Kenny pulled at a loose thread on his coat. It was getting colder, but he didn't mind. The sun was almost set, basking the world in pale blue light. School had been over for hours, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. There were a lot of things he couldn't do. He was afraid that the sooner he went home, the sooner tomorrow would come. Tomorrow he'll die. And its stopping him from living, the fear of death. Not that it would end, and he'll always come back. Death is not permanent, but his fear is. It hurts to live, but it hurts more to die.
He's killed himself before.
Usually when someone can say that, they recall what must have happened afterwards. Being rushed to the hospital accompanied by a screaming family member crying over the almost corpse of their loved one, being resuscitated in a sterilized hospital room by sanitized hands, the meetings and cold stares when they woke up from their haze brought on by a non-beating heart. Their family will cry over them, telling them how much they would miss them. They love them, they told them so themselves.
Kenny killed himself one day in the back of a tree house filled with the smoke from juvenile teens he'll never know, alone. He laid there for hours, dead as a fly on a windowsill and felt like one too. Nobody found him.
He woke up in his bed. Nobody remembered.
When he says to the empty air around him that killed himself, he remembers nothing. No love, no hate, no coldness from the world around him. Even the angels in his mind weren't mad at him for stopping his own heart. It's hard to care when someone does nothing. His death doesn't even inconvenience anyone else. It didn't matter, the memory just another face in the crowd of millions. Millions that didn't matter. Anything in quantity loses quality, no matter how great it is.
The wind whistles around him, calling from his home for him. He had to go home. Back to his shack, his threadbare blankets. Back home to his parents, the people that life abused. And his sister, who was probably sitting amongst it all like a queen of a trash kingdom wishing for her brave handsome night to make her day. Kenny got up from the cold sidewalk and stood up again. Just to live, knowing he would die, is standing up to death, looking him in the eye, and telling him that no matter what happened, he would always live again. Death wasn't permanent.
Neither is life.
And he went back home.
A/N: Yeah sure, South Park isn't a deep show. Fight me