Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any other media/comic/book/etc that I might use for this story and I'll probably never will, sadly enough.
Warning: This story will be rated M. It will contain strong language and several other things readers might find offending.
Now with the boring stuff out of the way, let the story begin.
I am an Opera Singer
Prologue
By RomeroGirl101
ANTICIPATION
Scattered pieces,
Shattered lives,
Blindfolded stories,
Knotted with lies.
Whom to believe
Who's broken apart?
This is insanity,
Where is my heart?
Trust issues…really?
You're never there
You don't know me,
Like you care.
I remember days,
Dark, grey, cold,
Awakened by nightmares,
Hell, as it's told.
Shots being fired,
Me the bull's-eye,
Useless is your weapon,
No more tears to cry.
One day may be different,
Two days the same,
Anticipation –
I'm good at this game.
By Kristin Edwards for Shealyn.
Kenny's P.O.V
It was another day at South Park, Colorado. I wander aimlessly around the small, always-snow covered town. There's snowfall now as I speak. It covers all around, coating the asphalt in a gray, muddy slush and the very ground a disgusting mix of mud and melting snow. The pale moon peaks out, just briefly, between the dark gray, thick walls of lifeless clouds, brightening the town momentarily, giving off gray to the dim, faint night before returning back into the dark cloud wall. It was just a gray night now. Now all was shrouded in a gray vision. Everything was gray, a colorless gray, and one without true, vivid color. The shade of gray I hate; the shade that brings back awful memories. Memories I ought to forget, ones that I shouldn't cling to or dare to remember for that sole reason.
It was the ending of fall and the beginning of winter. An embittering, icy gale swept through the barren and lonely streets that I roam upon, kicking up a cluster of mud-stained snowflakes into my path, the cold sending chills to my very bones. A slight fog arose from the ground to dampen my already low mood.
The memories…
Memories coming back, floating to the very fore-front of my mind, surfacing once more, how much I didn't want it back, how much I forsaken their reappearance, their remembrance.
Blood…
There was blood everywhere!
Staining the pure, newly fallen snow into a corrupt deep red.
I look around the small town I once lived in. A place I once thought was the most wonderful place to be in. A place I once adored a long, fleeting time ago. This is South Park, the never-sleepy and never truly awake town of Colorado. (The only town in Colorado filled with random shit happening every week and a hotspot to the supernatural and the strange.) However, once reality came crashing through and my childhood naivety and innocence was shattered, this became my hell. It housed my hatred and suffering, and it will still be, for many years to come. I will never stop hating this place. Never. As long as I live, my hatred lays here.
"It's been a long time," I said to no one in particular, my voice coming out as a haunting susurration, foretelling my emotions. My emotions of being here in this absolute hellhole town of Colorado. I swore on my life that I will never come back here but, yet, I still came.
I hate being here. I hate cominghere. I JUST HATE IT!
Blood splattered everywhere! Deep crimson staining the peeling yellowing walls of a broken home.
"Nothing has changed," I whisper to myself in the same haunting tone, just more … emptier, I guess. If a voice can become emptier than it already is.
My face was emotionless, expressionless, displaying nothing of my inner turmoil. My usual vivid, gemstone-cut sapphire blue eyes now show a deep, bottomless ocean blue ― a sort of hollowness in its wake. I spot something…something as familiar as the back of my hand, as my eyes flickered across the streets and homes.
I stop and stare expressionlessly at it, but inside was another story. My inner turmoil was become something truly horrifying.
The rundown, falling apart, piece of shit of a shack I once lived in along with my sweet, baby sister and older, caring brother, Karen and Kevin. The shack housed my hatred and suffering. It was the very symbol of it. What prevents me from moving on and simply letting it all go. What made me who I am and still am, a deeply bitter, vindictive man permanently wearing a cold, unapproachable mask. What brought me back to this place that rises up feelings of absolute repugnance. The very symbol of what created me – the shack. And the later events that further shaped me and define me and made it almost impossible to turn back, irreversible, permanent effects.
The shack and detached garage were once painted in a shade of bright green but the color faded away over time to resemble something olive-drab. Some of the pieces chipped away, as well, showing the underlining, off-white drywall. Cracks ran around the corners of the shack and detached garage like entwined spider webs, forever trapping, forever ensnaring. The windows were still the ugly yellow-stain color it had been when I lived there. Some of the windows were broken. Others were wide open with the same crappy maroon drapes hanging out of them, getting wet in the dirty slush. The wall at the very back of the shack was burnt away and the room within it was reduced to nothing but ash, and crumbling and thick beams of wood blacked and charred from where the flames licked at them. What remained in the room was ruined, broken, and blacken with burnt dust and remains. A thick cloud of black dust still hung in the stale air from long ago. The shack was beginning to slant, as if; one corner of the shack was sinking into the mud-stained snow.
Sinking…
Sinking deeper into the dark world below.
Soon to disappear from this very world …
Into the fiery inferno below …
I sincerely hope it does.
The same random junk were littered across the front lawn: the broke refrigerator with the off-hinged door, wide open, with the missing plastic shelves; the random tire leaning against the shitty, peeling wooden fence; the ripped apart, beige-colored couch with the springs popping out and the seat cushion, a couple feet away, rip to shreds; broken old toys and garbage were laying lifelessly on the mud-covered ground, and there was dog shit shattered all around. Possibly cat shit, as well, but the cats were polite enough to bury it. Stuart's dilapidated, red truck with the gray metal doors is parked contrariwise to the garage entryway, as if he driven it carelessly ― drunkenly— through the fence to end up in that positions which he probably did seeing as the large ripped apart hole in the fence of the right side of the house might suggest otherwise.
I glare at it. I hate this piece of crap of a shack I once lived in and the town I spent my childhood days in and all the fucking people who I spent my time with, but most of all, I hate the shack. I hatethose drunken bastards. I hate them for what they did to me, to all of us, to Kevin and Karen, especially. I still hate them.
Fists striking back and forth, black and blue bruise began to form on pale, pale skin. Glass bottle being thrown across the room, shattering upon impact, as yellow, tainted liquid spilled out from the now broken bottle. Yelling and crying screams echoed all around, as tears fell to the ground.
Drunken Bastards!
Kevin, Karen, and I ― we suffer and endure so much there. So many, many horrible things. We vowed to never come back — to never return to this hell — to leave everything behind. We promised that on the Day of the Fire. The day we left, when our foot left this property, to never return, to never look back.
I am the first to break that promise.
I was already gone, watching from far away.
I stared around the small town I once live in, the small town of South Park, Colorado. I stared at everything in the town, with a frown upon my lips and a slight glare in my cerulean blue eyes, the only things breaking my carefully composed mask, to see what has changed.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Nothing has changed since I left or —correct term― was hauled away, for technicality. Nothing has changed. Every store and house stayed the same. The shitty stores were selling the same shitty junk that they have always been selling. The crappy houses still had the same crap on their front yard. Everywhere I look the town stayed the same. The same shitty-ness and crappiness that has always been around still surrounds it. Everything was still the same as ever.
I continue my aimless wandering …
Then something caught my attention, again, the homes of my once-friends-now-enemies. I stop once more.
My friends …
I scoffed at that very word.
They were traitors. They are weak, pathetic, deceitful, two-faced, mother-fucking, assholes traitors who took away my childhood alongside my parents. They are traitors. I glare and spat at each of their house as I walk by.
I thought I could have trusted them like how I'm supposed to trust my parents. But no, just like them, they hurt me. I avert my eyes from looking again. Unconsciously, my hands clench into fists, shaking with anger and … a bit of pain, betrayal. I was hurt, hurt by they're treachery. The scarred wound was still, ever-so, fresh like the day it tore open upon my very heart when they turned their backs on me.
My eyes wander elsewhere and my feet began to move. I drift around the town, not knowing where I was going or where my feet will take me. Suddenly, I stop and look up to see … the rundown shack ― which I, somehow, ended up at again. My uninterested, disdainful stare became a hate-filled, enraged glare.
I glare hatefully at the shack I once called a house, but never ever a home even as a young kid I knew better. I knew the difference between a house and a home. I will never call this piece of shita home and I never will. The word 'home' deserves so much better than this empty, cold, hate-filled house. I glared at it but with more anger, more rage, and some resentment in my dark blue eyes for living in such a place. "Nothing has changed…"
I spat at the ground near it.
Piece of shit.
You're nothing but a piece of shit. Screaming. Yelling. Bottles pirouetting in the thin air, gravity finally taking course crashes against the floor.
Karen crying in the corner, a rolled-up ball. Kevin screaming, yelling, his face a scarlet red. Figures dance across my eyes. Screams and fist dance before me, as more bottles entered this twisted, chaotic dance. Two figures, red and brown, fought right in front of us. My face utterly vacant, devoid of all emotion. Please stop. Stop. Please! Stop fighting, please! I'm begging you.
STOP!
Pearly tears fell to the ground. Pleas and yelling begs fell on deaf ears. Keep looking forward, it's not happening. This twisted, chaotic dance continues …
Another gash opens up.
A busted-up lip on an already busted-up lip.
Another black eye on brown eyes.
Black and blue covering pallid skin.
The fighting continued … as blood and teeth fell on the floor…
Please make it stop!
They are hurting each other
Please, stop it.
I hate it.
I hate it!
"I HATE IT!" Anger and resentment seeped into my voice. I shook from anger as the flashback played in front of me. Showing me what I have suppressed all these years. Pleasemake it stop. Please. Please!
I hate it when you two fight. What's the point of marrying each if you're doing this over drug and alcohols and money? Why do this in front of us? Why do you hit us too? What have we done? What have we done to deserve this?
I bend down and pick up a pile of rocks and began throwing them at the shack.
Make it stop. Make them stop. How can you watch them do this and completely ignore it? Ignore all the bruises and cuts on us as we walk by. How could you? Don't you see it? All the evidence is in front of you. Don't you see it?
Don't you see the black eye I'm sporting today? Yesterday. A week ago. Everyday single day! How about my busted-up lip. Do you see it? It's right there, on my lip, all bloody and fresh. Do you? Do you know the reason why I hide my face behind a bright orange parka? I hide it because all you will ever notice is my bright orange parka, not my bruised and busted-up face. You will never notice my black and blue face behind my bright orange parka. Never. Not one glance at my face, just avert your eyes. Stare at the orange, less guilt and needless worrying over something you can prevent.
Do you notice the red hand mark on Karen's cheek that's too big to be a child's? The same sized hand as our parents. Do you see how dishevel she is. The tear stains marking on her red, bruised cheeks. Don't you see her broken, beaten face? How she's holding in all her emotion. Those pearly, translucent tears that can easily fall with one single insult, being blinked away as quickly as she can, being held back? Do you? Do you see those tears and red hand mark on her cheek? Do you really? Look. Look closer! There's an old, yellowing one next to it. Do you see!
Do you see the deep to light scars littering Kevin's arms, legs, back, and torso? Did you know those are belt mark, the deep ones, I mean, and some knife cuts? Did you know the lighter, shallow ones are broken glass and scratch marks? Do you know how he got it? He got them protecting us from our drunken, drug-addicted parents when they got too mad at us, for no apparent reason beside them wanting to hit something and we were easier to hit, and also when they are drunk and/or high, they lose all rationality and sanity they have left and just become monsters. Did you know they blame him for being born because if he wasn't, they would have never been together and they would have been happy, rich, and they wouldn't have to take care of three lousy, good-for-nothing, worthless kids that they didn't want in the first place. Did you know that? Did you?
Did you know that they hurt us each and every day, inside and out? They mentally, physically, emotionally, and even psychology abused us. They hurt us so bad, so very bad. They damage us so badly that we started to believe everything they said. Every stupid, idiotic, foolish fucking thing they said to us because they hated themselves so much that they took it out on us. It's easier to yell at your own kids than at yourself, easier to abuse them than yourself, easier to let everything out on them than yourself. So, after many years of abuse, we believed everything they said even how stupid and foolish or even when they were actually talking to themselves than us. We believe them. We believe every single thing they said. Everything, we believed…
Did you know that Kevin actually blames himself for being born and tells us that it's his fault that we get beaten every day and that we should hate him like he hates himself and if only if he wasn't born, we wouldn't have to go through this. He says that he wouldn't blame us if we hate him because he could understand because he hates himself the most. We told him many times that we love him and we could never hate him that we only hate them, but he doesn't believe us. He believes that we hate him secretly, and that's okay because he believes that we can never love him for what he did to us, all this pain is because of him and he firmly believes that. That each and every day that goes by, he blames himself for the beatings and scarring we get and begs us to forgive him for everything he done. He begs us to forgive him, if only just a little. He believes that he deserves all the beaten he gets. That he's the one is blame, not us, especially, not them, not those monsters. That they were just punishers to punish him for being born, for bringing all of this upon us, that we didn't deserve to be abuse, just him, him only, him alone deserved this punishment. We told him over and over again that he's not to blame and that we love him with all our heart, but, of course, he doesn't believe us, even when we hold him tight and cry and cry and cry… Did you know that? Did you? Did you know that Kevin wishes with all his heart that he didn't exist, that he was never brought into this dark, cruel world that is ever so cold and harsh and cruelest to the people like us…?
Did you know that Karen cries herself to sleep each and every night and has horrible dreams of us getting beaten to far that we actually die? They have, but it's only me. I usually distract, curse at them, hit them, or throw an empty bottle at them to keep them from beating Karen or Kevin too far, but in the end, they still do, only to me because I'm the only who can come back but they don't know that and that makes it so much worse. Did you know they actually seen me die. They tried so, so hard to stop them, but in the end, it's futile. I end up dying anyways. That what Karen sees all the time, mostly me dying, bleeding, beaten to death, as she cries helpless at my side, screaming at the top of her lungs that I wasn't died, that I'll wake up and tell her that I was ok and stroke her hair and tell her that I can never die, no matter what, like I always say, that I'll stay with her forever and ever till the end of the time itself. Her nightmares are the only remembrance of my immortality. And she's terrified, scare stiff, of one of us dying, of leaving her forever, breaking her more with our departure than any beating can ever do. Did you that it will always be her biggest fear, us dying, to leave her to their evil hands. Did you know that not once did she fear dying. She never did feared her own death, just ours, and always will. That will be deeply etched inside her, abandonment and departure, to watch us die off like that by their own hands, to leave her all alone with them. That what they did to her. That what they made her fear, her older brothers' death and the following loneliness and despair that comes with our lose. She is afraid to be left with them, for them to have their ways with her with no one protecting her from them because she is too weak to do so. She's scared of them and what they will do to her if we left her with them, even for a minute, a second. She cries if we leave her side. She even confessed that she will kill herself if we both die. She won't hesitate. That she will grab a whole bottle of pills, swallow it, and down it down with a whole bottle of booze even though we promised to never touch liquor or smoke, snort, or inject drugs. And if that doesn't work then she will grab the knife and slit her throat or wrist or repeatedly stab herself in the stomach or chest. Whatever works, she doesn't care how painfully or how slowly she will die; as long as she dies because once we die she would be dead, inside and out too. She will be dead once we die and she will immediately kill herself just to be with us once more, whether in heaven or hell or somewhere in between as long as we are with her, she will be okay. She will be okay and happy as long as we are with her. Happy! Did you know that, happy!
Do you want to know what they did to me? They made me numb. Numb, I can't feel anything, anything at all. I can't feel a single thing. I can't feel pain. I can't feel the tears falling off my face as I speak, I just know that they are falling, I see them blurring up my vision, the only knowledge that they are there because I sure as hell can't feel them, not the coldness or the wetness. I can't feel the blood oozing out of my open wounds, I know it is because it is staining my clothes a deep red and spilling onto the floor, staining it too. Did you know I have a very high toleration to pain because of them? I can be beaten for hours and hours and I won't feel a things. I think my nerve endings are dead as I am. You can beat me to death if you like but I won't feel a thing, not a single damn thing. I'm so used to pain that its second nature to me now. Did you know that? Second nature. I depend on it, in a way, I guess. It makes me know I am alive because, most of the time, I don't know if I am alive. I don't feel anything. I feel like, half the time, I'm a walking, living zombie. Maybe I am, after all, I am immortal. I am so emotionless. I don't know how to show, express my emotion properly. I don't think I have them anymore. I think they are dead too. I don't know how to feel them anymore. I think I stop feeling them long ago when Kevin and Karen stop smiling because I, too, stop smiling. I know right now as I speak that my face is expressionless, blank, vacant, impassive, emotionless, detached, and utterly cold, it does not show any emotion. It does not give anything away, not even the slightest. My very voice is monotonous, flat, toneless, unchanging, unemotional, uninterested, indifferent, and utterly dispassionate; my very voice gives off waves off utter nothingness. I am the very symbol of numbness, apathetic, stoicism. That what they made me be. Numb, and I will always be this numbness. Do you see it? Do you really see it?
How about you Death, do you see it? The only things dead about me are what make me human, pain and emotion. Now answer me this Death …
Heavy, tire tears that were far overdue flowed down my cheeks like torrents overfilled with rainfall from several years ago. I continue throwing rocks at the shack, breaking a yellow-stained window, making more spider web cracks, hoping that it'll fall apart. To make it all fall apart. Flashes play on. Flashes play on and on and on.
A dagger piercing the air.
Make it stop!
They are coming too quickly.
They are jumbled up.
They are not in order.
Make it stop!
I should have cried long ago. Long, long ago. I dropped the rocks and brought my fists up to my face, wiping my eyes, quickly, out of a mixture of embarrassment and deep anger, but more came flowing down my pale, marred checks. I shouldn't have held back all those tears for so many years. I should have cried. I should have cried all the time like Karen did to ease the pain of this huge, eternally wide open gape in my chest. I shake with rage. Regret. As the flashbacks play on and on and on …
Gray, metal walls surrounded me, as giggling and laughing voices echoed around. Close to those voices laid a body, a battered and bloody body.
"~ How many bones are there in the human body? ~"
"There are 206 bones. Let's begin…One… Two… Three…"
A cranium cracking open, blood spilling out of it in quickening drops. Arms ripped out of their sockets, broken below and above the elbow, some fingers smashed and broken, wrist dislocated in a painful and cruel method. Rib cages cracking, breaking under the force of a cold metal pipe, a broken rib stabs into a vital organ. Leg twist in an unbelievable ways, broken in three parts, one foot missing its toes, another missing its entire foot. A now dented, cold pipe swing back and forth on the abused body. Bone breaking sounds continued …
"~ What's the fastest way to kill a person? ~"
"Bullet through the head."
"~What's the funniest way to kill a person~"
A vile, twisted laugh replied, "Torture them till they lose their mind."
Blood-curdling screams echo off the metal walls.
Cheeks slit in a wide Glasgow smile, dripping flesh blood as the person screamed for help, begging for them to stop, tears ran down the person's face, wetting the blood, making it stain with a slight pink tinge while pertaining the newly made wide smile. Wide, deep cuts littered across the black-and-blue body, blood gushing down in load full, mixing with the once dried, crusty blood. Limbs being chopped apart, brutally, in a rapid slicing session, carelessly toss aside in the metal room, a cut-off finger still twitching where it laid. A ritual-like dagger flashing back and forth in my peripheral vision, decorating the body in deep, black red, stabbing into the pale white flesh, repeatedly, in an exited thrill, cutting strange markings into the thin skin. Excited, sick giggles and cruel, depraved laughter echoed down the dim, flickering-lit room as the screams continued.
Keep looking forward.
Blood squirted in front of me, staining my clothes in the victim's blood, as the earsplitting screaming continued…
"What sick thrills you sick creatures partake in."
"Ha, KM just called us creatures."
"Considering KM is the 'creature' here."
"But sick we are."
"Oh, yes, we are."
Nods and smiles only described as sick cross their features.
"…"
Just keep looking ahead…
…as a body laid dead…
MAKE IT STOP!
I grip my head and shook with violent rage at what they done to me. Those traitors! Those monsters! They did this to me!
THEY MADE ME INTO A KILLER!
Those bastards…!
I hate it here. It brought back to many memories that I want to forget. I need to forget. I desperately, utterly need to forget, for my sake. For my health. For my sanity. Something to keep me from going full-blown insane. I'm probably already insane — or, at least, mentally unstable but what's the difference. They are both the same. I slowly lower my shaking hands from head and wrapped my arms around myself, in hopes of protecting myself from those violent flashbacks (as if hugging myself can fight them off) ― to, at least, comfort myself when those violent, suppressed memories come back to haunt me once more.
"I know," the melodious, soothing voice of someone dear to me replied, calming me with that sweet melody called a voice, wrapping strong arms around me, pulling me into a soothing, firm embrace, pulling me into the warm (but in reality stone-cold) comfort. I remove my arms from around myself and wrap them around my love, clinging onto my love as if my life depended on it. Which it kind of did, sort of. I push my wet, still crying face into the crook of beloved marble neck, breathing in the strong peppermint chocolate and faint vanilla scent.
I need you, I suddenly realized with finality. I need you for a lot of things, but I especially need you when the flashbacks surface again.
Please be here for me. Please, hold me tighter.
"It's okay. I'm here." My dear whispered in my ear, holding me tighter.
That was all it took. That was all it took to break the dam and the dam broke with loudness.
A loud, ear-piercing, shattering sob wretched through me, my body shaking as more and more tears flowed down — this time without embarrassment or restraint. It echoes down the empty, windswept streets and silent still homes that were asleep. It echoed down the street.
It echoed and echoed and echoed …
Another sob wretched through me. It sounded heartbreaking even to my own ears, it probably sounds awful to my lover's ears. Probably lacerating through anybody's beating heart if anyone else heard it. My love pulled me deeper to the warm but cold embrace and held me as I cried overdue tears into a shoulder, wetting my love's white button-up shirt. I grasped the wet shirt, and held on to it, to my love, to my sanity and life. To my only reason. To my only true reality.
I felt as if I was falling, drowning, grab feet-first and plunged into the deep, infinite, cold recesses of my mind.
Memories flood back to me, full force.
Suffocating me.
Crushing me.
Killing me softly …
All the memories came back. Some I needed to forget. Absolutely needed to forget, to utterly erase from my very mind. While others I looked upon and … genuinely smiled at. Those were the good memories I should dwell in, not this, not the beginning, before the good started happening in my life. Not when my life was still hell and I live with them. When I lived here. I don't want to remember.
I don't want to remember!
I don't want to remember!
I DON'T WANT TO REMEMBER!
But I did. I did anyways. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't because if I did … it will kill me. It will kill softly and slowly … mentally … emotionally … than finally, physically. I will go insane if I don't. But, at the same time, I'm already am.
So, I submerge into the depths of my mind … and I watched as my demons play out…
AN: So what do you think of the story so far. Is it any good? Please review and criticize (not sure if I spelled that correctly) is always welcome. No flames. Flames are bad. They don't roast my marshmallows fast enough. Plus I won't write till I have ten reviews or more, or I won't write until two months have passed just to leave you wanting more. I'm cruel like that :D. Well, goodbye *wave goodbye* and tune in for more updates because I'm pretty sure you won't find this kind of crossover anywhere else.
