Chapter Text
“He was a druggie anyway”
“Everyone knew it would happen eventually”
“…no surprise…”
“…expected…”
The words, poignant and stabbing, went unsaid, restricted by a pre-existing societal norm everyone had subconsciously conformed to. And yet, somehow, these words still reverberated around the halls. Stabbing straight into Kyle’s ears and twisting in his eardrums every time he saw people whispering to each other or pausing by Stan’s decorated locker. Anger gnarled in his gut over the injustice and cruelty his friend was facing in his absence, and yet he did nothing. As if in a straight jacket made from his own reputation and obsession with social standing, he could only manage to act the same as ever. Smile. Wave. Sympathy. “Thank you, I’m really sad about it, but I’ll be fine” “Oh that’s alright, I’ll keep you in mind though” “Yea, if you ever need anything either, I’m here”
Those words he said so much they lacked all meaning. Letters strung together in a jumble of sentiment which no longer carried any heart, any care. He found himself in much of the same boat. No longer did his heart beat in a jovial tune, nor his chest yearn for achievement or excellency. Living was bland. The colors dull as if it had been Stan’s presence which provided their beautiful hues, and now in his absence they were all fading to grey. Fading until they disappear into the grand scheme of the world. Slowly losing themselves and sight of each other until no matter how hard one strained their eyes, nothing was visible.
Just a void.
Nothing.
Except anger.
Kyle was convinced that all parts of him were killed with Stan. That the only remaining aspect of his is anger. These days, he seemed to get mad and everything. He snapped at Ike for knocking on his door, Gerald for using all the milk, Sheila for talking, the counselor for calling him in, Wendy for asking him if he’s alright… Well, anyone for asking if he’s alright. Because deep down, nestled within the very truths of his being, he knew that every person in South Park played a role in driving Stan to his end. That they each played a part and where now acting righteous in favor of admitting their fault. It was a blatant insult for them to all go about their daily lives, to laugh at smile at each other after the tragedy of what happened.
Eyebrows furrowed, as they often were these days, Kyle slammed his locker door with more force than necessary. The resulting slam was a pleasant noise. He relished in the way it scraped his ear drums.
“Dude. You’ve been on your period ever since your boy toy threw himself off the edge,” Kyle whipped his head around to face Cartman, his voice flat and like a match to Kyle’s gasoline coated attitude, “it’s frankly annoying as shit and I’m over it.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Kyle spat, grabbing Cartman by the collar of his shirt, backpack sliding off his shoulders at the sudden movement. Anger lit flames in his eyes as he scowled at the shorter man, the world became a blur with intensity.
“See? This is what I’m saying,” Cartman raised his hands in surrender, “you’re so agro, it’s like, cry a river, build a bridge, and get over it.”
Enraged, Kyle eyes jumped around Cartman’s nonchalant features as adrenaline coursed through every vein of his being. A stinging sensation erupted from his knuckles that weren’t yet properly healed and were white with the force which Kyle gripped Cartman’s shirt. The laid back expression Cartman was portraying was exactly the thing Kyle resented. How he had the capacity to chill out when someone he had grown up with, seen through thick and thin, talked to every day, died. And by their own hand, at that.
Cartman opened his mouth to speak again.
Kyle didn’t give him the chance.
Before his brain had the opportunity to catch up or suggest it was a bad idea, Kyle decked Cartman. A crack sounded out upon contact, echoing down the hallway. Kyle let go of Cartman’s shirt and watched as he fell against the lockers with a clang, clutching the reddening spot on his face that would surely turn into a nasty bruise. There was blood. Not from Cartman himself, but from where the scabs on Kyle’s knuckles had reopened. Air caused Kyle’s shoulders to rise and fall in rapid succession, borderline hyperventilating as the adrenaline rush faded dripping from his body like molasses— dropping him back into the tension of the school hallway.
As he came to his senses he noticed just how many of his peers were watching this altercation, their faces white with shock. Kyle felt his chest drop into his stomach, a sick sensation that made him want to curl into himself and wither away until the apocalypse wiped out the world around him. Instead, as Cartman scurried away, screaming obscenities at Kyle, he fell to his knees. Unable to hold himself up, unable to breathe, unable to see, or hear or take in any bit of his surroundings because what is the point of taking in your surroundings when the one person who made everything tolerable wasn’t there anymore. When you chased said tolerable person away, and when you were alone and abandoned. Left to face the hardships of the world in a misery of your own device. A sob ripped its way through his chest, painful like a hiccup as his body fought to both inhale and exhale.
Then the bell rang, signalling the start of class. A low thrum sounded in his ears as the bustle of activity translated into nothing more than a threshold of stimuli.
Suddenly, someone placed their hand on his shoulder. It was a burning sensation, like he was being touched by the human embodiment of lava. He made no move the shrug it off though. The pain was almost welcome, grounding in a way. Like the sting in his wrists or the fire on his fingers. Something to focus on that wasn’t the rising tide of regret and sadness.
Then he felt the hand evolve to a hug.
It was conflicting, the hug.
It smelled like ash and it felt like being suspended in ice cold water. A shock. Instinctually, he wanted to pull away, and he did. Or, he tried at least. But the hugger persisted, and Kyle quickly realized that he lacked the energy to fight it. So he sank and let the arms envelope him. They were strong, sure arms. Holding him with a conviction, a purpose. Kyle had never felt a hug with such truth behind it. Even so, the arms were trembling. And Kyle quickly recognized that the person holding him was crying as well.
Finally.
Someone else who felt how he did. Who was mad at the universe and who allowed themselves to grieve the loss of someone they knew. Kyle curled the upper half of his body over their arms and wept with them. The sound of crying slowly registered in his mind, like the volume was being turned up. Everything sounded so muted before that the sudden crispness was almost overwhelming. But to be overwhelmed meant having energy. And right now, that was something that Kyle completely and utterly lacked. It was like the essence of his being was siphoned out, leaving him an empty sack on the floor. Deflated and useless.
“Kyle? Fighting is bad, mmkay?” A new voice, obviously their counselor Mr. Mackey. Despite no longer attending elementary school, Mr. Mackey still oversaw his class. Why? Because the school district was stingy and had Mackey console every grade level, “Come to my office, now, mkay? Or there uh- there will be consequences, mkay.”
Kyle heard the sound of footsteps walk away. Then he heard silence.
“Need help getting there?” The person behind him loosened their hold and Kyle quickly recognized their voice.
“No, I’m,” his voice cracked, and he quickly cleared it. Speaking felt weird, almost wrong, “I’m fine- I’ll be fine.”
That was a lie. He’d never be fine, not while supporting the burden Stan left him with.
“It’s okay to not be fine,” Kenny assured, standing up.
Kyle listened to the way his knees crackled like the cereal he used to eat as a kid. It was a familiar sound, welcome. However, it also reminded Kyle of the way his own body groaned like an aging house when he moved these days. Despite being relatively young, it felt like the physical affects of growing up were already taking ahold of him. Like a time lapse. Moving at an unrecognizable speed and leaving his conscious in the dust.
Sitting felt good. Kyle would be alright with sitting until nature overtook the school and roots grew over his body and he became nothing more than a lump in shrubbery. That sounded nice. Easy.
“Shouldn’t keep the Mackster waiting,” Kenny warned, tucking his hands under Kyle’s armpits to help him up. Avoiding hand to hand contact was probably the smartest thing to do at this point, considering the state of Kyle’s hands and wrists, “I can walk you there.”
Wobbly like a fawn standing for the very first time, Kyle shook his head no. Kenny frowned, disappointed in his friends reluctance to accept help. Ever since Stan… well. Ever since that day Kyle began closing in on himself, curling into a ball that became tighter with each passing moment. Squeezing until Kenny was convinced that he’d implode into a metaphoric vortex. It was unhealthy, Kenny saw it and he was sure that everyone else noticed, if the way they tiptoed around him was any indicator. He was like an infected wound, blistering heat and painful surrounding area, something that would be best to avoid but that in avoiding would only get worse.
Kenny accepted that Kyle wasn’t ready to admit he needed help yet. It was hard, but if he had to quietly support Kyle in order to stay close, well then he’d be willing to. Bending down, Kenny picked up the backpack Kyle had forgotten about and offered it to him.
“Catch you later,” Kenny said, a promise more than anything. That later would come, and he’d be there for it.
“Yea, okay,” Kyle huffed back, slinging his backpack carelessly over his shoulder before walking down the halls.
Staying put, Kenny watched as Kyle’s back retreated down the hall, in the direction of Mr. Mackey’s office. Once he had turned the corner, Kenny rubbed his eyes and ran a hand down his face.
He was so tired.
Hugging Kyle opened up the floodgate of emotions he worked so tirelessly to suppress. They overcame his body like an army’s conquest, fighting every limb to to feel the sorrow buried deep within the core of his self.
Class could wait, for now he needed to smoke. To inhale and feel the negative emotions ride out on his exhale. Not to get high, just to cope, if he wanted to get high then he would smoke strains with more THC. Right now, all he carried with him was primarily CBD, of course with a small percentage of THC but not enough to question his motor skills. Just enough for his head to feel light with ease and his fingers to buzz with the bliss of carelessness.
He never wanted to inebriate himself. He swore off of anything harder than weed— alcohol or drugs— long ago, when he bore witness firsthand the effects of such substances on people. How it made them look, act, change. Like zombies. Killing their brains and making them no more than slobs, desperate for their next fix, their next drink. He saw his parents go down that spiral when he was younger and now he saw Stan get flushed down the same inescapable drain. It hurt. But Kenny couldn’t dwell on the what-ifs of their situations. Couldn’t think about everything he should’ve could’ve would’ve done because the fact of the matter is that he didn’t. At no point in seeing Stan spiral did Kenny step up, put his foot down and offer a helping hand. It was too easy to pretend that nothing was wrong, that he didn’t notice the way Stan isolated himself or the way his posture worsened over time or the way he stank as hygienic practices became too difficult for him to take part in.
Ignoring was always easier than confronting.
Outside the school, Kenny walked to the corner of the fence posts where the cameras were conveniently pointed away and where the goth kids were perpetually situated. Not today though, as if repelled by the aura of negative feeling surrounding the typically light-hearted Kenny, they had scattered to God-knows-where. Kenny didn’t mind. Even if he did secretly enjoy their stone cold presences, today loneliness seemed a better suit to wear.
He breathed in deeply, spikey cold air filling his lungs as they expanded in his rib cage. Then he sat down, exhaling all the air in one loud huff. The cement block he sat on was cold, he could feel it through his pants— seeping through the fabric and crawling into his skin. Nothing could keep it from wriggling it’s way into the center of his body and nestling like a sleeping cat into his chest. A breeze fluttered by, bringing dead leaves skittering across the icy asphalt and old snowfall that had been nestled on barren branches high above falling on his head and shoulders. He didn’t bother to shake it off. Instead he pulled his pipe and a baggy out of his pocket, idly packed a bowl, pocketed the baggy and replaced it with a lighter. Then he lit it up.
The smell was poignant but blessedly familiar. Grounding in the way that it always stayed the same. No matter how much his life changed, how much turbulence he was put through, marijuana stayed the same. Unless he bought a different strain or from a different dispensary. Then it smelled slightly different, but it still had the same undertones.
Exhaling, Kenny watched as the smoke snaked up in the grey morning air, billowing and dancing in the air currents. It was art, he thought, beautiful. Comparable to freedom, the sensation of endlessly rising with no restrictions, of going wherever the wind took you, relaxing. Kenny inhaled again and sat back, breathing out the smoke with his nose and watching the way the clouds arched and billowed with dimension, sun barely peaking through in the thin, yellow tinted parts while the more dense areas held a deep grey color. If he had any artistic ability, he would paint the sight.
But he didn’t. So instead of pulling out a canvas and paints, Kenny finished his bowl with less care, tapped out his pipe and pocketed it once more. He had classes to get to. Things to do.
—
“Now Kyle, I think you know why you’re here,” Mr. Mackey began, looking down at Kyle from where he sat at his desk.
“He deserved it,” Kyle argued.
“Now, now Kyle, that’s not nice, mkay?”
Kyle deepened his grimace, but Mackey went on undeterred.
“We all know you’ve been a bit- well- antsy ever since…” the implications hung in the air for a brief second, “so I’ve been talking to your parents, mkay, and we think it’ll be best for you to see someone about your, uh, well how you’re feeling.”
“I dont need a fucking shrink,” Kyle declared, voice cracking, “Stan needed one, why do you all of a sudden pretend to give a shit after a kid’s already offed himself.”
“Now Kyle, we always cared. Don’t get that wrong,” Mackey corrected, “what happened is a tragedy but we can’t do anything about it now, mkay?”
“So what’s this? Damage control?” Kyle recalled suddenly the unit in Health class about cluster suicides, “you think I’m gonna do it? Cause I’m not.” The ‘I’m better than that’ went left unsaid. Kyle didn’t want to sully Stan’s name like that.
“If you want to call it that, then yes, but we use the term ‘preventative action’ sounds nicer, mkay.”
“Whatever the fuck it is, I-“
“Oh my baby!” Kyle whipped his head around mid sentence to see non other than his mom standing in the doorway, rushing over with open arms.
She pulled him into a suffocating hug, nothing like the hold Kenny had him in earlier. Quickly, he wriggled himself free.
“Mom? What are you doing here?” He glanced between her and Mackey, looking for answers.
“We got a call from school,” Sheila began, “your fathers at work and couldn’t make it, but I rushed as soon as they hung up. Oh, are you alright?” She fretted, cupping his face between both her hands, “I always knew Liane’s boy was a bastard, in more ways than one.”
“No language like that, mkay,” Mackey interviewed, “now Mrs. Broflovski if you’d please have a seat.”
She nodded and released her hold on her sons cheek in favor of sitting on the small chair next to him.
“Yes of course. I was thinking about what you said, but I just don’t think Kyle needs anything like that. I mean, he’s always been just fine and he’s got a big support system at home. There’s nothing we wouldn’t tell me or his father.”
Kyle couldn’t help the surprised expression that made it’s on onto his face. Of everyone, he expected her to be the first person to throw him into an institution. She tended to have over-the-top responses like that.
“I hear you Mrs. Broflovski, but it’s always good to have a, a uh someone, or person to talk to that isn’t a part of the family unit,” Mackey reasoned, Kyle could understand his stammering over getting the right wording. Talking to his mom was always sort of like walking on eggshells.
“What?! Are you saying that my family isn’t enough-“
“No, Mrs. Brof-“
“Because I’ll have you know that we are doing our best and I know you’re blaming us for this but Kyle has never been violent before and you should really investigate that Eric kid because he most definitely instigated it and I will not stand to have my sons reputation tarnished like this for you to push some therapy agenda!” Sheila ranted. Kyle didn’t hear her stop for breath once.
“Mrs.-“
“Now if you won’t respect me and my family’s choices, then I think this discussion is over. Have a good day.”
Sheila then grabbed Kyle’s wrist and dragged him out. He pretended the explosion of pain at the contact didn’t happen.
“Mrs. Broflovski, just think about it, mkay!?” Mackey called after them, the end of his sentence muted by the slamming door.
Sheila was muttering under her breath, grip still tight around her sons wrist.
“The nerve, the gall! To insinuate that I-“
“Mom.”
“Don’t know what I’m doing? The school-“
“Mom.”
“Board will definitely be hearing-“
“Mom!”
“What?!” She snapped, before calming down, “what, Kyle?”
“You’re hurting me,” Kyle managed, losing his voice as pain radiated from his arm.
“Oh dear!” She cried out, releasing her hold immediately, “I’m sorry bubbie, that counselor of yours just really ticked me off.” She brushed his hair back and kissed his forehead. “Let’s go home now.”
Kyle nodded and followed his mom out the office front doors. No secretary had the balls to interrupt Sheila for a proper sign out. They all knew who she was.
“What the-“ She began as they stepped outside, sniffing profusely, “what kinda place is this? It smells like marijuana. I hope my taxpayer dollars aren’t going to sending my kid into a crackhouse to learn algebra.”
Kyle looked behind them as they walked to her car. A blur of orange was on the other side of the fence, just standing there, looking away. Kyle recognized that shade of orange as Kenny. As if feeling the eyes on his back, Kenny turned. Squinting, Kyle could just barely make out his face. Flushed red with the cold, glistening with wetness. Kenny discretely wiped his face before giving Kyle a casual wave. Kyle returned it hesitantly before turning his attention back to his mom. He’d never felt so uncomfortable around her. Or confused. It felt like his entire world was shifting, challenging everything he had learned in all of his years of being alive.
Grief was a funny thing, he figured. It changed people in ways that were familiar to people they once were and had grown out of. Like a feather on a string, grief was tempting out the animal of instinct everyone had tamed deep down inside of them. Stan never tamed his. He was always honest to himself, true to his feelings. Even if that was a fault. If those feelings were damaging and fatal. At least he realized them and didn’t pretend to be somebody he wasn’t, to be better than everyone.
Then again, it was kind of nice to pretend. To play the role of a functional human. Pretend even for a moment that you are unbothered, indifferent. Though, that was a persona that needed to be shown in moderation. Cartman, for example, was honestly unbothered and indifferent. His character was without the faults of guilt and empathy, yet that in and of itself was an entirely new fault. He respected himself so much, cared so strongly about his own emotions and own comfort levels that he stomped over everybody else. Trampling them deep into the ground and wiping them off his shoes like they were nothing more than gum.
Kyle didn’t want to be like him.
Yet, he couldn’t help but to envy how nice it must be to not care. To not think about the consequences of your actions before you do them. To live only in fulfillment of your desires and instincts. Must be nice. Mindless. Like cavemen or animals. But that would be discrediting the marvels of human evolution, the miracle of knowledge and conscious and all the bullshit that made humanity a higher being.
Kyle sat down in the passenger seat, letting his bag fall between his feet. Maybe a therapist would help. Maybe he needed to be subdued with medication until he could be a normal person who didn’t punch people walls or in the halls and didn’t obsess over meticulous little things as if the order of books on the shelf would determine the outcome of his life.
Would that be lying though? Is getting a therapist and a prescription being true to the self or would it be creating a new persona to perpetuate a bland utopian clone to the world. Elaborate makeup, masquerading as the idea of a normal person when he was beginning to seriously doubt that the way he perceived things was the status quo.
Or maybe it was. Maybe Kyle was just overthinking things. This was normal. He was fine.
Feeling tired and vaguely sick, Kyle rested his head against the window and looked at the dizzying blur of the snow-dusted outside world as it whizzed by.
He was fine. This was normal.
Maybe if he repeated that thought enough it would come true.
—
Kenny skipped school.
He chose instead to jump the fence and walk around town, pretending to look like he knew where he was going or what he was doing.
School was just— too much to deal with. The energy to smile at his peers and act like the person they all knew was simply not present. And the thought of sitting through a lecture made his skin crawl with distaste. Besides, it was always so loud at school. Rambunctious, like a barn house. Each student an animal, each clique a different kind. The animals intermingled but stuck primarily with their own kind. And if one of them was sent to the slaughterhouse, no one payed much mind.
Kenny took a deep breath. He was concerned about Kyle. The way his mom stormed out with him at her heels made his chest twist with a sense of wrongness. It was unnatural the way he held himself around her, chin up, shoulders back. Even right after he had gotten into a fight, even when his emotional and physical energy reserves were running far past empty. It wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be forced to run his body ragged in favor of making himself perceived as OK. Kenny sighed.
Was there anything he could do? Power to change things wasn’t something lightly bestowed upon people and the Broflovski’s had their walls built so high that they could be considered a hazard to airplanes.
Kenny ran a hand down his face.
Maybe all he could do was sit back and watch. Maybe fate was something that was set in stone and unavoidable no matter what choices he made.
He thought about the movie trope where characters go back in time to intervene with traumatic events. They fight and argue and claw and bite with tooth and nail but no matter what it still happens. Fighting against fate and time was stupid. Impossible. Like an ant facing off against a child with a magnifying glass. The outcome was determined long before.
Humans were futile, helpless beings. Always fighting for their best life with the hope of success no matter how much failure weighed on them. Maybe that was what differentiated them from animals. Vigor. Courage. Strength. The fight within everyone, their flame of life that convinced everybody to run a constantly uphill battle where the finish line constantly got moved back. Taunting them like some game cat owners play.
Kenny wondered when his flame went out.
Maybe it was the first time he died that made him lose respect for the miracle of life. Maybe it was when he was first dealt the unfair cards of his life, his family, while everyone else lived with the unconditional love and support of their households. Maybe it was the first time he stayed up all night with Karen while she cried and mourned the loss of something that was never there. When he took his fire and gave it to her so that she would see life in a warmer hue. When he promised to sacrifice everything for her to be happier.
You either live for yourself or someone else.
And the moment you lose yourself and you forget about everyone else then you’re in danger.
You walk through the dark and you either come across somebody or you come across the ever expanding nothing.
Fate decides your path when there is no flame to light your way.