It's alright to tell me what you think about me
I won't try to argue or hold it against you
I know that you're leaving you must have your reasons
The season is calling and your pictures are falling down

| Dammit |

Chapter One:

Cartman could've made it, you know. And it was so fucking funny to think he could've had a chance. Hell, he'd show his mother just how disciplined he could be, because a box over his head was so damn classy. No, seriously. He saw it coming. His mother trained him like a damn dog one time and he couldn't handle it. He lived on the street for a couple hours or so because his fucking asshole of friends wouldn't invite him in. Why the hell did he stay around him? Kyle couldn't ignore him. He was a boulder that nobody wanted to be around, couldn't move without tumbling down.

Jew. Rich. Successful. All the things he craved and he thought he could get away with it, get away with life playing the easy card because he always got what he wanted. Kenny was even richer than he was! Well, he didn't end up turning into a complete wastebasket for that matter. And if he maybe listened to his future-self back in the fourth grade, he could've been successful, but he had the attention span of Tweek who was now running his father's fucking coffee shop. Cartman couldn't even turn on the washing machine without getting into a pissy fit. Eventually, his mother got so sick of her son's behavior she just left him. Like she left her husband. Maybe it'd give her more time to screw with men she didn't even know the name of. She took the cat and everything. Nobody just took Mr. Kitty away. Not when Clyde frog used to be the only thing he clung onto. And to think Cartman called Kyle's mother a bitch. Fuck family!

What kind of mother was that? But he was never really her son to begin with. No. He was a manipulative, spoiled little kid who never grew up. He was an adult in a nine year old's body. His cat was his safety net. Whatever. He had food, but he looked at Kyle and he was so damn thin. Kyle ended up being a writer, published in the goddamn New York Times at nineteen. Every story had to have a bad guy. Cartman was that bad guy.

Sure, Cartman was in their group. He wasn't alone, but it was those assholes who made him eat his feelings. He could've left completely, but a childhood spent alone would've been fertile for destruction. God, who was he kidding? He'd shot people in the fucking balls. No, that was Butters. It didn't matter. He was a sin, but Kyle was making money off the things he did.

Stupid Jew, he muttered. Yeah, he really hadn't grown up much. And look at Butters! He'd published another novel, just because he was so convinced he wrote the last one. It was words after words of stupidity, but that was the majority of South Park anyway. To think he could leave this town, but the thought of losing Kyle...

No. He couldn't leave because he needed someone to rip on, needed that hate to fizz in his veins that kept him alive. Stan was right. He couldn't live without him, so that's why he had to avoid him. Just avoid him like the plague. But Kyle seemed to be doing just fine! Cartman was the one hitchhiking, shoving his fingers down his throat and living in a damn trailer. Fucking why, why did it get like this?

And now there he was, crescent purple lines under his eyes from getting beat up. He could kick ass, really. Frankly, he was too tired to care.

"Cartman?" Black hair started talking, a head turning around and a sickening smile on a face. "Cartman? Hey! You're reading the New York Times, huh? Kyle's got a column! I mean, he even wrote about you and I thought that was crazy but the article—" She smiled sweetly, running a hand through her dark hair. "What happened to your eye?"

It was Wendy. Fuck. Flashbacks to fourth grade reeled in his head. She had a little crush on him. After that history report, it was all over and she went back to Stan. What a fucking sap. History was the only thing Cartman could consume himself in. Well, only because he discovered who Hitler was. Seriously, Hitler was like god in Cartman's head, worshiping him and maybe following his damn footsteps if Kyle ever showed back up in his life.

"Slapped a preppy red-headed Jew," he mumbled angrily, knitting his eyebrows together. "You know, he hasn't got me very fucking accurate."

She shrugged helplessly. "Haven't changed, have you?" She shook her head, laughing shortly as her lips turned into a faint smile.

She ruffled his hair. What the hell was she thinking? Like she could just do that like old fucking times, not that he was ever close to her anyway. Sure, Stan was her girlfriend but hippies and hoes were two things he avoided. And Jews. Hell, he hated everyone because his head was just one big pile of narcissism. His hate was contagious.

"Don't touch my hair." He snapped, voice hoarse as he gripped her hands away like she was a stranger. "I'm not Butters... or a dog. Yeah, let's just go with I'm not Butters." He propped himself up, his nose wrinkling and he carelessly tossed the newspaper faraway. "You want a tip? Don't rub your rich-ass clothes in my face. Did your daddy pay for those or are you fucking guys at the gas station, Wendeh? Look, I avoided people like you for a reason. Bye."

He looked away from her, standing, brusquely rubbing his shirt as he moved past her. He looked back at her, eyes tearing away from her stupid fucking face. He didn't look back as he left. And all he could think of was, dammit.

A/N: This is definitely a different side of Cartman, and Kyle will not be gone forever! Don't worry! That's the point of this anyways.

So, do you like it? Hate it? Please let me know~!