three of us as… not quite equals but as favored pet's.
He showed more of himself to us, he trusted us more. The malicious jokes and world domination in the name of erasing Jew's had stopped altogether.
So seeing him so broken down was a shock, but completely honest.
Immediately I responded "Of course Cartman."
And with a nicely place elbow Stan had grunted an affirmative. Kenny hadn't made a noise. Cartman did not need encouragement more than that though.
"Tell me what you're afraid of. None of that pansy ass 'the dark' shit either. Like the deepest secret of your soul." His voice was soft and didn't waver. He kept his head down and eyes closed though, as if we could reject his idea when he seemed so open.
Looking at Kenny's blank face and Stan's red one I decided I could take the initiative. "I'm afraid of getting hooked on drug's again. I'm worried about it all the time. I'm still addicted I can feel it in my bones. Sometimes I think about them, I get so antsy and upset. I'm afraid one day I won't hold back and I'll lose myself in them again, in the comfort they offer."
I didn't look at them because I was afraid of what I'd see. But now, I wish I could have seen Kenny's face. It was such a little thing in the picture of his existence. Did he think me childish?
Stan spoke in a solemn tone next. "I'm afraid of Wendy. I love her so much it hurts sometimes. I see what she does to people, I know how she behaves. I'm afraid one day I won't have any use left and she'll leave me, but I'll still follow her. To the end of my days a dog to her whims."
A bitter laugh follows his statement. My heart aches for him. I understand that. Wendy is a cruel bitch, but I would never want Stan to live without her.
Even now I think that.
Cartman spoke suddenly then.
"Alright you guy's. I…"
His voice was broken and uneven as he pushed forward. "I'm scared to leave my mom. I hate her, you know that. But without me here, she isn't going to live. I know that. And I'm still leaving. Am i.. Am I a bad person? My mother is going to self-destruct the minute I leave and I'm going off to college." He was almost crying now.
I looked at his now up turned face. His brown eyes were glistening and I knew he was holding back tears. I could only offer silent comfort, a hand on his shoulder. No words could say what needed to be said.
But perhaps I was wrong, again. Another mistake. Maybe I pushed Cartman down a path of no return by not voicing some opinion. I would be responsible for two tortured souls then.
Kenny's happy voice broke through the uncomfortable heavy atmosphere, breaking the tension as usual. "I'm afraid to die." He had said happily.
Stan, Cartman and I had all burst into laughter at that. Kenny afraid of death? That was ridiculous.
Except it wasn't. Not at all. If any one of us had seen this notebook before we could have done something. I could have done something. If we had listened to him that day. It was no light hearted joke, no kidding thing. Kenny was afraid of his final death.
After that day I only saw Kenny alive one more time.
It was a few days after Cartman had voiced his true fear and I was walking home. Kenny passed by as I turned down my street from the convenience store. He offered a simple wave and a wane smile. It didn't reach his aquamarine eyes then. All I had done was nod.
Like he was expendable.
Like he was nothing.
Had it been Stan I would have invited him to hang out. Cartman and I would have traded insult's. Anyone else would have at least squeezed a hello out of me. But Kenny was once again overlooked and taken for granted.
When I had come to his house, the same ramshackle broken down slum he'd lived in since I'd known him, I had come to say goodbye. I planned on leaving late tomorrow night for my flight from Denver to California. I was going to simply hug him one last time and call it farewell.
When I'd arrived I instead found an empty shack. His mother and father not being home had not been a surprise of course. They were rarely around from what I had observed through my naive childhood. Kevin had moved away years ago. But Kenny had not been here either.
Deciding a note, a pathetic simple note, would be enough of a goodbye I went to his room and found a notebook.
A simple, red covered, college ruled, 70 page notebook. Intending to scribble a quick note I opened it. It was filled, pages covered front and back with tight neat scrawl, every single page covered. Frowning I wondered what was so important. I flipped to the first page and began reading.
Kenneth Scott McCormick
My life is the white trash version of a sitcom. A sitcom where I'm not even a main character. I go through the day watching everyone around me shine. They all seem to live. To enjoy life. I can't find it in myself to try.
I'll be dead before morning most likely; I haven't died in days. Confusing isn't it. To live a life with no rules or restrictions. If I fall from a plane window, I'll be at school in time for a test. If I get smashed on a goddamn freeway, I'll be home in time for dinner.
This dying started back when I was in elementary school. I've been to Heaven and Hell. Proved the existence of God and Satan, met both of their son's and came back to earth. And I hate it.
From that point on I was enthralled. This notebook told me Kenny's life story. His entire life.
The story started when he was five, but had been written just this year.
Kenny's first day of school had been Hell. He had went into the experience bright eyed and shipper. As soon as another child had heard him speak though his happiness ended. Living in a ghetto neighborhood with parent's that hated your existence and no friends to speak of Kenny hadn't realized he had a speech impediment. Needless to say a young Eric Cartman being the first person to point it out hadn't done any good at all.
He resorted to wearing a scarf to cover his whole face by the end of the week. It successfully muffled his words. After this, when no one could tell that the muffled words had a bit of a lisp to them he made three friends.
Stan, Cartman and i.
So began a happy period of his life.
Then as the years passed and we grew closer, he exchanged the scarf for a hooded jaket and we began the 'Adventure Years' as he called them.
His very first death was horrific. Cartman had been the one who had inadvertently caused it. He had shoved Kenny just a bit too hard at the bus stop. Kenny slipped on the perpetual ice and landed in the road way. Before anyone could blink the bus had managed to smash him flat.
I don't even recall the event.
But he went into lurid detail on the incident. He'd felt the impact of the blacktop just before he felt the air coming from the rushing bus. In a split second he had looked up and stared at death for the first time.
He was a child of seven.
The force of the bus had mercifully taken only a minute of agony to kill him, he wrote that it was one of his shortest deaths. When he arrived at the gates of Hell he had thought it was over. Brimstone and fire, screams that still haunted his dreams. The wailing agony of the tormented souls reaching for him.
He was frozen in horrific shock as the most ugly creature he had ever seen came and spoke to him. It called it's self Mygar. It's blackened skin cracked and flacked away a bit more every time it moved, it's lipless mouth and lidless eyes horrifying the small child that was Kenny at the time.
None of his words registered. Kenny simply woke up eight horrifying minutes later in his own bed. He'd panicked and screamed at the top of his lungs.
That was the night of his first real beating as well. His father being the only one home had rushed in the room to see what was wrong only to find his seven year old son, who should be in school, alone in the room in hysterics.
His father being drunk had 'only wanted to shut him up' as Kenny so eloquently put it. He said the pain hadn't been as bad as the bus breaking all his bones had been. He had wound up passing out just as his father smashed a fist to his temple.
Beaten and bruised was how Kenny often was. He wrote that his excursions to Hell were the only times he felt like he could move without pain.
It was almost a year later something happened that he called the beginning of the cracks.
He had just returned from a jaunt in Hell. He was almost friendly with some of the lesser demons and human helpers, like Mygar, by that point so he was comfortable enough to enjoy his pain free time. He had awoken from death to find his father's blurry face looming over his bed.
His father had spoken with a quite reserved quality, asking where he had been. Kenny had been more terrified then ever before in that moment. His fathers eyes were ice, as he listened to Kenny explain his death.
His simple response had not been heartening.
"That's fine then."
Kenny had tensed. And sure enough he had gotten beat. His fathers fists we heavy and his kicks hard. Kenny'd had a black eye and broken jaw before he registered the pain. Then the quality of the beating had changed. His father became quite, nothing but pants of exertion escaping his mouth.
When he passed the point of the usual beating Kenny had panicked. He lashed out with and arm and caught his father lightly in the chest. For that single hit his father brought a beer bottle down on the eight year olds head. That was the first beating that had killed Kenny. The first time the father killed the son.
With a sickening stomach and burning eyes I read onward.
That was also the first night he caught himself in Heaven. He wrote of gold and white, glitter and light's. How it was momentary peace before he had been jerked back to this mortal plane so filled with suffering.
That was also the first time he truly wanted to die again.
He wrote on and on, describing all of the death's he'd died. All of the adventures he'd been on with us. He wrote of us aging. And finally I had reached nearer the back, closer to the last page.
So far the story hadn't been much more than I knew.
I had known off Heaven, Hell and the death's. But reading it in such detail struck me deeply. It bothered me that I had never noticed his family's painful treatment. I felt I should have known they were abusing him that way.
No, that's a lie.
Even a few hours ago when I had read to that point I was still blaming him. I felt that he should have told me. I blamed him for it continuing. If he really wanted out he would have come to me as one of his closest friends.
I never considered for a moment the notebook might have been privet, a venting of emotions for no one person but him. But I never seemed to consider a lot of important things.
I was eager for more. Therefor the next few word's didn't register at first. But then I read a paragraph. And re-read it. And flipped back a few pages and read it all again.
I hate them. Kyle and Stan and Cartman too. Cartman I can understand. He's a self-centered asshole and anyone who doesn't think so or thinks he's changed is deluding themselves. Cartman cares only for Cartman. And to some extent I think I respect his self-reliance, that doesn't mean I don't resent him. I hate Stan because no matter what he does, what happens in South Park, He's always normal. He makes it through to the end no matter what. Stan is the survivor I wish I could be. More than anything I hate Kyle though. He's supposed to be the smart one, the one who figures it out in the end, solves the mystery. So why can't he see how much I'm hurting.
I stared soberly at the lines a few more minutes before moving on.
This jerking between life and death, getting brief looks at the other side, it's not worth it. My own fucking friends don't care. I used to try to tell them how it felt. How I hated to die, the pain. I tried to describe Heaven and Hell. They never listened. In fact I can't remember one time any of them paid me any attention at all. I'm eighteen years old and completely alone in the world. I have no one.
My heart broke with each word I read.
I used to be in love with Kyle you know.
I felt the salted tear as it trailed down my check and into my mouth and off onto the paper, smudging some words.
I thought, back before I knew it was damned, that he was my savior. I dreamed that one day he would turn and his beautiful green eyes would meet mine and he would smile. No words would be needed with that smile. Stan would still be close to him, but not in the same way. Fuck I could even have handled splitting the attention in half between the two of us.
I could not handle the blatant apathy he had for me. I don't even register with bug's on his radar/ I'm a fucking wall ornament.
I knew I could never hold someone so special as him all to myself. But I would have done, do, anything he asked. I always have.
I still dream at night of his auburn hair and fair skin. But more often I dream of love rather than lust. A deep slow passion rather than the firs of lust. I dream of hug's and peaceful kisses. I would settle for anything.
If I could make Kyle see me I would give the world.
And abruptly the reminiscent story cut off. The story's and the doubt and his soul wrenching question's all dried up. The final page was filled with a more desperate scrawl. And a more painful one.
I found a way out. I can die for one more time and stay dead.
Satan told me the last time I visited him that he had a solution. He said if I bargained with my heart I could stay in Hell until the final battle between Heaven and Hell. All I have to give as my heart. And I'm ready to do it.
I turned in my resignation for at the Hand-i-mart. I spent one last day with the only three people I'll miss, even if I hate them. Love them. Envy them. Even if they don't notice me. Even if they don't care I had to be with them one last time before I ended this.
I wrote this notebook, in hopes that one day, someone might find it. I have this tiny dream they might publish it as the "Manifesto Kenny" of some such. My own white trash version of a biography. Maybe it would be fiction, the story to fantastic to be real. Maybe I'll be some little kid's hero.
Then again maybe this notebook will lie here forevermore. Sitting on my desk with a ball point pen atop it. Looking for all the world as if I might come back to finish it off one day. Dust will pile up and cover it. The pages will yellow with age, the ink fade away. I might be the only person to ever know the contents.
I wonder how long it will take someone to notice I'm gone for good. I wonder if it will be day's or year's or even if anyone will notice at all.
Will the guy's come by before they go away to college? Will they assume I'm dead for the day and leave without a good bye at all? Or will they come by this house in four years, after college is done with and see the house in disrepair, assume I moved away, ran away.
Maybe they won't remember the orange clad friend of forever ago at all. Maybe I've already faded away.
It doesn't matter. They may be callous of caring. But I am dead for good now. I'll get my peace, my love and my forever. Only the price of all the love I've ever felt and given. I'm done with this endless cycle.
And then I lost control. Tears poured down my face and I slid to the floor from the chair I had been sitting on. I wept for Kenny. I Wept for Cartman and Stand. Most of all I shed tears of self hatred though.
This perfectly sweet innocent boy had loved me. He had been beaten down and broken into pieces. He had been to Hell before his voice broke and swept from Heaven into a living world of pain. He'd been tossed from life to death like a doll and ignored by all those who should care.
And I never noticed.
I hadn't cared to.
I lived in my perfect bubble and acted as though I mattered the most in the bleeding world I occupied. I had never looked outside myself and only bemoaned my loving parents, their stable boring jobs and my effortless school work. I was selfish and horrid.
I had let Kenny die this final time. I had caused him to not want to exist. My selfish attitude piled on top of the rest of the many trouble's weighing on his shoulders was enough to snap him.
I stood with the notebook clutched in my hand and left the empty lifeless house then. I would do everything in my power to see these words read by the whole world. Stan would read them and Cartman as well. I would make them all see who Kenny had been.
But sitting on the plan heading toward my future the next day I came to the conclusion I could never make up all the wrong's I had done to Kenny in my life. I had screwed him over even in death. I'd somehow committed an even more horrific sin than before.
I had found his red notebook covered in a thin film of dust.