Work Text:
Kyle always had a bad habit of picking and biting at his skin. Really, it was something that he’d done since he was a toddler. When he was anxious, he’d bite at his nails and the skin around it, so much so that his nails would be bitten down horribly and the tips of his fingers would be red and sore, sometimes to the point of bleeding.
Once he hit puberty, he’d began to pick at his face more. No matter how much he washed and scrubbed at his skin, spots and pimples kept appearing and rising. Whenever a new one formed, he’d pop it or pick at it until it bled. And when that scabbed over, he’d pick at it again and it would just repeat and repeat over and over.
If he was anxious. he’d scratch at his arms, wrists, and thighs. He’d scratch and rub until his skin was red, raw, and burning angrily. He didn’t stop until he broke the skin, tiny pockets and piles of blood rising above the surface. And even then, he kept going.
Whenever he fell or scraped his knee or arm, he’d wait until the cut had scabbed over and pick at it. But it wasn’t out of anxiety, no, he’d do it simply because it felt good. Having the flesh under his skin exposed to the cool air of the mountains brought him pleasure, he loved it. He’d get tweezers and pick at the scabs until he was bleeding all over his bedroom carpet. But the blood would never hit the floor, he made sure to clean up real well, he hated when his room got messy.
Picking at his skin and scarring it was just a normal thing to Kyle, but, now, at the age of 15, that itch under his skin became stronger.
Had the itch always been there, calling out to him, had it only now become louder? Or was it new, replacing his old subconscious habit of picking, scratching, and biting? Even he himself couldn’t tell, but he knew that—no matter how loud the urge and how persistent it was—he couldn’t give in.
This time, digging and dragging his bitten nails along his skin wouldn’t suffice. He needed something more, something stronger, something that would hurt *good*.
All his life, he’d heard stories of mentally ill teenagers and children slitting their arms, wrists, shoulders, and thighs open for release, to cope with the feelings they didn’t understand or that overwhelmed them too much. Kyle had known of people he personally knew who’d resorted to that, he’d known Stan Marsh.
Oh, Stanley. He was long gone by now. It had been over two years since that tragic morning, since Sharon had called Kyle’s house phone to Shelia, sobbing over the line that her *poor baby was dead*. It was devastating, poor thirteen year-old Stan had bled out on his cold, tiled bathroom floor, a bloodied razor laid lazily next to his limp, unmoving body. The cuts had gone just too deep, hitting his veins. Those fresh, disgusting cuts were surrounded by old, healed scars, ones that Kyle hated to see.
Kyle knew that his best friend was struggling, and he’d really tried to help him. He’d offered up counselling, support programs, alternate methods to realise stress, group therapy for young people going through their own problems, his *own* help and time and advice. But Stan never paid any attention.
*“I know what I want, dude. You can’t convince me.”*
Those were the words Kyle hated hearing. Every day, it was the same things. Life wasn’t worth living, nobody would miss him, he didn’t see the point in living, his family…
Kyle still remembers how his mother had sat him down, still in his pyjamas and his hair all fluffy and messed up, how she’d softened her voice and held him as he cried, sobbed, wept. He hadn’t gone into school for the next week, but when he returned, everything felt so empty
Kenny, Eric, Wendy, and Tolkien had all come up to him at different points throughout the day, crying with him and just talking to talk, to distract themselves. Other people looked at him with pity, teachers acting kinder and talking to him after every lesson. He couldn’t eat properly for weeks after his death, throwing up most of what he ate or drank. He didn’t participate in lessons and the homework sheets piled up and collected dust on his desk.
No matter how hard he thought or how deep he looked for the answer, he just couldn’t understand why Stan had gone to such drastic measures. He wished that he would’ve just accepted the help or spoken to someone. Kyle knew that if he’d just tried harder, he could’ve stopped the cuts growing on his arms and tiredness growing in his eyes—he wanted to just hold the boy tight, cradle him, whisper sweet nothings into his ear and say that things were going to be okay, because he loved him and he wanted to help. But, he could only ever want. None of that was realistic.
Truthfully, Stan was vile. Most of the time, he pushed Kyle far away—emotionally and physically—he distanced himself from everyone who cared, he spat out insults and sneered names whenever they tried to come near him. One night, Kyle had successfully climbed through Stan’s window, in an attempt to talk to him and listen to his problems or just to check in on him, but it ended with the readhead leaving with a black eye and a bloody nose. He didn’t ever go around again, because he thought Stan hated him. But, a few days later, he was dead, and there was no coming back.
Kyle vowed to himself, at the funeral, that he would never, ever, resort to hurting himself when he was upset. He vowed to try and understand how Stan felt during his last few months. And what better way to do that than to snoop through his room, diary and drawers.
Sure, he felt a bit bad for invading his privacy, but he just needed to know.
In Stan’s bedside table drawer, there was a box of razor blades and unscrewed pencil sharpeners, a half-empty bottle of pills, the label ripped off, bloodied tissues and baby wipes, and a black, leather diary. Kyle opened it.
The entries were disgusting and graphic, describing how Stan felt when he saw his own blood, how he felt after snagging his fathers alcohol and weed, what the flesh under his skin looked like, how it felt to finally get his release. Stan wrote about how he heard his parents argue during the night and day, how he was constantly told by Randy that he was going to hell for being a ‘faggot’, how his sister, Shelley, really, really tried to comfort him when their parents began to throw things and hit each other, how it felt to be smacked and punched for first time by his own dad… It only made the tears roll down faster.
Flicked under Stan’s bed were the ends of joints and the butts of cigarettes, empty beer bottles and cans, a few baggies containing untouched marijuana and a small, black jewellery box. Kyle had grabbed it carefully, opening it in anticipation, expecting the worst.
But what was inside only made his heart feel heavy and his mind feel more and more numb. He tried to take things day by day after that, to just get to the inevitable sunset. The one where Stan now was. Every day, his goal was to just stay alive and sane, no matter how much he clawed at his skin and cried into his mothers arms, he had made it through a couple days, weeks, months, and now, years. Two years.
It had been two full years since Stan had killed himself, and Kyle had nothing to do but cry. He’d thought he would’ve been over it by now. But no, here he was, knees up to his chest, sitting on the toilet seat lid, his chest heaving with every rasp of air that escaped his mouth and every tear that rolled to the edge of his chin, hitting the hard floor.
It had only been three hours into the day and he was already breaking down. His long, bony fingers shakily disassembled his father’s expensive razor, taking the blade out and holding it between two fingers, staring at it. He wouldn’t become like Stan, dead. He wouldn’t become another picture in their school’s memorial, he didn’t want to take up scarce space; space that could be used for much more important people. He didn’t want his fucking photo placed next to Stan’s, left and forgotten about after a month or so, there to collect dust.
He didn’t want a half-arsed tombstone. What would it say?
*Kyle Matthew Broflovski*
*Beloved son, friend, and cousin.*
*Gone too soon; forever in our hearts;*
*1989–2004*
Would he write a note? Who would he address it to? Would he write separate ones for all the people in life? Would he group them together?
*Dear mom and dad,*
*I’m sorry. That’s what most people put in suicide notes to make people feel better, but I really am. How else am I supposed to make up for the loss of a child other than just apologising? This is my fault, I know, but could you blame me? If you were in my situation, would you not feel as if there were no other option?*
Maybe Kyle didn’t want to die.
*Don’t blame yourself. You know I loved both of you so much, but I don’t think I ever felt that love back.*
He just needed some release…
*But you did love me. You just couldn’t show it. Maybe you loved me too much. Especially you, mom. You were so protective of me.*
He held the blade, not to his throat, but to the underside of his wrist, quite far down.
*You could never believe that I did things wrong, you went out of your way to blame others so that I never got in trouble or got hurt or faced the consequences of my own actions. I hated that. Why wouldn’t you let me live? Let me be a teenager, a child, and make mistakes? Learn from them?*
He dug the edge of the blade deep and swiped. The cut was white for a few seconds, but the blood eventually appeared.
*Sometimes you didn’t love me enough, though. Dad, I wish you would’ve paid more attention to me. I wish you would’ve given me and Ike the same amount of love, I wish you would’ve let me run loose and have fun, I wish you would’ve made sure I was safe, I wish you would’ve let me have things. I wish you could’ve given me hugs on my birthday or when I had a bad day at school or when I just needed one. I wish you would’ve said you loved me more often.*
He chose a spot just under his bleeding skin and swiped, deeper this time.
*Sometimes I wish both of you could’ve held me after I didn’t get a score I wanted on a test or something annoyed me. I wish you would’ve treated me like your son and not an extension to Ike.*
*I do love you though. Thank you for at least trying to care.*
Maybe the blood amount he was loosing was concerning, but Kyle didn’t care. It felt *good.* He bit his lip.
*Dear Ike,*
*I love you so much. Thank you for being an amazing brother. I know I teased you and annoyed you and was mean to you, but I don’t think words can describe how much you actually meant to me.*
He’d run out of room on his wrist, he turned his arm over and began his cutting there, not caring that his blood was staining his pyjama bottoms.
*You always looked up to me, saw me as some sort of saviour or knight. You would burst into my room just to show me a drawing or piece of homework or a grade that you were proud of just to get my approval. You brightened my day constantly.*
*You copied my music taste and watched the shows I liked, even if Mom and Dad shouted at you for it. You always came to me when you were scared or upset, not because you wanted comfort, but because you wanted me. I love you, never stop believing that.*
Would the tear and blood stains corrupt his perfectly cursive handwriting? Or would his penmanship be messy and rushed?
*Please stay strong and don’t blame yourself for this. You’ll always be my little brother and the person I care for the most. I love you.*
There was so much blood, too much… But it didn’t matter. He hadn’t gone deep enough to warrant any warning. All Kyle did was stand up and walk to the shower, turning the water on and watch it cascade down his arm.
*Dear Kenny,*
*Dude, I love you so much. You’ve always been there for me, through all of the bad times. Stan’s death, whenever I was hurt, whenever my parents shouted at me, whenever I was kicked out. You’d walk me to the pond or park and we’d sit and smoke and cough until I felt better.*
The blood stained the water, tinting it a deep red colour at the bottom of the shower. It was filthy, disgusting, ruined forever. You couldn’t separate them anymore; there was nothing to purify it.
*You’ve always been so kind and caring to everyone. You, who definitely shouldn’t be working at such a young age, work for your sister and family. You work so that Karen can have good birthdays and Christmases. You make her costumes and play dress up and pretend with her; I’ve always looked up to you for that. You are an amazing big brother, and an even better friend. You know when to comfort me or when to stay silent and let me spew my shit.*
*I don’t think there’s a way to write or even say how much you’ve helped me get through everything. Really, you’ve been one of the main reasons I’ve been around so long. But all good things must come to an end eventually. I hope, even with me gone, you can still take your walks around town late and night and chain smoke like an old man. Keep me in your heart and look out for me in the night sky. I love you, Ken.*
Would he draw a little heart on the end of his notes? Just for one final, mocking gesture? Would he just keep it words so that people took his death more seriously?
*Dear Eric,*
*I’d find it rude and petty for my final addressee of you to be your last name, something that I’ve used against you for twelve years, so I chose to use Eric instead. I know that I’ve never really shown my care for you, but trust me when I say that you were really one of the most important people in my life. You made my days interesting, giving challenges to put up with. You made me angry, furious, even. You pushed my boundaries and boarders until I snapped and broke and cried. You made me feel horrible.*
Would he even write a letter? Would people be more upset if they received one or if nothing was left apart from his cold, rotting body?
*But I made you feel the same. I shouted and spat and targeted you. I beat you up, I belittled you, I made fun of you, I embarrassed you, but deep down, I cared. I liked our friendship. I liked that we could be at each other’s throats one moment and cry in each other’s arms the next. I liked that we made each other angry, and that we were able to be honest without much judgement. I liked that I trusted you.*
Stan didn’t leave a letter to family. Stan only left one note in his pocket when he died.
*If you weren’t in my life, it would be boring, empty, and normal. I hate boring, empty and normal. I’ve never said it before, but I love you. This wasn’t your fault. It was my own.*
Kyle’s fingers were stained red. He tried to wash the blood from his arms and hands but it just didn’t stop pouring and flowing. His hands would never be clean.
Kyle remembers the note he’d held with his own fingers, the words blurring and mushing together like one sick joke.
*Kyle,*
*im sorry. dont blame yourself. i love you, and i shouldve told you that more. please learn to live without me. please try for me. look for me in every sunset you see, because im with the clouds and stars now. i cant wait until i see you again*
He still had the note, tucked away in a box in his closet. Stan had drawn a fucking smiley face at the end of his note. It was the scariest thing for Kyle to read. So he had never touched it again.
Would he write a note to Stan?
——
*Dear Stan,*
*I know that there is no physical way you can read or hear this. I know you can’t come back to try and stop me or to hold me and say you love me and that things will be alright. I know that wouldn’t happen, because that wasn’t like you.*
*You were so mean at times. You would ignore me when I cried or when I rung your phone. You would shout at me for trying to comfort you, insult me when I tried to talk to you or help with your work. In your last few months, you were horrid. You hated me. And I hated you.*
*Before that, we were inseparable. We would have sleepovers every weekend, spend our lunches and breaks together at school, play basketball together whenever Eric and Kenny were busy, do our homework together, stay up past our bedtimes to watch adult shows when the house was completely quiet. You were my Super Best Friend.*
*Every time I saw you smile, my heart and head and chest would fill with this unexplainable feeling that made me full of happiness and hope. You would grab onto my hand when I was stressed, talk just to talk when you knew I needed a distraction, make me cards and gifts when I was sick, and buy me things you knew I could’ve gotten by myself. You gave up so much for me before everything changed.*
*When I first saw your cuts, when we were only ten, I was scared. I thought something was wrong with you, I couldn’t understand why you would do that. And now I do. Five years later, I finally do.*
*You just wanted to understand yourself—to get your feelings out in a physical way so you didn’t have to hold them in and just break one day. I wish you would’ve just ranted to me about your problems. If you had, maybe you would still be here, and I wouldn’t be writing this letter.*
*But I never thought you’d actually go through with, you know? I thought it was just some stupid phase of you feeling a bit sad because your parents were fighting. I remember thinking that it was normal for parents to fight, so I didn’t understand why you went to such drastic measures.*
*Your dad isn’t here anymore. He died a few months back. He was drunk and crashed his car into a tree. We don’t know if it was an accident or on purpose. Shelley and your mom are okay. They are taking Randy’s death surprisingly well.*
*Maybe you already know he’s dead. Maybe you’ve seen him in the sky with you, or maybe he was bad enough to be given a punishment.*
*One day, though I don’t know if the time is soon or far away, we will meet again. I can see you again, your gorgeous face, your beautiful, tanned skin, your soft smile. You were so handsome, way out of my league. I understand why Wendy wanted to go out with you so badly.*
*I’ve never told anyone this, and I’m scared to even write it down, but I wanted to marry you one day. I know it’s not legal, but i think that living together until our hair greys and our bones become dust would be the best outcome. I wanted to live with and cherish you forever. I didn’t want death to tear us apart. I wanted to hold you every night and hear your sweet, soothing voice every morning. I wanted you to love me.*
*I know we will meet again. I know I’ll be so relieved. I love you, Stanley. I always have.*
*Forever yours, Kyle.*
——
Six-hundred-and-seventeen words. Kyle counted six-hundred-and-seventeen words. That was only one of many letters that Kyle wrote that night. He didn’t kill himself, though. He was too scared.
The letter had been shoved in the back of his diary, a place where he knew his parents wouldn’t look. He hoped.
His arm hurt, but the bleeding had stopped. It was now wrapped up in a bandage so that people wouldn’t notice. He could just say he fell and that he needed to keep the cut protected and sanitary. His parents wouldn’t question it. They didn’t care. He was known as a clean freak.
Over the weeks, the wounds began to close up. He cleaned them every night and changed the bandage every other. He stole money from his dad’s wallet and his mom’s purse to buy rolls of bandage, just so that they wouldn’t get suspicious about their own bandages being used so rapidly.
Over the months, the cuts began to scar. Raised bumps all over his left arm slowly appeared. He hated them. He wished he’d been softer on himself; that he hadn’t been so rough and ruthless. Nobody asked about it when the bandage finally came off, they just took it as normal.
Kyle didn’t have an episode as bad as that one ever again. Sure, he had meltdowns occasionally that would end with him washing the bottom of his shower floor from any bloody stains, but none as bad as the first.
He graduated high school, got into a good college and good university. He went to therapy, fell in and out of relationships, and ended up in a job with children.
He worked in a child’s care home, where he looked after and talked to children who had been abused and neglected, ones whose parents were addicts or never around or completely left them. More often than not, the children had hurt themselves, either in the past or currently varied. Kyle met lots of children who acted like he had; perfectionists, pessimists, scared, tired, needy. Lots of them had tried to kill themselves or had thought about it. Lots of them had friends who had killed themselves. Kyle spoke to them as if were a younger him, going through their exact situations.
Some of them reminded him of Stan. Especially one little girl.
She was only eleven, but she had seen so much. Her father was out of the picture and her mother was an alcoholic who did drugs and beat her almost nightly. She was scared and timid, her body covered in permanent scars and reminders. She changed her mood constantly, being happy and excited one second but irritable and angry the next. She would space out and cry for her mother, clinging to Kyle as she sobbed and sobbed. She had a mole just under her left eye. It was identical to Stan’s.
He wished he hadn’t made that connection.
One night, Kyle rummaged through a few dusty boxes in his attic, finding an old, leather-bound diary. He carefully opened it, turning to the back few pages. Slotted between two entries from 2005 was a yellowed, folded-up page of paper, the name ‘Stan’ scribbled on the back.
Kyle opened it. He opened it and read all six-hundred-and-seventeen words over and over again. He read until his eyes were completely soaked with tears and his vision was obstructed. He had to move on. It had been over twenty-three years. What was the date? 2025, October… 18th.
Oh, god.
Tomorrow was Stan’s birthday. He would’ve been thirty-seven. But instead, he was forever thirteen. It made Kyle nauseous. He shouldn’t have done this. He should’ve killed himself when he was fifteen and young and stupid enough to not think of the consequences. He should do it now.
He slipped his trainers on and left his phone unlocked on his dining table, not bothering to lock the front door as he left the house.
He lived only five minutes away from a high bridge that went over a deep, wide river. The drop was over thirty feet, a sure way to kill him. It was dark, there were no passer-bys. His bitten fingers gripped the railing, a calmness washing over him. This is what he wanted
The only evidence that he jumped was the splash of the water as he hit the surface and drowned. There were no cameras; no witnesses.
Kyle had broken his vow.
——
Kenny found out through a facebook post that Kyle had killed himself. Immediately, he called up Eric and informed him of the tragic news. Of course, they both travelled back to South Park, with their respective families, to see Kyle’s parents and younger brother. The family was devastated. None of them had heard from Kyle in years, it was so unlike him to do anything so drastic. The funeral was small, only family and close friends making an appearance.
Kenny made a speech at the funeral, recalling and recounting past, fond memories. He only had positive things to say, there was nothing bad he could think of when it came to Kyle.
Both he and Eric decided to join Shelia and Gerald in clearing out Kyle’s old childhood boxes. All of his things had been shoved into cardboard when he’d left home, left for the rats in the attic.
Kenny went through all his clothes and everything that was found in his old wardrobe. Most of the clothes had been chewed through or were completely unwearable, he decided it was a lost cause. Until something aight his eye.
There was a dark blue, plastic box, filled with papers. Kenny grabbed it, opening it and reading the first one he grabbed. The first words he read were ‘Dear Kenny,’
Shock flashed through his chest. He kept reading along, the point of the letter becoming more and more obvious. There was a date scribbled in the corner of the page.
*November 27th, 2005*
It was almost twenty years old. Kyle had been thinking of this for just under twenty years. Jesus Christ.
Slowly, he went through the other letters, handing them out to the addressed. It was hard for him to look at the paper again, realising that he never truly knew what Kyle was going through. If he had been a bit more observant, maybe…
All he could do was stare out the window at the blindingly gorgeous sunset. The blue and orange clashed together, forming a beautiful array of colours. He smiled at the sight, a wave of bitter sweetness washing over him.
Every night, until his death, Kenny made a promise to watch the sun set under the horizon.