He Might Not, a south park fanfic

"Dude, Stan, this is so unhealthy. You can't keep doing this to yourself. You can't let him do this to you."

I hear him, but the words are lost in the still morning air and never make it to my brain. I tug my hat down over my ears in attempt to warm up, but the chill is seeping from inside me. Is Kyle still talking? I cannot hear him. I do hear snow crunching, heavy footfalls that do not belong to the one we're talking about. Always the last to arrive, Cartman strolls to our bus stop. I do not turn to greet him.

"Where's the poor one?"

"Shut up, fat-ass," Kyle snaps. "Kenny died last night."

Shh. Stop.

"What happened? Starvation from being poor?"

"One, that's not even FUNNY, Cartman. You're bad at telling jokes! Two, don't be so cruel! He's supposed to be your friend. He's probably been the most level headed one with you over the years anyway!"

Please, be quiet. This hurts.

"Take a fucking chill pill, jew-boy. Fucker dies every week. He'll be back in a few days."

But.

"One day, asshole, he might not."

It's another shot to the heart. They're ripping scabs off wounds that only just began to bleed.

I don't think anyone else has seen Kenny with his shirt off. I may be wrong. I know he was a player in the past, but from what he's told me, it was sagging pants, cock out. Never did he have to get naked.

I like when he does it for me. When we're at his house, he lets me put his hood down, my hands wrapping around his neck while we kiss. He lets me unzip his jacket, push it back over his shoulders, tug the stained wife-beater off. He's the one stepping out of his pants as he lays me back on his dingy bed.

There is a reason he doesn't often reveal his body, even in the warmer months. He is covered in scars. His skin is purple and rough to the touch. I touch him anyway. I can almost tell you what incident each scar is a remnant of. Car crash. Rifle shots. Pushed out a window. But they're so layered on top of each other now, that it's impossible to tell where one life ends and another begins.

I slide my hands up his chest, over the ribs that protrude through the healed flesh. The worst scars are the ones he's given himself. A stab wound to the chest, the rope burn on his neck.

I get it. I get why he does it. He wants to be in control of it for once. He wants to fight back. I understand, but it doesn't make it any easier for me to bear.

I feel abused every time he leaves me. Especially when it's his choice. I don't sleep, I don't eat. I am a zombie, just as dead as he is. Neither of us are any more alive when he returns.

He's got a different mindset than anyone else. Everything is Hell. He's going to die, leave this shithole of a town, just to be thrown back here. He is being denied a resting place, for who knows how long. He doesn't even get to haunt people, he always jokes. It only makes me sadder. He has to go through the pain of death repeatedly and never does he get anything in return.

We fuck a lot. He likes sex. He says it's the only true pleasure out there. Food is needed for survival, so there's hardly a reason to eat it. Video games and drugs are nothing when you're on a first name basis with Satan. He does not need sex, but he can have it whenever he wants. It's something he's in control of. Right now, we're kissing.

It gives me confidence for something I know I should not say. I know what is going to happen.

"Kenny, I don't want you to leave anymore."

"Really? We have to do this right now?"

He climbs off of me, and wanders in the kitchen naked. I don't know where he thinks he's going. There is nothing in this empty, abandoned house. I wish he'd come live with me.

"Come on," I shout, "come back in here."

He doesn't comply. I stand, in just boxers and my t-shirt. I was too busy thinking to feel him undressing me. I shiver. There is no heat in this house.

I find Kenny naked in the kitchen. He does not look cold. Maybe he just doesn't feel anything at all anymore. He's half hard and glaring at me. I should have just given him what he wanted.

"We can figure something out," I tell him.

I need to shut my fucking mouth.

"There is nothing to figure out, Stan. We've been through this. He wants me, and he'll have me. You can't beat him. When he for some reason grows bored with me and moves on to another boy, I doubt he's going to let me come back here, either. I'm pretty damn sure he gets to keep me no matter what, Stan. No matter how much you'd rather have me, no matter how much I'd rather have you. Do you realize what's it's like, man? Even when I kill myself he's winning. Even then, I'm walking into his arms willingly. Soon, he's going to get tired of fighting you for me, and he's going to stop letting me come back."

I don't cry anymore when he talks like this. Sometimes I throw up, like when he shoved his hand down the garbage disposal to prove a point. I held him while he bled to death. There are no more 911 calls. Neither of us can afford it.

I cleaned his kitchen while he was away, picking up the pieces of his hand that the rats had not yet gotten to. When he crawled into my bedroom a week later, I asked why he still had all five fingers.

"Can't fuck death with only two."

I am staring back at him, at his purple skin and white hair. It gets lighter every time he comes back to me, maybe stress, maybe because less and less of him makes it all the way back. He sure looks like a ghost to me.

I should have kept my mouth shut, and I knew that. Bringing him up brings him here. If Kenny doesn't do it himself, it'll happen on it's own. I want to kiss him again, but he's not going to let me. There is a shotgun pointed at his head and I close my eyes.

I am torn open.