This is M for violence. Please. Please. PLEASE. If you can not handle graphic depictions of violence, do not read this story.
I promised more gay horror, and I will deliver. I know I promised I would stop writing all these angsty Kenny fics, but they're too much fun.
Warnings: Gore, angst, blood, very mild slash, italics abuse. This is unabashed horror. I'm not even hiding it behind fancy genres like 'angst' and 'adventure' and 'supernatural.'
Kenny's ragged sneakers hit the pavement. His mind screams nononononono but he can't keep himself from stepping forward. The street is empty. That doesn't mean anything.
No, he begs, knowing they won't care.
Why did the Kenny cross the road? the voices in his head snicker.
No. He takes another step forward. He's standing in the middle now. He tries to force himself to move faster, to get to the other side, but his body doesn't react. He moves with painful lethargy. Please, no.
Because he wanted to die, the voices sing out.
An eighteen-wheeler barrels down the street and crashes into him, sending his body flying through the air until it hits the cement a few dozen feet away, splattering into pulp.
He wakes up with the sheets tangled around his legs, hugging himself, panting as hard as he can. His eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the gloom. He wears his parka and boxers, as always, with not a hint of blood on the fabric.
He glances at his alarm clock. It's about four in the morning, a bit later than he usually wakes up. He doesn't remember his time spent in Hell, only that he went there. He rubs his temples, trying to ease his headache. He thinks he's managed about three hours of sleep in the last week or so.
Wasn't that fun? the voices whisper in his ear. We know, we know, we've done it before, but it's a tried-and-true method of dying-
Shut up, he snaps, knowing he's talking to voices in his head, but not caring. Just shut up.
Make us, they snigger back, but fall silent.
He flops back down onto his bed and closes his eyes.
The voices spend the rest of the night whispering various ways to kill him into his ear.
"Dude, you okay?"
"Mmpph?" Kenny looks up from his PE shorts and glances at Kyle. They're changing into their PE uniforms, hideous yellow on puke green.
"You've been out of it recently."
He pulls off his parka so he can shrug his t-shirt on. "No more than usual."
"Good point." Kyle grins wryly at him. The boys file out of the locker room and onto the field. Kenny stops dead when he sees the construction workers.
They have a huge pile of lumber and they're running around, shouting orders next to the track. He stares at the little men in their little orange vests, and the voices in his head start laughing about how he's going to die next.
"What's wrong, dude? The teacher told us they were building a new shed." Stan grabs his arm and drags him onto the track. The PE teacher screams at them to run six laps. He starts numbly. Stan and Kyle run at his side, Cartman trailing behind them, huffing and puffing. The rest of their class scatters around them.
"This sucks." Stan hugs his arms to his chest. "It's way too cold to run outside."
"Uh . . . yeah . . . " Kenny echoes. He twists his head back to stare at the piles of lumber. One length of wood sticks out way more than all the others, like a spike.
My, my, that looks dangerous- the voices whisper.
Kyle falls back. Since entering high school and signing up for a half-dozen AP courses, he's stopped the majority of his athletics. Stan's the only one who keeps up sports, period. Kenny goes for runs in the middle of the night when he's too tired to sleep, and such is in decent shape.
Stan and Kyle keep pace. The two of them fall into silence. Stan looks to be concentrating hard on something, and Kenny is debating with the voices in his head.
You know we're going to make you do it, right? You'll be dead within the minute. Back down to hell.
Please. The begging is useless. I have a date with Tammy tonight. Please. Just for one night. She said she'd break up with me if I blew her off again.
But we want to see people die, Kennnnnnnny. It's just so innnnnteresting. We want to see blood and guts and gore.
He knows what's coming next.
We suppose . . . if you really don't want to . . . you could kill someone else for us-
His breath quickens. He tells himself it's just because of the too-fast pace. He and Stan pass the pile of lumber and continue on for their second round along the track. He continues to push the pace until they're practically sprinting, until Stan is rasping for air next to him.
Just push good ol' Stanley in front of the timbers, he'll run right into them instead of you, we won't have to kill you instead-
"I'm not hurting him!" Kenny snarls. Stan glances at him, eyebrows raised.
"Kay." Stan gives him one last what-the-fuck look and returns his attention to the track below their feet.
He can't be reborn like me, Kenny snarls at the voices in his head. I'm not killing him and you're not killing me. You can't control me.
Their shrieking cackles drown out the sound of the blood roaring in his ears. Sure we can't, Kenny. Sure we can't.
His feet move of their own accord. He tries to keep himself running straight on the track, but they send him sprinting for the lumber. Stan screams and grabs at him, but his body has already slammed into the sharpened end of the lumber.
It bursts through his chest. His momentum sends it pushing through his back. Blood explodes behind him in a spray, splattering Stan's face. Crimson drips down his shirt and clumps on his jeans in gooey chunks. He tries to breath but his lungs are crumpled and crushed beyond repair. His vision starts to fade. The pain swamps him.
He's so very used to this pain.
"Oh my god, they killed Kenny!" Stan screams.
"You bastards!" Kyle cries.
I hate you, Kenny thinks, and he's not sure if he's directing it towards the voices or his 'friends.'
The voices just keep laughing.
When he wakes up, his body is already rolling off his mattress against his will. He can't help himself from moving forward. He knows the voices are controlling him. He starts screaming at them in his head. He can't move his lips, can't utter a word.
What the fuck are you doing? I JUST came back to life! Let me get some fucking sleep!
Kenny, Kenny, Kenny, they sigh. We let you play the masked hero for a few years. We let you get a girlfriend and we let you have breaks from dying. All we ask is a little in return.
I'm not going to kill my friends for you!
Your friends don't care about you, Kenny.
They direct him into the kitchen and make him bend his knees.
I still can't kill them! Please! Just let me live, okay! Just let me live. Or better yet, don't bring me back to life. I don't know who the fuck you all are, but I don't want to be your fucking plaything anymore. I want to sleep. I want to die for real.
We don't always get the things we want, the voices mock. His fingers close around handle. He stands up and places the container on the kitchen counter. He reads the label.
"No," he manages to whisper. "No."
This is what you get for disobeying us.
No- I can't – please don't make me-
His fingers close around the handle again. He exerts all his energy, but his other hand moves forward anyway, to start twisting the cap off the carton.
I'll do anything – I'll do anything – just don't make me-
You'll do anything, Kenny? they whisper dangerously.
His fingers pause.
His shoulders slump.
"No," he whispers. "I won't give in. I won't hurt anyone to save myself."
The cap comes off. He's trapped inside his body as he tips his head back and pours.
It burns. It fucking burns. He screams as the liquid sizzles down his throat. It churns in his stomach. He chokes but the voices make him relax his jaw so he can keep chugging.
After several too-long gulps, his fingers can't hold it up any longer.
He slides to the floor and leans back against the cupboards. He's in full control of his body now, vomiting onto the floor. His whole body is alive with agony. He can't scream, can only whimper out protests.
His parents won't hear him. Even if they did, they wouldn't come for him. They're the only ones with the vaguest recollections of his deaths. They'll just think, 'oh, our son is dying again.'
He keeps throwing up, even though he knows it's no use.
He hates it when they make him die like this.
He stumbles through his classes the next day in school. Shadows line his eyes, like someone attacked his eye sockets with black paint. Midway through lunch, Tammy stalks up to him, slaps him for standing her up on yet another date, and breaks up with him. He's left to his laughing friends. Stan, Cartman and Kyle all think it's hilarious.
He can only afford a bag of chips. He used to have a part-time job, but then the dying thing got worse and his boss fired him for 'being lazy.' He gets to watch his friends wolf down their food and laugh about their carefree lives.
While they're chatting away, he's listening to the voices in his head debate how to kill him next.
I think he should jump off a cliff again, one says.
No, I think the walking-into-an-open-fire-and-slowly-burning-to-death technique always works well.
What about being mauled by a wild bear? a third exclaims.
"Shut up!" he screams. Stan, Kyle and Cartman glance up at him from their food. They stare at him for a few seconds.
"Sorry," he mumbles, and returns to his math homework. He's desperately trying to finish it before the start of next class. He wasn't even fucking alive to get the assignment, but Kyle claims it's due today.
Personally, I think we should try something new. What about this broken glass trick-
He flees from the cafeteria and makes it to behind the gym before his legs give way. He curls up with his back against the bricks, head in arms, rasping for air.
Shut up, he thinks fiercely. Just fucking kill me one way or another. Don't discuss it. That makes it worse. Just kill me and stop torturing me like this.
Don't be stupid, the voices chime. We need someone to play with. If we didn't bring you back to life we'd be bored. Do you have any other suggestions for us? Any other way to entertain us?
He knows what they want him to say.
When he fails to be prompted, the voices sigh as one.
Find us another victim. You won't even have to make it up on your own. We'll do it for you. We'll direct you in everything. What about Kyle? Sweet Jewish ass just begging to be raped-
"Shut the fuck up!" he screams, covering his ears, but he can't make them go away because they're worming into his ear.
Fine then, we'll do it to you, the voices snap. Over and over again until you're writhing in your insanity. We'll never let you rest, Kenny. You're ours forever. Ours to play with, ours to kill again and again. Now, about the broken glass trick-
"No!" he cries, because he can already see what they have planned for him. He feels his stomach start to rebel again.
"Just let me sleep," he mumbles. "Please. I just want to sleep."
The voices purr in his ears.
Do what we ask and you can sleep all you want.
"Hey, dude. Got your text." Kyle crawls in through the window and flops onto the floor. The window has long since been their preferred entrance route to Kenny's house, considering the piles of trash clogging the front door.
"Thanks," Kenny mumbles. He sits on his mattress on the floor, knees pulled to his chest. Kyle sits next to him, jamming his phone into his jeans pocket.
"So, what'd'ja wanna talk about?"
"Uhm . . . " Kenny takes a breath. The sliver of moonlight casts shadows on Kyle's face.
"We're friends, right?"
Kyle blinks. "Uh. Yeah. No shit, Sherlock."
"Kay." His fingers fiddle with the drawstrings of his hood. He pulled off the hood so he could talk better, but he feels naked without it.
"If I were . . . in trouble . . . would you get yourself into trouble to help me out?"
Kyle blinks. "Uh. You called me over here for a moral debate?"
"Kay, kay. Um. I dunno. Probably. Maybe. Depends." He cracks a smile. "But you know I've always been one to risk myself for my friends. Seriously, dude. I've know you for way too long not to want to keep you around longer. So I guess my answer is yes."
He's practically begging you to slice him up! the voices screech. Do it! Do it, do it, do it now or we'll make you die in a double suicide.
His whole body seizes.
He chokes for air and hugs himself tight.
Kyle touches his shoulder.
"You okay, dude? Seriously?"
"I die," Kenny says, "all the time, in incredibly painful ways."
The words escape his throat in a strained whisper.
"Oh." Kyle rolls his eyes and scoffs. "Not this bullshit again. Really, if you're so desperate for attention, can't you make up something a bit more, I dunno, credible? Because really, the dying thing is not that believable-"
His fingers clench around Kyle's throat. Kyle's eyes go wide and he grabs at Kenny's hands, clawing at the fingers. He ignores Kyle's protests and digs his nails into his white skin.
Kyle's eyes start to roll back. He releases and Kyle gasps for breath. He pushes him to the floor and Kyle flops, still panting heavily, unfocused eyes peering at Kenny.
You know what to do! the voices scream. Now! Now! Give us his blood!
He grabs the empty jar from his bedside table and smashes it against the ground. Kyle has started to shift and try to stand again. He straddles the Jew and pins his hands to his side with his knees. His fingers scrabble around the broken grass, finding a handful. The edges jab into his skin and draw blood.
"What the fuck? Let me go!" Kyle tries to buck his hips, but as malnourished as Kenny is, Kyle barely clears five feet and has no muscle to back his words up.
"Help! Help! Somebody help me!" he screams.
"Shut up," Kenny snarls. "My family won't hear you. Even if they do, they won't care. They always hear me scream late into the night from whatever way I'm dying that time. They're used to the sounds of a dying kid coming from this bedroom."
"What the fuck? I didn't do anything wrong! Chill out, dude, just let me go and we can talk this over-"
"It's not fair!" Kenny shrieks. The glass shards stab into his skin. He clutches them tighter. "I die all the fucking time. The voices make me die all the time and I do it for you, so they won't hurt you guys instead. And you assholes don't even have the decency to fucking remember!"
"Okay! Okay! I believe you about the dying thing! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just let me go and we'll talk this over-"
Kyle fights when he sees Kenny's hand come up. He tries to bite down when Kenny forces his fingers inside his mouth. He screams and gargles on his own blood when the glass shards pierce the sides of his mouth.
Kenny slams one hand over his mouth and the other over his nose, blocking off his oxygen supply. Kyle keeps writhing and bucking, but he's growing weaker, and Kenny is fueled by fear.
"Swallow," Kenny says, voice deadly ice.
Kyle shakes his head as best he can, tears brimming in his eyes.
"I said fucking swallow. If you pass out I'll bring you back and kill you. Don't think I fucking won't," Kenny hisses, repeating the words the voices whisper in his ear.
Tears streak down both their faces.
Kenny can sort of see why the voices continue to play their sadistic game with him. Some sort of sick thrill runs through him when Kyle swallows a mouthful of broken glass, just at his command, just because he told him to.
There's a knock on his door. He freezes.
"Everything alright, sweetheart?" his mother calls.
Kyle lets out a pathetic moan. Blood dribbles out of his mouth and down his chin.
"Oh – oh – all right, then." Her voice trails off as she walks away.
"See, Kyle?" he says. "They don't care. Even worse. They're afraid of having to care, of having to act like real parents. So they go through the motions, acting like my family but never actually being one. Because if they opened the door then they'd have to face the truth. They hate seeing me die because it reminds them of a secret they can't cover up."
Kyle's breaths come in burbles. His blood looks black in the grayscale moonlight.
"It's not fair," Kenny says fiercely. "It's not fair that I have to die all the time and none of you ever have to. Please. I want to sleep. Just this once. Let me sleep."
Kyle doesn't respond. His eyes are wide and bulging from their sockets. He's not breathing. The glass must have pierced through his stomach lining and found his lungs. His heart still beats, though. Kenny can feel it pumping blood from his body even as he bleeds internally.
He bends down and presses his lips to Kyle's. Coppery tang fills his mouth. He pulls back and wraps his hands around Kyle's neck, cutting off his air supply.
What are you doing? the voices scream. Let him suffer for longer!
"Shut up!" he snaps aloud. He doesn't care if Kyle thinks he's crazy (Kyle has already been convinced of such). "You've had your torture, you've had your blood. Let me give him fucking merciful death."
The voice snicker amongst themselves and agree.
Kyle doesn't fight back. Maybe he doesn't have the energy to. Maybe he's in too much pain to care otherwise.
It's a Friday night, and Kenny sleeps for a solid twelve hours.
It is pure heaven.
When he wakes up, Kyle's body still lays on his bedroom floor, blood staining his threadbare carpet.
He panics. His own body always disappears after he died.
That's when it hits him, really hits him.
Kyle's never coming back.
He throws up three times next to the body. Then he curls up in his parka and stares down at Kyle. The stench of death clogs his nose.
He glances across the room at his chipped mirror. Most of the bags under his eyes have disappeared.
He finally got some sleep.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and proceeds to stuff the body into trash bags.
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