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Out of the many hobbies out there, Kyle really didn’t think he’d be into running. Running was always awful during gym class, and it was. He’s on a jog. He picked up jogging some time ago–it helps him clear his mind. It’s like meditation, in a way. Jogging seems to both clear his mind and let him think things through simultaneously. Kyle always loves the satisfaction of running in the spring sun.
But it’s not spring, and the sun’s not even out. It’s night in the midst of the Colorado winter. Snow has already sprinkled atop the grass and fields, coating South Park in a gentle powder. Kyle feels the wind nip at his skin. It threatens to overcome the precious heat generated in his body. He only wears a t-shirt and shorts, with the only insulation coming from his crew socks. A wind breaker is tied around his waist; gotta be prepared after all. This is stupid, and he knows it: but if he just keeps on jogging, never stopping, he could potentially stay warm as long as he needs to.
Those nights–where he’s up past midnight without any sense of drowsiness-are the worst. It’s nights like these where Kyle’s mind drifts into dangerous directions. Sometimes, he would blame all his woes on the world, swearing to destroy it. Sometimes, he would simply wallow. What a waste, he’d think during these hazes. He’s so aimless, but why should he be? He did everything right, didn’t he? Got good grades, got accepted into a respectable school out of community college, made some good memories… but it just doesn’t feel quite enough .
Everyone’s busy nowadays. Busy, busy, busy . But Kyle wasn’t busy, and that makes him feel awful. He doesn’t feel a need to try at this point, so all he does is twiddle his thumbs and sit there, stuck in his room, connected to the world through a screen or a window. He can always feel his home closing in on him. Sometimes, everything seems to collapse atop of him, swirling Kyle into the abyss.
Kyle’s mom is worried. She can sense that something’s off.
“Kyle?” His mom said, knocking on his bedroom door earlier that night. “Is everything alright?”
No, he thought. But he lied that night; because despite knowing that his mother loves him so dearly, Kyle knew she couldn’t handle the things he wanted to say. She couldn’t provide the type of reassurance he needed. Sheila Broflovski–the stern woman she is–wasn’t built to have such an emotional son.
Mom? Kyle would think. Are you proud of me? Despite it all? Do you ever regret having me? I really tried my best, you know.
Mom?
Are you still scared of me?
I’ve been getting better at getting my anger under control. I swear, I haven’t had an outburst in a while. I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.
Kyle exerts himself more, fighting the spinning thoughts in his head. He feels the cold seep through his skin, but he refuses to let it get to him. He’s a Broflovski: he’s hard working, stubborn, and resilient. What’s the cold to him?
Well, if the cold didn’t kill him, a crack on the sidewalk might–because he trips and tumbles to the asphalt. He lands on outstretched hands. They get scraped badly, but the adrenaline and cold numbs him, and Kyle scrambles back to his feet so he can keep going. His hands sting, but the pain is shoved to a peripheral part of his mind.
Two years ago, he graduated high school. It was an awful graduation. He failed two of his AP classes and he didn’t have a single decent college acceptance letter for comfort. Those photos of him and his family after the ceremony drip with persistent shame. Disappointment. Kyle can identify in those photos where his mom’s make-up covered the scar he inflicted on her those years ago. All of his resentment came to a head, and he can never take back the things he’s done.
There was always a path Kyle would take on these runs, depending on how far he felt like going. This run was supposed to be a quick little lap, but he couldn’t help himself. He’s addicted to the ways his long legs burn with each step, how his breath condenses in the frigid air. It reminds him of the times he would blow smoke from cigarettes. Sometimes, he would purse his lips and blow into the winter cold, relishing in old motions.
He quit smoking over a year ago at this point. He initially picked it up after the incident with his mom. His friend didn’t think anything of it–Cartman and Kenny smoked on occasion as well, after all–but he was forced to stop when he started out-smoking the rest of them by a harrowing degree.
“Dude,” Stan said to him one time. “You can’t shit on me for drinking when you’re gonna get lung cancer at thirty.”
That comment really irked Kyle at the time, but Stan had a point. There were times where he’d smoke three or even five cigarettes back to back in one sitting. Sometimes he’d decimate a whole pack in less than a day. So he worked towards quitting, because yeah, he didn’t want to somehow have it worse than Stan’s functioning alcoholism. He’s proud of Stan though–he’s been getting help, and it shows. Kyle really misses smoking, admittedly. Sometimes, when things get too much, he wants to break the streak he worked so damn hard for. He imagines going to the corner store to buy some Marlboros, and then finding a spot on a warm night so he can smoke until the pack runs dry.
Then there are times where he would really go down the pits. Those were the nights where he wanted to smoke just to wreck himself from the inside out. Kyle hasn’t touched alcohol in a long time, but he’d imagine drinking too. How much liquor would it take for him to pass out, rendering him comatose and sputtering in his own vomit? How much would it take for him to go over the edge?
Kyle shakes his head. These thoughts freak him out. It’s okay though, because he’s running. He’s fine.
How did he end on the dock of Stark’s Pond?
He stops just short of the water. The moonlight shimmers across the icy surface, casting its light onto the reeds frozen in place. There’s bits of trash littering around the edges of the pond, demonstrating how the town has been on the decline over the past few years. He remembers being a kid, skating atop the ice. He was never the best ice skater, but he remembers Kenny getting pretty good at it; good enough that he’d piss everyone off by spraying ice all over them.
“Damnit, Hobo! You’re gonna give me a cold!” Cartman would say, peeved with the bits of ice melting on his clothes. Kenny would giggle behind his parka, beaming with mischief. Now new kids skate on this pond, and those kids will get to experience every odd thing this dilapidating mountain town has to offer.
No longer moving, the winds feel sharper, more frigid. His skin is textured with goosebumps, red hairs raised like spines on his skin. His breath shudders as the cold quickly overtakes him, and he begins to shiver. Kyle unties the windbreaker around his waist with rigid, cracked hands and slips it on–he’s grateful that the windbreaker takes some of the bite out of the wind, but he still feels cold nonetheless.
Figuring that it’s best to turn back, Kyle traces his footsteps back to his house. He doesn’t know if his parents realized he’s gone, and if they did, he’s in for a reprimanding come morning.
Kyle anticipated that the temperature and winds would remain relatively stable throughout the night. Things take a turn when the conditions only seem to get worse with every passing minute. The winds are getting more aggressive, and bits of snow are sticking to his skin and hair. His hands burn with the cold, so Kyle tucks them into his sleeves. Surely he’s close, he thought. Just a bit longer and he’ll be able to ditch his damp clothes and take a nice, hot shower to give back the feeling in his hands and face.
His mind turns foggy. Concentrating on his running form becomes difficult. He starts to stumble, stumbling over himself repeatedly. His feet start to drag when he can no longer muster up the energy to lift them in full strides.
Shit, he’s in too deep. He knew this was an awful idea, but he’s really regretting this now. Kyle stumbles once more, before collapsing onto the frigid asphalt below. He feels his skin burn as he skids forward.
If Kyle doesn’t get up, he’ll be done for. It’s stupid, it’s all so fucking stupid: this run, his own destructive tendencies, his life, himself , even. It’s all too fucking much, and now he’s gonna freeze to death on the streets of where he was born. Perhaps this is what he wanted. Too much of a coward to die by his own hands, he might as well Mother Nature take its course. He’ll let his family think he died from being a dumbass, instead of burdening them with the reality of what he’s become.
His breathing grows shallower, and his eyes heavy. Kyle closes his eyes for the last time, offering himself into the hands of God.
Kyle wakes up shivering violently. He instinctively wraps his arms around himself, trying to recover any morsels of warmth. He opens his eyes, seeing a ceiling illuminated with harsh, artificial light. A weight is pressing down on his torso; when he looks down on himself amid his shivering, he sees a large stack of blankets covering him. He’s on a bed, Kyle realizes, and it’s comfortable—warm.
Despite the warmth, he feels how cold his skin is to the touch. The reality of the situation hits: god, he’s so fucking stupid, isn’t he? He wants to ask himself why he did any of that, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on the answer. Deep down, he knows he wouldn’t be able to face it.
Recovering some of his body heat, his shivering calms down ever so slightly. Maybe he ought to just rest.
Then he sees that the walls are purple. This isn’t his room. And he just so happens to be stripped of most of his clothes.
“Sup, Jew.”
Kyle jumps. “What the FUCK?! ”
He starts scrambling, disrupting the careful stack of blankets. He regrets it though, because when he exposes his bare skin to the air, he only shivers even harder.
“Cartman?! What the fuck am I doing here, where the fuck are my clothes?!” Kyle yells, abhorred that he’s just in his underwear. He gasped, horrified. “You’re not going to–”
Cartman’s eyes blow wide open. “What?! Absolutely fucking not! I don’t wanna dirty myself with your weird Jew germs anyway. Get under the blankets, whore, you’re shaking like a little bitch.”
Kyle grumbles, but he resigns. When he lies back down without a fight, Cartman fixes the blankets.
“I saw you stumbling outside. Thought you were just drunk, and then you collapsed and realized you were being a total retard. There’s fucking snow outside and you were going around in shorts , like what the fuck? ”
Irritation bubbles in Kyle’s chest. Who is Cartman to judge him for doing stupid shit? Isn’t stupid shit Cartman’s whole MO? He keeps eye contact with Cartman, watching the other boy’s eyes burrow into him with questioning intent. He wants to hold firm and be stubborn–but he gives up, averting his eyes back to the blankets atop of him. In his peripheral vision, Cartman’s expression softens.
“Look, your clothes were all wet and damp,” Cartman grumbles. “If I didn’t strip you down you’d die or something gay like that.”
Kyle snorts. Cartman caring for his well-being, that’s fucking rich. “I was going on a run,” Kyle states.
He watches Cartman’s face cartwheel through several emotions, utterly confused. “A run? Do you have any fucking idea what time it is? It’s like–” he checks his phone. “It’s fucking three-thirty . Are you trying to get raped or something?!”
“Don’t fucking lecture me!” Kyle bites back. Why should Cartman feel like he can criticize him?
“Shut up, Kahl, I can lecture you all I want! You’re lucky you didn’t lose your fingers or some shit!”
“Why do you care?!”
“Cause my life would you fucking boring without you, okay?!”
They both go silent in an instant. Cartman definitely looks like he’s regretting what he just said, and Kyle doesn’t know what to make of such a statement.
Kyle narrows his eyes at Cartman. “...Where are you getting at?”
Cartman fidgets uncomfortably. “Nothing! I’m not getting at shit. Point is, it’d be super lame if you died like a pussy in the cold.”
“Oh shut it, already! I just…” The words felt a little lost on Kyle’s tongue. “I just wanted to feel alive, okay? Like, a rush , I guess. All I did was go outside to take out the trash, and the cold didn’t feel all that bad, so I thought, ‘maybe a run would be kinda nice,’ you know? It was kind of nice, actually, feeling cold. It was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. And then I started thinking too much, and I just… I just kept going. You know it’s better than all the other things I want to do, smoking and shit.”
“You almost died back there.”
“I know! God, Jesus, I’m not a fucking ‘tard.”
Cartman snorts, disbelieving.
“And maybe I did want something bad to happen to me. Maybe I wanted to get kidnapped or murdered or just freeze out there. I don’t fucking care. I already fucked up everything good going on for me so what’s one last fuck up to top it all off?”
“Fucker, you’re transferring to one of those hippie schools in California.”
“So what? I feel nothing. Nothing I do feels enough. And it’s never gonna be fucking enough.” Done–and somewhat ashamed–with his tirade, Kyle averts his eyes from Cartman’s, deciding that his cracked hands holding the blankets were far more interesting than their stilted conversation. If he dares to look at Cartman’s face, he might get hit with smug judgement or foreign pity, and he really didn’t need either of those right now. Silence hangs in the air, neither party knowing what to say at this moment.
Cartman sighs. Kyle musters the courage to look at his face, and he’s unnerved by the other boy’s exhausted expression.
“So what? Look at us, here on this stupid fucking rock. The world sucks: it’s filled with rapists and pedophiles and all these terrible things. And people are gonna make us feel like shit. Like your bitch ass mom–”
“Don’t call my mom a bitch, Fatass!” Kyle seethed.
Cartman rolls his eyes. “Yeah whatever. Point is, you could be going to one of those gay Ivy Leagues with a Nobel Prize up your cheeks, and you’d still feel like shit. So who cares.”
“You’re just saying that nothing I do will matter, yeah I feel soooo much better.”
“You’re not getting the point, bitch! I’m saying that nothing you do matters, so why stress over shit like you’re gonna drop dead tomorrow? You wanna please your mommy and daddy that much, huh? Well guess what, they’re gonna fucking die one day and you’ll be left with the miserable life you’ve built for their sake at your expense.”
Kyle doesn’t respond. He has nothing witty to say.
“I used to cross the street without looking so someone could run me over,” Cartman continues. “Or sometimes, I’d piss off a stranger so they could retaliate by shooting me in the face or something. I’m too much of a pussy to kill myself, but I’d think about making a show over my own death, just to make everyone fucking suffer.”
Because sometimes you just hate the world, and you just want to destroy yourself to get back at it , Kyle thought. It rings a little close to home. Make everyone else suffer.
“I’m not gonna try to make you feel better about yourself. But man, fuck this world, and fuck everyone who tries to make you feel like shit. They’re not worth piss.”
Kyle is pretty sure that Cartman is talking to himself at this point, but he gets the gist. Yeah, it doesn’t necessarily make him feel better. He’s not exactly sure what will; but it’s nice, knowing that someone gets it. His skin still feels uncomfortably cold, but now he truly feels the warmth provided to him by the multiple sheets.
When he looks at Cartman this time, Kyle smiles at him. It’s a faint smile, one that doesn’t try to hide his uncertainty–but it’s a smile nonetheless. He snuggles deeper into the mattress.
“Your clothes are in the dryer right now. I could maybe drive you home tonight.”
Kyle hums, thinking about his options. “Can I just stay tonight? I’m too comfortable right now.”
“God, hogging the bed, Jew?”
“Shut up, Fatass.”
Cartman laughs, rolling his eyes once again. “Whatever, ginger bitch.” Cartman grabs one of the extra pillows on his bed before heading downstairs to sleep on the couch. For the first time, Kyle wishes he would stay.