Under His Wing
I fell back, crumbling to the ground as the shock and pain overwhelmed my brain. I could barely register the rush of movement around me, hardly feeling someone begin to cradle my head as another inspected the wound. The pain had erupted from my belly, digging deep into the organs lying beneath the skin and muscles and fat. I squeezed my eyes shut, scrunching up my face as I tried to curl in on myself, but they wouldn't let me. There was an overwhelming amount of shouting around me as my breathing staggered and I began to panic.
Stan's head appeared above me – he must've been the one cradling me – and his lips moved, but with all the noise and the terrible burning in my gut I couldn't concentrate on them. Everything was a roaring blur to my senses until there was a pressure on my stomach and everything sharpened to crystal clarity. A cry escaped me and my hand gripped tight to the arm pushing down on me, trying to stop it. It tried to shake me off, offering temporary relief.
"Kenny, let go! I'm trying to help you!" I heard Craig's voice, but I couldn't control myself it hurt so bad. I pushed on him again and again until he got fed up and called Clyde over for help. Stan stayed with me, working to comfort me by stroking my hair and continuing to talk to me, the words finally coming through.
"Hey, shh, it's alright. You're gunna be ok." I appreciated his words, even knowing that I would just die again. I died all the time, but I was always so scared. I was scared of the pain, I was scared of the nothingness between death and waking up, but I was most scared about living. Nothing I could imagine was worse than the constant day-to-day uncertainty of life. Even though I didn't die as often as I used to - certainly not every day - it was terrifying to not know when you were going to die next.
Together Stan and Clyde held down my arms, their football muscles easily overpowering my malnourished body. I couldn't see him but I felt Craig push my shirt up, his cold hands on my waist as he apparently took a closer look at the bullet wounds. Somewhere off to my left, over the constant shouting and fight provided by Cartman, Kyle's voice rang through, clear but failing to mask his desperation.
"Hello? My friend just got shot! … Outside Harbucks on San Marnan Drive... Some sort of shotgun, the guy who shot him's still here." My concentration on his words was scattered as Craig agitated the wound. I cried out again, pushing at the hands holding me in place, writhing and instinctively pulling my legs in. He quickly withdrew his hand and breathed out a 'sorry'. I forced myself to relax slightly, evening out my breathing and focusing back on Stan, focusing on his nails gently scratching beneath my hair. It was only now that I began to notice the overflowing tears, a few of them hitting my face as he kept looking at me, speaking to me.
"Come on, Kenny. You can do this. Just hold on a bit longer." He sniffled, his lips almost unnoticeably trembling as he took a moment to bite his lip. "You'll be alright. You'll be ok." he started repeating, trying to blink the tears away. Twisting my arm, I gripped his and squeezed slightly, making my own effort to comfort him.
This is how it was most of the times I died in front of them. After some time, Cartman stopped laughing. Sometimes he would swear, sometimes he would sigh and walk away, and sometimes, like today, he would beat the shit out of whatever killed me. I often got suspicious of the way he reacted, as if he knew I'd just come back.
Kyle always tried to keep his head, tried to call the ambulance and make sure Cartman didn't do anything too reckless. I never saw the events after my death – I certainly didn't want to – but I knew that when he heard the news, each time it hit him hard. I speculated he would stand there, because of course he wouldn't be able to sit still, white as a ghost with disbelief strewn across his face. He wouldn't want to believe it; maybe he wouldn't until he saw the body.
Stan was always right here, right by my side, begging me to hold on, to stay here with him. I've seen him cry more times than he's ever cried to Kyle, probably. I knew Stan better than to think he didn't share his soul with his Super Best Friend. It broke my heart to see him cry, every single time. He would never remember it, and for that I was thankful, but he still lived through it. I wondered if he went to Kyle for solace or if he had to spend some time alone. I didn't want him to be alone. I didn't want any of them to be alone to deal with this.
I squeezed his arm reassuringly, locking eyes with him as if to say, "It's ok, I'll be back." He never seemed to get the message.
My sight began to grow dim as the all-too-familiar shadow of death gripped me in it's cold, bleak-claws. I could see Stan begin to grow desperate – I guess he could tell I was leaving him. Taking the weight off he grabbed me back, squeezing harder as if that would keep me here.
"Kenny?" He whispered as my eyelids fluttered. I gave a weak squeeze back, and that was it.
It had felt like I'd slept for a day when I finally woke up. I didn't know what time it was, but the house was quiet and it was dark outside. I rolled over, pushing my head into the pillow and running a hand through the hair on the back of my head. After taking a deep breath, taking in my own scent from the pillow, I pushed myself up, glancing over at the clock. 3:42 AM. I groaned, scratching my head and standing up to stretch. I let my arms fall limp to my sides as I headed out the door, already knowing my destination. I pulled my parka around me, trying to keep the cold out but failing miserably. It hadn't been this cold last night when I died, but it was ok, I'd be inside soon enough.
I scaled up the backyard tree of a nearby house, peering in through the upstairs window. The lights were out, as per usual for this time of night, and there was no movement. I gripped the window pane and slid it open, climbing inside with ease. Sliding the window shut again to keep the cold out, I shimmied off my parka and approached the bed. Snoozing softly on the bed was Stan, unaware of any disturbance in his room. I pulled off my socks, shoes and jeans and carefully crawled beneath the covers beside him, facing away from him. As I settled myself, Stan rolled over, one arm sliding beneath my neck, the other falling over my midsection, pulling me gently into his chest.
"Hey... you ok?" He muttered. I curled up slightly, holding the hand hanging over my stomach.
"No, but that's why I came here." I mumbled, closing my eyes and surrendering to the peaceful, warm darkness.
Edit Note: I had to make a few edits , I literally slapped my palm to my forehead because I accidentally typed 'boxers' instead of 'jeans', and repeatedly whispered, "Fuck fuckity fuck fuck!" upon realizing I posted this with my name under the title. There goes that option as a pseudonym for publishing books in the future.