Disclaimer: I don't own South Park, I just own Amy. ;
Going Nowhere Fast
I.
"Dude. Say what?"
You've asked yourself a variant of that same question time and time again. You still don't have an answer. Or at least one that makes sense, anyway. You shrug with one shoulder, as if it doesn't matter.
"Yeah."
The look on Stan's face is priceless, and if the situation were different you likely would have pointed and laughed like you used to when you were nine. But you aren't nine and this is serious, and all you can do is look away from your best friend, down to the dirty snow.
"Why?"
The question was expected but it still makes your heart drop to the pit of your stomach. How exactly do you explain to him that you're acting on a stupid impulse; doing this because a pretty girl promised you the impossible: greater things South Park could never offer? How do you tell him you want to get out and you may never come back because this shitty little hick town just isn't enough anymore? That nothing, not even your Super Best Friend, will change your mind?
You can't tell him those things. They're selfish, and he'd be disappointed in you. He expects so much better from you– they all do. And God forbid he should ever open his mouth to Kenny and Cartman; the fatass Nazi would never, ever, let you hear the end of it.
"Dunno, dude," you say and it's a half-truth. You really don't know how she was able to make it sound so goddamn promising.
"Kyle?"
"Yeah, Amy?"
She danced her fingers across the tabletop, careful to avoid any splinters. "What are you doing after graduation?"
You looked up from the text book you had been copying notes out of when her hand on yours stilled your pen mid-word.
"I don't know. I was thinking about maybe going into medicine. Maybe law."
"Why don't we get out of here?" she asked.
You stared for a moment, slowly processing what she said to make certain you heard correctly. "What?"
"Do you really wanna stay in South Park forever?"
"Well, no. But I didn't plan on leaving just yet." In a year or so had sounded good, but not right now, fresh out of high school.
She rolled her eyes. "That's your problem. Always making plans. Why not just get in the car and drive and see where we end up?"
You smirked and shook your head. These girls, they all reminded you so much of wild birds, caged and yearning to be free.
"Imagine: just you and me and life."
You hesitated before answering, freeing your hand from hers at the same time. "I'll think about it."
She eased back, dragging her red painted fingernails across the wood gently. "Come on, Kyle Broflovski," she said, and glancing up you saw her smiling dreamily and hopefully, "take me away."
You called her the next day after school to agree to her getaway plan. When she asked what made you make up your mind, you told her "we only have one life to live and I don't want to waste mine here." Because after spending an entire night thinking about just what South Park could offer you, which wasn't much in the end, you figured she was right: there had to be something better, somewhere out there.
She said "I love you" before hanging up, and you said "yeah" because you knew that, whatever this was you were getting yourself into, it wasn't love.
Stan leans back against a tree, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, snow falling from low branches powdering his shoulders seconds later. "For how long?" he asks.
"I'm not sure," you tell him. You're so caught up in your thoughts, at the last minute second guessing yourself, that you never see him reel his fist back. His knuckles collide with your shoulder, hard enough to make you stumble back a step.
"Dude! What the fuck?" you shout, one gloved hand pressing to your now smarting shoulder.
He smirks at you. "You better come back. You hear me?"
You hear him loud and clear and the bruise to come will serve as a reminder until it fades days from now.
"Yeah," you nod, but you make no promises.
II.
You're in the middle of nowhere – somewhere beyond South Park's borders, caught obliviously between Canada and Mexico, lost on some uncharted interstate that stretches out into a desert. The weather is nice, warmer than what you're used to, and it feels good to shed your winter clothes in favor of tattered jeans and a t-shirt. Looking to the cloudless night sky, you realize you've never seen quite so many stars.
Amy creeps up from behind and tugs the ushanka from your head. When you spin around she kisses you, feather-light on the lips, before you can make a grab for it. You give in and chase her to the car, onto the roof, and pin her down to get it back. She's giggling, flushed; you're too busy stuffing your unruly red hair back under your hat to care.
You slide off the roof to lounge against the windshield, arms crossed over your chest. Her legs come down on either side of you, bare to the thigh, and her hands come down to rest on your shoulders, squeezing gently. She scoots forward, her shorts ride up, bunching dangerously between her legs. It's habit that drives you to reach up, caress her calf, then her thigh, then her hand and forearm. It makes her sigh, and looking up, you notice she has that dreamy smile on her lips again.
You wish you could feel the way she's feeling. Completely at ease out in God-knows-where and free. Logic tells you that you should, by all means, feel the same, that you should be grateful to be rid of rules and society. So why is it you find yourself longing for the proverbial cage that was South Park? Perhaps it is because this trip isn't quite what you expected. She isn't quite what you expected, and while the fringe benefits of having her along for the ride are well worth it (legs that go all the way up, among other things), she's just another piece of baggage you're forced to lug around until this joyride comes to some sort of an end.
"Kyle?" she asks, voice quiet. You look up, right into those green eyes.
"Hm?"
"What're you thinking about?" she inquires, hands sliding up from your shoulders and across your neck and cheeks until she can slip her fingers under your hat again. This time when she takes it off you don't bother to protest. You cross your arms once more.
"You, and me. Us," you say.
"What about us?" She tangles her fingers in your curls.
"Nothing," you mumble, leaning back against her, your head pressing to the inside of one thigh. "Nothing at all."
Amy is quiet for a few minutes before she eases you forward and slides down behind you. She wraps her arms loosely around your shoulders, pressing her forehead to your shoulder, the one Stan punched three days ago.
"We can make this work, you know," she says. "We can."
She squeezes you, your shoulder aches. You wince a little and lean forward, drawing your knees up and locking your arms around them.
"Maybe," you say.
III.
You've spent the last two days at some cheap motel you found miles away from any kind of civilization, holed up like waterlogged rabbits, desperate to escape the rain storms. It smells of mold and mildew, and the once-white paint is now yellowed and peeling. The mattress is old, the springs creak and groan every time your weight shifts on the bed, but the noises of protest and the discomfort of ancient springs digging into your body hasn't stopped you two from fucking these last few hours to pass the time.
She breathes in deep as you slide into her, breath hitching as the thunder roars outside. Her back arches, her nails digging into your shoulders and you hiss in pleasure, pain and annoyance as she drags them across your flesh, over healing welts.
"God, Kyle," she moans, rocking against you. One hand wanders to the back of your neck, her fingers tangling in your curls.
"You want something?" you ask, teasing, thrusting into her harder. Eager to release, eager to get this over with.
"Fuck me," she says breathlessly. "Fuck me harder."
Any harder and you're sure her hips will shatter but you comply and with a grunt pound into her smaller body. Part of her wants to be broken by you, torn apart and shattered to be remade your own, you know that, and you will break her eventually – but perhaps not in the way she hopes for. Perhaps so. Only time will tell.
When it's over, she lays beneath you panting, flushed, speechless. You roll off of her and stand.
"Where are you going?" she asks after she's caught her breath.
"Shower," you say and walk away before she can say another word.
The water starts out the color of blood and rust, and it takes minutes before it's finally clear and hot. After adjusting the temperature, you step beneath the near scalding spray with your head upturned and your eyes closed. It feels good to wash it all away – the dirt that accumulates daily, the stress, he smell of her.
You stand there until the hot water runs cool again. While you dry yourself in front of the dirty, cracked mirror, you notice the welts Amy's nails left behind, and something else that's missing. You skew yourself at an odd angle to get a better look, because seeing is believing and it's hard to believe the bruise on your shoulder is already gone. You touch the place where pale skin had been shades of purple and yellow just hours ago.
"Kyle," Amy calls from the bed, her voice groggy. She must have been dozing. "Kyle, baby, come back to bed."
Your hand falls away from your shoulder and you sigh. The bruise may be gone, but your shoulder still suffers phantom pains every time you think back to Colorado.
...better come back.
They're reminders.
You hear me?
"Son of a bitch."
There are some things you just can't leave behind.
IV.
"This isn't working," you say and Amy sighs, ducking her head.
"I know," she murmurs, shifting in the passenger's seat, turning away from you and looking out of the window.
You're unsure of what to say next. "So, what next?"
She runs a hand over her face and sighs. "We'll think of something."
You sigh heavily and pull over on the side of the road. It's getting dark and you're exhausted, to drive would be hazardous to your health. You turn off the engine and look to the girl at your side; she's staring out the window still but you can see in the reflection in the glass that her eyes are filled to the brim with tears and her bottom lip is trembling.
"Amy?"
"I'm fine," she replies.
"But – "
"We both wanted out. We got out," she says, her voice dropping down to a hush, cracking. "That's all that matters, right?"
You chuckle hollowly. "Not really."
"Yes, Kyle," she says. "It's all that matters in the end. We got out." She opens the door and steps outside into the humid night.
"Where – ?"
"For a walk."
And she walks away with arms wrapped tight around herself.
You wake up to sunlight burning your eyelids and a note taped to the steering wheel. After wiping the sleep from your eyes, you yank the note from wheel. Her hand writing is small and angled, almost impossible to read but you manage alright.
By the time you read this, who knows where I'll be? I certainly don't, and don't you waste your time trying to figure it out. In fact, don't you waste second on this – on us – just take the wheel and drive, Kyle, and see where the road takes you.
P.S. I won't forget you. You'll always be the boy that set me free.
What are you waiting for, Kyle? I told you to drive.
A smile slowly creeps across your lips as you fold the letter carefully then tuck it into your back pocket. You hate to admit but she really wasn't what you expected. Perhaps she was more, not less like you originally thought her to be.
"Thanks," you mutter aloud, and maybe the wind will carry your thanks to her, if it wasn't drown out by the sound of the engine starting up and the tires screeching as you shot back in reverse to get back onto the highway.
You drive for hours, and you're not quite sure if you're going backwards or forwards, but it doesn't really matter. All that matters is you're going somewhere. Finally.
IV.
"Hey, stranger."
You look up upon hearing someone speak and their footsteps getting closer, snow crushed and crunching under the wearing soles of sneakers that have seen better days. You sigh and return your gaze to the ground.
"Hey," you mumble.
"Haven't seen you around here before," the young man says, stopping beside the park bench, smiling down at you.
You roll your eyes. "Cut the crap, Stan."
Stan chuckles as he sits down beside you. "What brought you back?"
"I don't know," you reply, leaning back and looking to your best friend.
"Ooh," you hear a crooning from behind you and it makes you cringe. "Look who decided to come back!"
"Shut the fuck up, fatass," you snap, whirling around on the bench.
"Make me," Cartman taunts, and the urge to throw yourself at him and punch him square in the jaw is unbelievably hard to suppress, but Stan's hand on your shoulder is, as always, just enough motivation to hold you back.
"Come on," Stan says, standing and urging you up. "You can beat the shit out of him later."
"'Ey, where're you guys going?" Cartman demands, leaning over the back of the bench, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed in a glare. At his side, Kenny smirks and chuckles to himself.
"Ignore him," Stan says.
"Goddamn fags," Cartman shouts. Stan flips him off over his shoulder, then Kenny's left to drag Cartman away as the heavier teen continues to shout and whine, cursing and dissing you all the while.
"Some things are never gonna change," you sigh once you're far enough away, shoving your hands into your pockets.
"You got that right," Stan agrees. "But maybe it's for the better."
"What makes you say that?"
"Change isn't always good. Sometimes it's good to have a constant in your life."
He keeps walking when you stop to think on what he said. There are no solid thoughts, only fleeting feelings you sorely missed feeling while you were away, memories of Stan and Kenny and Cartman that will never, ever, fade. Things that will forever tie you down to South Park as long as your best friends and Super Best Friend are there.
You jog to catch up with Stan. "I guess you're right," you say with a small smile.
"Home is where the heart is," he says with a wry smirk.
You shove him. "Dude, you got that off some Hallmark card or something."
He laughs and shoves you back. "So?"
"Asshole."
"You love me."
Weeks ago you would have said "maybe" because you were hiding and denying and eager to run away and find something that could make you forget. But that was then and this is now and you grin when you say "yeah". However the grin and sense of belonging is short-lived when a snowball collides with the back of your head.
You turn slowly, and Cartman's laughing loudly.
"I couldn't hold him," Kenny apologizes.
"Son of a bitch!" you shout and this time Stan doesn't have time to grab you. Cartman falls to the ground, cushions your fall, and laughs even after your fist collides with his cheek.
"S'good to have you back, you fuckin' Jew," he snickers.
You blink and ease back, resting on his thick waist. "It's good to be back."
"Great. Now get off me," he grunts, shoving you off. Kenny helps you up, then promptly walks back over to Stan with you. Cartman brushes the snow off himself then follows.
The four of you stop walking when you reach the bus stop. You lean against the pole, hands in your pockets, and talk amongst yourselves casually as though you never left. You all stay there until the sunsets and you run out of things to talk about. Kenny and Cartman walk their separate ways, and Stan walks you home. You raise an eyebrow curiously when you realize he's a little paler than he was before.
"Dude, are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Stan replies, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"You look pale."
He shakes his head. "I really missed you while you were gone."
You chuckle. "I missed you, too."
"You did?"
"Yeah," you say with a smirk. "Amy wasn't as much fun as you, and the sex was good, but nothing like our first time back in third grade in Arkansas during that recorder concert – "
Stan's eyes widen, then squeeze shut tight as he lurches forward, his lunch now splayed messily on the ground. You laugh and pat his back while he coughs out the rest and catches his breath.
"Dude, that's pretty gay," you say between bouts of laughter.
"Shut the hell up, jerk-off."
"You love me."
He manages to smile as he stands up straight again. "Yeah."
You smile back because this is home, and you think this just might be the real deal.
-End