Ok, this is really my first attempt at novelized drama, so bare that in mine when you're reading this. Yes, it has a lot of angst and violence in it, just so you know. It's Stan's POV, and the other chapters of this story will be based off what he talks about in this prologue. Enjoy!
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Prologue
It's only now that I understand the human psyche, and how it affects our actions. Or maybe I'm wrong, maybe now it's an even greater mystery to me than it ever was before. Now that I think about it, I never really gave one iota of thought towards how and why we think the things we do. That's something Kyle would have done, Kyle would have contemplated his own thoughts until so many vague, twisted ideas ran askew in his ever pondering brain that he would become sleep deprived due to over thinking such a complex concept. However, I don't think like Kyle. No one thinks the way Kyle did.
You see, I, Stan Marsh, could tell you honestly I was Kyle Broflovski's best friend, and was as familiar with him as he was with himself. This brings me to a greater quarry, one that I have yet to resolve within the realm of my own conscious. How could a bond, no, a love for someone be so easily destroyed by a compulsive action, something done in a plight of confusion with little thought or regard of consequences. How, why do we do things on an ill thought-out whim that end up having profoundly devastating consequences? Never before had I felt such a need to know the answer to such an obscure question. That's more like something Kyle would have wondered, not me. Then again, I am not the same person I was before Kyle left, so I don't think I can compare my present self to the way I was before. The way I was when I still had Kyle.
It's truly amazing how dramatically a person can change their whole personality-their whole outlook on life, after losing someone close to them. Kyle was more than just a really close friend; he was a part of me. He was my morals, my company, and hell, the only other sane individual who would agree with my rationale when things got out of hand as they often did in out little mountain town of South Park. Why did he have to leave, why did he have to die on me? Didn't he know I need him? He could have survived if he had just tried, but he just gave up. It's his fault.
No, I can't blame him. I don't want to blame him, but I can't stand to admit to myself that I am the one at fault here, even if it's true. It's punishment enough that he's gone, why do I have to live with the guilt? God hates me, if he didn't, he would have never allowed me to press that god-forsaken pistol into the heaving chest of Kyle Broflovski in the first place.
Somehow, everything prior to when I pulled the trigger is a blur. Only after I had committed the senseless act, had my rational, moral, and generally well-meaning side emerge from the caverns of my conscious to mock me for my foolish actions. By then, all I could do was stare at my best friend slowly lose grasp of any life left in him as his limp body lay awry in a deep red pool of his own blood. I was, and still am, unable to comprehend what would drive me to murder my best friend.
It's now I think back to my original question. Why does our mind allow us to do things we will later regret? Why does it allow us to do the irrational, the immoral, and unintended? If Kyle were here, I'd ask him, I'm sure he would have a better answer than I do.