Notes: This...this is pretty messed up right here. It's from Kenny's point of view. You'll see why at the end. Please take the time to review, it encourages me to update faster.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Matt and Trey, the sickfuckery is mine.
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...Forward...
I've always wondered what really happened to me when I died.
Of course I knew what it felt like, senses slowly shutting off one by one until the world melted away from me, waking up in the belly of the underworld. How could I forget any of that? But what I wondered about was, what did everyone else see? What did I look like when I was dead? Was I cold instantly, did my eyes glaze over and stare listlessly off into space?
I've never really seen someone die. On film and on T.V, people die all the time. It never bothers me though. It hasn't at least, for a long time. When I was five my parents were watching Cop Drama and a woman got stabbed. Mom said I cried. I didn't understand that they were just actors. It's almost funny now. But that was before I really knew myself. Before I knew what I was capable of. Sometimes it still scares me.
The first time it happened I was seven years old. I was helping my dad clear the dry brush in our backyard. He had rented a wood-chipper from Home Depot and I was helping him feed it the smaller branches and shrubs. I know it sounds like he wasn't taking good care of me, but he really was watching me. He never meant for me to get hurt. I wish I could say it all seems like a blur now, but it doesn't. I remember everything.
I had one last load of branches before I got to go inside for some off-brand Kool Aid. The last branch in the pile was pretty big, and I wanted to make sure it got in all the way. I pushed it. The moment my fingers came in contact with the blades I screamed. Dad ran over to help me, but my arm was already half way inside. I could feel every pass the blades made on my skin. My fingers were being torn off, one by one. I screamed louder and tried to pull myself out of the chute. It was sucking me in, and it seemed the harder I pulled, the faster I went. I watched in horror as Blood and pieces of my arm were spewed out of the end of the wood-chipper. Dad ran in the house to call 911.
It was too late. The blades cut down to my fibula. The blood was everywhere. On my face, on my body, on the pile of woodchips. The last thing I remember about that day was looking down at the exposed bone of my arm and wishing I was dead. I think that's the only wish I made that's come true.
Death, like any repetitive action, got mundane for me. Soon I was doing things I knew would kill me. I didn't understand what the big deal was, I was going to kick it one way or another. I still don't think I really die. Not...really. If you know you're going to come back, is it really dying? I've always thought of it more like sleeping. Just a little break from life, like a vacation. Of course, I have to remember I'm the only one that works like that.
Sometimes I forget.