DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN SOUTH PARK, OR ANYTHING RELATED (not from lack of trying though)
Hi, I'm Amy, and I hope you enjoy my dark little story... If you do, there's a review button riiiigggghhhhttt down there, please press it?
They say photos tell a story, and I guess that's true. Photographs capture a moment in time, allowing you to recall and reflect on that moment years later.
Photographs... they show a lot, but they hide a lot too. Again that's what they say, and I've grown accustomed to ignoring everything that THEY say.
'What was happening in this picture Kyle? It's a nice picture, isn't it?' The woman sat in front of him smiled, her eyes shining with enthusiasm.
Kyle glared at her as he took the offered photograph from her hand, looking at it for a moment before throwing it down onto the small table placed between the two of them, 'It's me and my friends. We look happy. Is that what you're getting at?'
The woman's smile grew wider as she prompted him 'Why were you all so happy? Where was this taken? Who took it? How did you feel then? How does it make you feel looking at it now?'
Kyle remained silent, his face blank and unmoved by her incessant questions. Without a word he stood and turned away from her, walking towards the pale wood door, stopping before leaving,
'I'm going back to my room.'
She sighed and nodded, beginning to gather up the photographs splayed over the table. With her head bowed, she didn't notice Kyle observing her, mentally noting everything about her. She wasn't tall, but she wasn't short – she was completely averagely sized. In weight, too, she was average. Her permanently tanned skin made make up redundant but she still wore it. His emerald eyes scanned the sugar-pink painted lips that matched the colour of her nails, the foundation just a shade away from matching her skin tone, the mascara that she had rubbed into the creases beneath her muddy green-brown eyes, the dark blonde hair that was tumbling out of a bun. She looked as she always did – put together, but starting to fall apart. He almost smiled at that, the idea that even the people put in charge felt the effects of this place.
He left swiftly, letting the door shut silently behind him, and began walking the narrow corridor that led to his room without conscious thought. His mind was stuck on the image he'd been shown, the picture taken three years ago. Four 15 year olds laughing together and waving at the camera, sat holding ice-cream outside a dark green house despite the snow littering the ground.
Kyle stopped, having reached his door. He paused before opening it, taking a calming breath before pushing on the pale wood.
Surrounded by white walls.
With a silver handle.
The whole place was washed out and cold. He hated it.
Pushing open the door, he entered quietly, eyeing the room as he had the councillor, with distaste. White walls. Thin, scratchy grey carpet. White blinds. Pale wood bed frame. White furniture. The only thing he liked was his bedding – it was dark blue, with golden stars on the underside.
There were no mirrors in his bedroom, or in the bathroom.
The room was plain. It had two beds, one empty, two bedside tables, a bookcase, two small wardrobes, and a window. The door didn't lock.
Kyle hated it.
Strangely exhausted by the short walk, he collapsed onto the bedsheets, comforted slightly by their silky feel, before something caught his eye. Three letters lay innocently on his bedside table and, try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to ignore them. He knew what one would be – his mother's weekly letter from home – and he would read that one last. The other two were complete mysteries to him.
Choosing the thinner-feeling one to read first, he placed the other two carefully on his pillow, ripping open the brown envelope and shaking out the single sheet of a minute of opening said letter, his eyes were filled with tears.
It was his high school diploma.
He had graduated, but missed his graduation. Just like he'd missed most of his senior year.
'Don't think of that' he chided himself, reaching for the second mystery letter.
He paused before opening it, considering what it could be, before letting the temptation overcome his worries.
Patient name: Kyle Isaac Broflovksi
St Mary's Ward
Following your next of kin's (mother) request and careful study of your progress, we are delighted to inform that you have been granted permission to spend the following 4 weeks at home.
You will be escorted out of the building tomorrow morning at 0900. Please pack your possessions carefully.
Kyle's breathing hitched in his throat. He was going home.
Suddenly, reading his mother's letter didn't seem as important, now that he knew he'd see her tomorrow. He'd see his mother.
That thought was repeating over and over in his mind.
After almost five months of isolation from the outside world, he was going home. He would see his mother, his father, Ike, his old friends...
His face fell, as his mind thought once again of the picture the councillor had shown him less than half an hour ago. The photograph of himself, his two best friends, and the jerk that had followed him around and called himself their friend.
They were four 15 year old boys. Now they were four 18 year old men. Their childhood had turned sour before they even realised it had ever been sweet.
If they were there, could he face them? Knowing what they had done to him, what he had done to them, could he look them in their eyes and talk as normal people talk?
He checked his watch, reading the time to be five to seven. Too early to sleep, but knowing that his mother would be arriving for him in just 15 hours made him sure he'd not manage any sleep that night.
15 hours to wait.
16 hours until he would see his family.
17 hours until he would see someone who didn't know where he'd gone, or why.
17 hours until he would have to explain the clinic, the hospital, everything.
Nothing to do but wait.