A/N: This chapter is short because it's mainly an introduction to the story to see if I would like to continue. I also didn't know where exactly to end it...
During editing, spell check would not stop giving me problems, so I fixed what I could then gave up. Please excuse the mistakes that you will probably find.
In case you didn't read the trigger warnings in the description, here they are: suicide, self harm, depression, familial issues, and other things I might add. With that said, you may continue.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor do I claim to own, South Park. It belongs to its original creators.
I jolted up in bed, coughing, feeling as if I'm suffocating. My body felt numb and I lifted my hands, turning them over a few times and pinching each of my arms just to know I'm alive.
"What was it this time?" I mumbled to myself, already having forgotten why I died after being in Hell so long. After a few moments, it came back to me and I cringed. I killed myself.
I sighed, letting my weight fall down with a soft protest from my bed as I did so.
I glanced at the beat up clock beside my bed that read it was just past eleven in the morning, and reluctantly rolled out of bed. My knees buckled, but I caught myself on the corner of my nightstand. I always have hated the feeling of getting back into my body...
In all honesty, I would have preferred to stay in bed all day, but I promised to meet my friends that day. I knew I would just be an awkward fourth wheel to a tricycle, if that even makes any sense.
Since I always woke up in my ordinary parka and ripped jeans, for whatever reason that may be, I only needed to find a clean pair of socks and my worn down boots. Finding breakfast before everyone arrived in ten minutes would be the hardest part.
After I'd gotten my boots on, I trekked into the living room quietly, knowing my parents would be fast asleep on the couches. It was a maze as always. Broken bottles and various other noise-making things were scattered across the floor around my parents. My dad lay on the floor, snoring, and my mother was on the couch, arm hanging down, mouth open, emitting soft sounds.
I carefully avoided everything on the floor and hurried into the kitchen. I found a single package of expired Poptarts in the cupboard and milk that was starting to curdle in the fridge. Other than that, food was scarce. I sighed, figuring I should let my sister have whatever's left when she gets home from her friend's house. I could always bum money off my father while he's drunk so I could at least get a little bit of groceries.
I snuck past my parents once again, this time to leave the house as quietly as I could. The cold Colorado air bit at the skin on my face, causing me to shudder and pull up my hood, pulling the strings tight. It always has been a habit to do that, even if no one can understand me when it muffles my voice.
I squinted to see three figures in the distance, slowly approaching. I stepped off the porch and ran towards them, a stupid grin on my face masked by my hood.
"Hey guys," I said, panting softly.
"Well isn't someone excited to see a movie they can't afford," Eric remarked with a smirk. God, I wish I could just bash his face in, but I know he'd just break my bones. Sure, I have strength, but I'm scrawny and weak compared to him. He's fat, maybe three hundred pounds or so, but some of it is muscle. Not to mention he's like six feet tall whereas I'm only five foot eight, the shortest of my friends.
I always get the feeling Eric Cartman has convinced me that he has the potential to be a future murderer. Scratch that, he is a murderer. I can't even begin to count how many times he's killed me. In fact, everyone in my small town has killed me at least once.
"Don't be an ass, Cartman," Kyle said, elbowing his side, though it did no damage. Kyle is Jewish and people give him hell for it but I couldn't care less. He's got an average build, only a few inches taller than I am. Kyle is a fiery redhead who covers his mess of curls with a bright green ushanka that he's had since elementary school.
Stan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Stan is always annoyed by something, whether it be Kyle and Cartman's constant bickering or just life in general. Typically, though, it's the former. Stan is only half an inch shorter than Kyle, and he's really thin.
I had to agree with Stan's reaction, though. Eric and Kyle have lived by the phrase "keep your friends close and your enemies closer" since Kindergarten.
"Guys, can we not have this fight here? We're going to miss the movie," I said.
"Well, we are. We all know you're just looking for an excuse to get away from home, Kenny," Eric said to me, briefly breaking his argument with Kyle.
I rolled my eyes. "Fuck you, I'm going on my own."
"You probably have herpes or something. Why would I want you to fuck me?" he retorted as I shoved past him.
I whirled around on my heel, punched him in the gut, and turned to walk away again. He coughed a few times, but didn't hit back, so I figured I sufficiently got my message through to him. God only know why I ever actually chose to call that asshole my friend.
After I was a safe distance away, I actually started wondering what the hell I was going to do since I didn't have money. I sighed and settled on going to the park.
Once I reached my destination, I sat down on a swing, the cold metal of the chains freezing my hands through my threadbare gloves. I ignored it, trying to recollect what exactly happened the night before.
I remember being in a bad mood, it happens a lot. Coincidentally, my parents were fighting and I couldn't stand it any longer. So, being so amazing at dying, I shot myself in the head, spent the night in Hell, and got revived by morning. I knew I was missing something, but what? I don't forget my own deaths so why does it feel like I have forgotten crucial information.
I sighed, my breath clouding around me. It was quiet for an afternoon in my town, a little too quiet.
As expected, something disturbed the silence. Footsteps crunching snow. I twisted the chain of the swing so I could turn to see who it was. To my surprise, it was none other than Craig Tucker.
My friends and I used to have this huge rivalry with Craig and his friends. Craig was like a mystery to everyone, even his own family. I can figure most people out, but Craig was one person I never really could read. He's never shown emotion, as if he was done with everyone's bullshit from the moment he was old enough to comprehend the world. He seems to enjoy flipping people off, though. His whole family does, really.
Craig has always been somewhat popular. All the girls love his "badass attitude" and all the guys envy him for getting girls so easily. Despite this, Craig has always been friends with the same three people; Clyde Donovan, Tweek Tweak, and Token Black.
Craig's hair is jet black, his skin is as pale as a ghost, and his eyes somehow have always reminded me of lightning with the brightness of blue that they possess. He always wear a blue chullo, though, so most people only see his bangs that hang in his eyes.
What was even weirder than seeing him outside of school was the fact that he sat down beside me.
"What brings you here, Tucker?" I ask.
"I should ask you the same thing, McCormick," he says in his typical monotone voice.
"I asked you first," I said, grinning.
"Maybe I was just looking for a place to smoke," he says.
"You can do that at home, liar."
"Fresh air?"
"Tell the truth, Tucker."
"Fuck off," he said, flipping me off.
I laugh and decide to leave him alone about it since I really didn't feel like being punched. Sure, Craig piques my curiousity, but I would not want to piss him off by trying to learn more.
I kick my feet back and forth, eventually gaining momentum and starting to swing. The air was once again biting my face, but I didn't care as much as I had earlier. It felt like I was flying, and before I knew it, I had let go of the chains and flung myself off the swing. My feet hit the ground heavily, shooting a wave of pain through my whole body. I took in a sharp breath, ignoring it.
"Jesus fuck, dude," I heard Craig say.
I turned, puzzled. "What?"
"I thought you were going to break a leg or bust your head open or something." Somehow he was managing to stay monotone while saying this.
"Why? Are you worried or something?"
"No, I just didn't want to be convicted of murder because someone finds my fingerprints here and your dead body there," he says, as if it were an obvious fact.
"They would have to have your fingerprints on file to deduct that," I say. "Then again, you were almost sent to juvie in like middle school for spray painting a middle finger on the building."
"Exactly. They took my fingerprints then."
"Either way, the police in this town are dumbfucks and wouldn't do anything." I sit back on the swing, twisting slightly to face Craig.
"You act like you've experienced this." He raises an eyebrow at me.
I simply shrug. "Maybe I have, maybe I haven't."
He rolls his eyes and stands. "It also seems like you're hiding something. Whatever. I've got to go before my mom bitches at me for being away too long." He starts walking off without saying anymore.
"You know, Tucker, everyone has secrets. It's best not to get involved or you'll reveal your own in the process," I say to his back.
He doesn't turn, but somehow, I can tell that affected him.
I watch him walk away, rocking slowly in the swing. Something in me tells me to follow because something is off, but I ignore it, knowing that Craig is not someone to fuck with. Though, I did become more curious after that encounter.
"Maybe one day I'll decipher the mystery that is Craig Tucker," I mumbled to myself, still staring despite him not being in sight anymore.
