Bodies
Beaten why for
Can't take much more
Here we go...Here we go...Here we go
Saturday
'Just listen to your music… listen to your music… listen to your-' Kenny's mantra was interrupted by a poorly aimed beer bottle hitting him in the stomach. "Umf…" he breathed, ducking behind a door to avoid further harm. He could hear his father's voice shouting for him to 'stop being such a pussy' over his music, along with pleas from his mother to stop.
But he would never stop. He'd keep hitting the rest of the family. And the family would just take it. Never saying anything. Just one hit after another. Beer bottles. Planks of wood. Fists. Words. Anything he could use to cause harm of any sort, he would. The teen knew he should try to stop him, but he was too scared. They were all too scared.
His alcoholic father usually started by telling him that everything was his fault, and the blonde would stand quietly, one earbud in, the other hanging out the front of his sweater. He'd just tune out while his dad kept shouting. He'd absently take note of his mother and siblings screaming in the background, but it wouldn't matter. His father would tell him that something's wrong with him. That he's different. That he's not right. And Kenny would just let it fly passed him.
One - Nothing wrong with me
Two - Nothing wrong with me
Three - Nothing wrong with me
Four - Nothing wrong with me
His father's voice would grind against him. Looking for a place to break in. Something he could use to get to his son.
One - Something's got to give
Two - Something's got to give
Three - Something's got to give
Now
Sometimes. No one in the family would say anything. They'd just stand there, and let him hit them until the passed out, or were too weak to stand.
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
And, when they tried to get up, he'd beat them down again. He'd stomp on their backs. He'd kick them in the side. Anything to make them hit the floor.
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Kenny was almost ready to give up. He knew what it was like to die, but living the way he did was so much worse. When the beer bottle hit him in the stomach, something snapped. After he collected himself – and a few choice items that he had hidden around his room – he stepped out of his bedroom, in to the heart f the violent storm. He ducked just in time to avoid another flying bottle, this one still half-full, and made his way towards the door. Before he could make it out, his father stepped in front of him and pushed him back, the force causing both of them to sway.
Push me again
This is the end
Kenny shoved back, causing his dad to fall over and spill his beer all over himself. Before he could realize what was going on, the teen stepped over the drunkard and out the door.
Sunday
Here we go...Here we go...Here we go
Kenny had slept in the park Saturday night, repeatedly telling himself that it wasn't his fault at all. He kept telling himself that he was right to do what he did, and that his family would be okay. But he hardly believed himself.
One - Nothing wrong with me
Two - Nothing wrong with me
Three - Nothing wrong with me
Four - Nothing wrong with me
His mind had begun to crumble away worse than it had been. His thoughts became disjointed, and confusing. He would clutch his backpack tight to his chest, or tighten the straps on his shoulders if he carried it on his back. Its contents would rattle and clank. Jingle and clack. So, when his music wasn't playing, he would focus on that. Rattle, clank. Jingle, clack. Rattle, clank. Jingle, clack. All the while he could hear a small voice in the back of his head whispering, muttering, taunting.
One - Something's got to give
Two - Something's got to give
Three - Something's got to give
Now
He could almost hear the sound of his mind breaking. Snapping. Cracking. And still the voice whispered in his head. It talked to him. It echoed his music.
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Kenny saw no point in arguing with the thing inside his head. It lived in his heart, as well. And in his rotting soul. It now made sense to him why he had stuffed his backpack full of firearms, ammo and knives. He knew what he wanted to do. And, while he planned, the voice kept talking.
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Monday
He had planned for this day wince he was young, really. He had always wanted some sort of outlet for his anger. It had just taken him 16 years to find it. Digging through the various weapons in his backpack, he pulled out his heavy wrap-around headphones and replaced his usual earbuds with them.
He walked up the steps to his high school, South Park High, for what he knew would be the last time. His wrap-around headphones hung from his neck, and he walked with a bit of a slouch. He was running late, but he didn't care. He needed to be late for his plan to work perfectly. And the voice continued to whisper.
Skin against skin blood and bone
You're all by yourself but you're not alone
You wanted in now you're here
Driven by hate consumed by fear
Or was it his music? He couldn't tell anymore. He didn't care. He was too far in to his plan to turn back.
He pulled the headphones up over his ears, his favourite song already blaring through the speakers. 'Maybe I'll go deaf…' he thought absently as the screaming voice of the singer dulled his senses. He pulled the hood of his sweater over his head. The sweater had been a gift from Butters one year for Christmas. 'I hope he's not here today…' The sweater was one of those odd ones that zip all the way up to the top, veering your face. He zipped it up until it wouldn't zip any farther, and grinned behind the skeletal face on the hood, viewing the world from two meshed-over eyeholes. He reached in to his pocket and ran his handover the cool metal of the handgun that was concealed within. 'Extra large sweater means extra large pockets… great for hiding things…' he mused to himself. Several more like it, plus some larger guns, ammo, and four knives clanked around in side of his backpack.
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
The feeling of someone's hand on his shoulder interrupted his warped thoughts – or was it the song again? The hand gripped his shoulder firmly and spun him around to face the person it was attached to.
Eric Cartman – fatass, bully, and all-around fucking douchbag – stood, glaring at him. "Kenny! I know it's you, you poor bastard. Get that stupid sweater off and come to class. You're late and the teacher's gonna be pissed!" His horrible, grating voice was muted by Kenny's overloud music. But Kenny didn't care. He hated his voice anyways.
'Cartman, Cartman… just the person I wanted to see first…' his smile widened behind the bony grin of the skull. He reached his hand back in to his pocket – for the force of being spun around by his "friend" had pulled it out – and wrapped it around the now-warm and familiar feeling hilt of his gun. Using the other hand, he reached up and pulled the headphones off of one ear through his sweater. He wanted to hear Eric Cartman die.
"Dude, what's wrong with you?" Cartman asked, his eyes showing the smallest, almost imperceptible hint of fear. "Hey! Fuckface! I asked you a question." The fatter boy pushed Kenny, causing him to stumble back.
One - Nothing wrong with me
Two - Nothing wrong with me
Three - Nothing wrong with me
Four - Nothing wrong with me
His mind flew back to his father pushing him. How it had caused him to snap. And he heard it again. The breaking and cracking in his head. The end to any sanity he may have possessed.
One - Something's got to give
Two - Something's got to give
Three - Something's got to give
Now
"Nothing's wrong with me." Kenny's voice sounded foreign, even to his own ears. Hollow. Empty. No longer human. "But there's about to be something wrong with you."
In one fluid motion - before Eric could respond - Kenny pulled the gun out of his pocket, leveled it with his overweight classmate's forehead, and fired.
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Brain matter and skull fragments shot out behind him, splattering walls, and lockers. He swayed for a moment before falling to the ground with a loud thwump. A look of shock remained frozen on his face as blood trickled out of the wound on his forehead, and pooled underneath him.
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit the floor
Kenny stood and admired his work for a few seconds before putting the gun back in his pockets and settling his headphones back on to his head. 'One down… a few hundred more to go…' the blonde thought to himself, smile still plastered across his face, as he stepped over Cartman's corpse and made his way to his homeroom.
The floor...The floor...The floor...The floor
A full version of my drabble from the iPod challenge. Hope you enjoyed :) Because I did. ~DracoMalfoy1313~