I don't know where this came from.
There are cats in my brain, who love torturing Kyle.
Story has nothing to do with the song it's named after, they have no connection at all.
Err...
All characters belong to Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Or is it Trey Stone and Matt Parker?
Enjoy this Prologue!
My head is leaning against the backseat window of my parent's car; we're driving to the hospital. Nobody's hurt, but, lately I've been really sick, and a few weeks ago, they did some blood work, and they called us in to talk.
I could tell by the look on my mother's face that that couldn't have been a good thing.
We pull into the hospital, and I really just don't care. Both of my parents are edgy, and my mother's twisting a handkerchief in her fingers.
There has to be something wrong with me…
Lately I've just been so weak. I don't want to move, I don't want to talk, I just want to lie in bed and sleep. Everything hurts, and my heart pounds like a drum. It hurts with every beat.
Every once in a while that would happen, but today I'm feeling generally fine.
The doctor calls us into his office, and I sit in one chair, my mother sits on the other, and my dad stands, holding her hand.
"Kyle Broflovski…" The doctor says, reading his chart, then looking up at me. "I, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you have a rare heart condition, something that can't be fixed, I'm afraid."
My mother bursts out into tears, but I just blink.
"'Kay," I say, it can't be that big of a deal. They'll put me on some meds, and I'll live for another 20 years, and everything will be fine.
The doctor stares at me, his eyebrows slightly raised. "…You have about three months to live."
"Oh... Shit." I'm stunned. Three months? This has to be a dream. I'm asleep in the car; we're still on our way to the hospital. When we get there, they'll tell me I have to get some shots, and I'll be fine.
"Sorry, son." The doctor says. My mother grabs my hand tightly, and I realize it can't be a dream. Her grip was crushing my fingers, and it hurt.
Three months. How long is that? 12 weeks. How long is that? 84 days.
I felt my face get pale, and I was looking at my feet. I was never going to graduate High School. I worked so hard to get to this point, and in 84 days, it would all be over.
It seemed like hours in that office, the doctor glancing up at us sympathetically as my mother cried, my father trying to comfort her. I just sit, staring at my shoelaces. I notice one is completely symmetrical. How many times had my shoelace been completely symmetrical, and I not notice?
"Come on, Sheila." My dad rubs her back. "We need to get going. Don't want to take up the doctors' time."
"Here," my doctor writes up a prescription and hands it to me. "This should help a little. Not much, but it won't hurt."
We leave the office, and I'm still in a daze. I look at all the people in the waiting room, and wonder how long they have to live.
It's one thing to know you could die at any time from some kind of accident…but, another thing entirely to be able to mark your day of death on a calendar.
The car ride home is long and awkward. I don't want to talk; my parents are trying to make idle chatter. I just want to think. How will I tell my friends? How will I tell Stan?
Telling Stan is going to be the worst. Not only have we been best friends for life, but, I'm completely and totally in love with him. I'm gay, and I know because every time I look at Stan, I get this funny feeling in my stomach.
I think of him all the time…I love his straight black hair, cut awkwardly, yet it fits him. His eyes are the lightest shade of blue, almost a gray. And he's always smiling.
My heart aches, physically and mentally for him. He has no idea, I've known for years, but I've managed to keep it a secret.
I'll never have him now…there's no way I'll be able to confess my love in three months. Especially since he's straight.
I find I'm crying in the back seat, and my mother turns and looks at me. "Kyle…" She says pitifully before beginning to cry herself.
Finally, we get home, and I go straight to my bedroom. My heart's pounding again, and, it feels a lot worse knowing one day it's going to just stop.
I could be anywhere…I hope it stops in my sleep. That way I won't notice. It would be terrible if I was awake…have it just stop, and there be a moment where I am conscious to the fact that I am going to die in an instant.
I flop onto my bed and quickly doze off into a nap. When I wake up, it's about eleven at night, and I look up at the ceiling. I really want to see Stan. I guess I should tell him soon; he'd be pissed if he found out later.
Pulling on my hat and coat, I don't care if my parents hear me. I know they're not going to scold me for something as trivial as this. I mean, if I were them, I wouldn't, anyway.
I head outside and shiver. South Park was really cold. I never really noticed how it felt like little needles of ice were attacking your face the instant you stepped outside, and how your face got hot.
I am aware of my fingers and toes. I feel every muscle moving my feet. Why, all of a sudden, am I so aware of everything around me?
I notice cracks in sidewalks, I notice light filtering from windows…All of it was so, beautiful, and all of it made me want to cry. By the time I get to Stan's, I realize I must have been, because my face is stiff and icy.
The Marsh's keep their hide-a-key under their hedge. It's a tiny frog, and my frozen fingers fumble with the latch. Finally, I free the key, and step into their warm home. Everyone's asleep, but I knew Stan isn't. He's a night owl, always staying up late.
I climb the stairs quietly, and reach his door. It's slightly ajar, and I see dim light from his bedside lamp through the crack. I'm about to push the door open when I hear a voice that is definitely not Stan. I also hear heavy breathing, and small whimpers. I cover my mouth, I'm not an expert, but, I'm pretty sure Stan is having sex, and by the sound of that unknown voice, with another guy.
I can't believe it. I feel my heart pounding again, and I step back against the opposite wall. Stan is gay, and he's got a boyfriend. I can't jump to conclusions. Maybe they're just friends with benefits. Either way, it hurts to think about.
It doesn't take me long to get out of that house. I can't believe I'm thinking it, but I'm actually glad I'm going to die. Three months couldn't pass fast enough.
