kenny is amazing though, even though i dont own him or any other south park-relatedness...
Uhhh Kenny and Kyle, just so you know.
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Kenny stared at his hands. He studied them, every line and every crease. They were pale, they were unmoving, corpse-like. He looked at them as if his life depended on it, concentrating on the small hairs, the way the knuckles wrinkled when he forced his fingers straight. He studied his fingertips, callused and dry, telling of long hours on his beloved guitar. His nails were broken, uneven, the ones on his middle fingers bitten till they bled. A bad habit, Kenny noted to himself, maybe he should stop. Kenny had feminine hands, they were too finely boned, too smooth. He used to loathe his hands, but then he began to love them. But, now they were back to being hatted.
Kenny moved his hands. He couldn't look at them anymore, so they went into his jacket pocket, pulling out his addiction. He lit the cigarette quickly, shakily, taking long puffs, as if he was trying to choke himself with the noxious fumes. He exhaled, watching the smoke trail into the gray sky, mixing with the snow. The cigarette didn't work as Kenny had planned, he was still tense, still thinking, still here.
Why was he still here? Why was he always still here? Every time he thought that 'this is the one', he woke up to find himself back at South Park. Back again, over and over. It used to be a relief, to find himself flesh and bone once more, that deaath did not decide to take him forever, not this time anyway. Now, he wished that bereavement could take him and keep him, wished that he never again felt the ice crunch against his boots. See Cartman's fat ass. Hear Chef sing. He wished he was good enough for nothingness.
Bitterly, Kenny rubbed his hand over his tired, red eyes. People were so lucky to have their mortality, their frailty, the fact that they would not live his predictable, unlucky life. That they did not have to play this stupid, redundant game with the Grim - a game that Kenny usually lost.
There had been a lull, though. Where Kenny did not have to worry, where Kenny did not die, where Kenny was happy. He should have not been so naive. Good things never lasted in his life.
Because no matter how much Kenny had prayed, had screamed, had died. Kyle never came back. Although Kenny always expected him to. If he could come back, why couldn't Kyle? And every morning, he would be filled with this hope that he'd see Kyle standing at the bus stop, talking with Stan, yelling at Cartman. But Kenny never saw that lime green hat, that shocking flame of red hair, those cute, sun-kissed freckles. No, he just saw an empty spot, devoid of life, when there should have been a living, breathing boy with an obsession with soap operas.
Kenny felt his shoulders slump in weariness, in defeat. Picturing over and over again that dark night. They were driving, Kyle going a little too fast, Kenny a little too uncaring. They had hit an ice patch. Swerving, yells, a tree getting closer and closer, Kenny watching the coarse, brown bark becoming more definite. He remembered his last coherent thought being, 'So I guess I'm going to die by tree this time.' He didn't realize, didn't comprehend that the boy next to him would be less than amused. Did not even think once that the one he loved would die, and that would be the end of it.
He longed for Kyle's soft kisses. Longed for those green eyes that he used to drown in. He could still feel the way Kyle used to make his skin tingle. Memories of how much they loved each other when they held hands, embraced, both reluctant to let go. He wanted Kyle again. Talking about some advanced class and rambling about something Kenny didn't understand. He wanted Kyle again. Touching and moaning and whispering little secrets. Kenny bit the bottom of his lip, gasping, sobbing. He wanted... wanted so bad.
Kenny wrapped his arms around his stomach, feeling his heart ripping open a little wider. His arms tightened, as if he was trying to hold himself together, when, in actuality, everything was falling apart.