The tragic tale of Kyle Broflovski began in To Be Honest and ends here in this three part retelling entitled I Should Tell You. If you're just coming into the story, read the prequel first.
I Should Tell You
Every man in the world has a breaking point.
Some would say Kyle had reached his months ago. Some would look at his blank face and his trembling fingertips and his dead eyes, at his silence, and they would say he is gone. But within him, something must of survived, for he wasn't done yet. There was still pain to be felt. Tears to be shed. His game wasn't over yet.
Going through the motions. Wake up, get dressed, make some half-assed attempt at school, get passed off to whoever decided to take him home that day. He was beyond caring, really. He'd stopped trying to adjust a lot time ago. He'd stopped trying to make this something he could live with.
His limp was constant. Maybe he never healed, or maybe one of his tormentors permanently damaged him. No one said anything when he limped into the house twenty minutes late for dinner. The evening meal in the Broflovski residence was an exercise in futility, really. Ike made a point of not being there, Kyle refused to speak or eat, and his parents' worry for their eldest more or less destroyed their appetites.
They sat anyway, though, each staring blankly at an untouched plate, different thoughts bouncing back and forth in their minds. Gerald cleared his throat. "Uhm, son-
The redhead cut him off with a whisper. "I have to go, dad."
He stood, turned on his heel, and within a moment he was gone. No jacket, no shoes. His mother stared after him, wounded.
OoO
By the time Kyle reached the end of the driveway, he'd been taken hostage. Kenny on one side, Cartman on the other, their hands wrapped around his arms. They laughed and whispered to one another over their victim's head, knowing better than to think he might be listening.
And indeed, Kyle kept his eyes on his feet, deaf and dumb for all intents and purposes. The ground was cold and wet, as were his socks, but he had a hard time giving a damn. The walk wasn't long-just down the street to the Cartman abode. He didn't even have to walk the whole way-halfway there he stumbled and Cartman, in a pseudo-loving gesture, scooped him up and carried him.
Kyle pressed his eyes into the man's neck, wrapping his arms loosely around his shoulders. Sometimes, he found it in himself to pity his friends. They were such broken creatures themselves-twisted and gnarled, insane. Things like nightmares hidden behind human skin. It ceased to amaze the dreamer long ago, however, so the illusion remained fractured in his tired eyes.
Even through his slight surprise at having arrived already (he'd not even realized they'd gone inside), their victim didn't stir as he was set down on the makeshift bed in the basement. It was little more than a lumpy, blood stained old mattress, but in that moment it was the most comfortable thing in the world and Kyle desperately longed for sleep that hadn't come for days or maybe even weeks.
Lips on his neck, hands on his hips-he turned on his side and curled up into a little ball, some nonsensical plea for peace tearing itself from his throat. Kenny laughed at him and nudged affectionately at his wild red hair, but Kyle merely curled up tighter.
Reluctantly, still purposely blind, Kyle allowed himself to be untangled and sat up, obediently letting the blond's unsteady fingers undo the buttons on his shirt and shrugging it off. He heard it hit the floor and then felt Kenny's breath in his ear-"Open your eyes, love. Let me see them."
He flickered them open obediently, blankly looking about to take in his familiar surroundings. Dark, damp concrete, little more than the broken bedframe and mattress. Cartman seemed to be gone for the moment. The redhead helplessly turned his gaze to the man looming over him, smirking with that insane glint in his pretty, glazed blue eyes. He let himself fall back, stared at that spot on his ceiling like he usually did. Despite his orders, he let his eyes fall shut again as he felt his attacker started to work at his belt.
OoO
Many uninvolved lives were ruined in the course of Kyle's story. Family, friends-but perhaps none more so than Craig Tucker, who only dipped into their lives for an hour or so. Just long enough to ask, "What's wrong with Kyle?" Just... Just barely long enough to get scared.
"C'mon, Craig, don't be so slow." Cartman urged, smirking over his shoulder at the raven uncertainly pacing after him. There was a bad feeling in the air as he approached the Cartman home-a heavy, oppressive feeling. He shivered in the cold of a South Parkian evening, wrapping his arms around himself shakily as he was lead inside. He reminded himself that he was here to make sure Kyle was okay so he can tell Tweek that everything was fine.
He'd thought it odd when, upon being asked the reason for the redhead's strange behavior, Cartman had merely offered to 'show' him, one of his trademark I-have-a-great-idea smirks stretching his thin, mean lips. But he went along with it, and here he was. The house was quiet, empty, dark. Unsettling. Fear wrapped it's spindly fingers around the teen's spine.
The basement? Craig swallowed harshly, face as stony as ever. He followed the bigger teen down, down, he tripped but didn't fall. There was another door and the bottom and the dramatic man threw it over with a flourish, shoving the raven into the room.
Craig choked. In the middle of the room, a rickety bedframe and a dirty old mattress squeaking and groaning under the abuse it was taking, Kenny-his movement violent, rough, and-
Kyle. His beautiful, dead green eyes flickered open and found Craig's. He made no other intentional movement-nothing other than the limp jerk in the aftermath of each thrust. He blinked. Grimaced slightly at the newcomer. Craig felt sick as his eyes fell shut again. He clasped a hand to his lips and wrapped an arm around his middle, gagging slightly.
Cartman chuckled, patting the boy on the shoulder. Rage spiked in his heart and Craig whipped away, turning a furious gaze on the Nazi. Before he could say a word, however, before he could even decide what to say, the brunette casually murmured, "So, let's talk prices for a night with him."
Craig's stomach turned. He turned and ran, panic driving his flight, mind blank, blood boiling. He hit the pavement and kept running, running-farther and farther. Where was he going? He didn't know, but by the time his lungs were screaming for air and his legs were shaking, it didn't matter.
The usually stoic teen collapsed on the cold, damp asphalt of some abandoned road. Frantically rubbing away horrified tears, he tried to think of what to do, who to call. The police? No, the police never handle Cartman correctly, he'd be out in days. Kyle's parents? Hell no.
It hit him. He scrambled for his phone, his shaking digits making usage difficult. Pressing the cold plastic up to his ear, he sucked in several calming breaths, wanting to make sure he was understood.
Craig could've cried in relief when the man on the other end answered with a cheerful, "Hey, man. This is Tucker's number, right?"
"Stan." he whispered, fear and pain leaking into his tone despite himself. "G-god, Stan. Kenny and Cartman-they're... Kyle, he's-" He was cut off by a click and instantly, he let the phone fall from his hands, instead locking his fingers in his hair, breath shuddering in and out of his lungs painfully.
OoO
Kyle arched his back and gasped as Cartman's nails dug into his back and scraped straight down, punishingly harsh-his skin tore and burned. He reached out for something to hold on to, the side of the bed, maybe, and Kenny's large, calloused hands scrambled to clasp his wandering fingers. He knelt down next to the poor crying teen, smiling insanely every time he managed to open his pretty eyes.
The blond began to press fevered kisses to the tiny hand he clasped, watching his Kyle jerk and writhe and sob controlledly. "You're filthy." he whispered roughly in dark amusement. "You're filthy, Kyle. We've destroyed you. Ruined you. We took everything wonderful about you and either shredded it or possessed it. How does it feel?" he chuckled softly at the renewed shaking taking over the boy's body. Even Cartman had his eyes fixed on the origin of the terrible rhetoric.
"You're ours. Anything and everything that ever made you special now just makes you empty. You have no purpose, no life outside of doing exactly what we tell you to. You are meaningless, my love. Absolutely meaningless."
At that moment, rather melodramatically, the door slammed open. The blond, deciding his monologue could probably wait, turned to the stairway, fully expecting to see that Craig had come back, full of curiosity-but he hadn't. No, nothing as harmless as Craig had come for Kyle-what stood in the doorway might as well have been a monster for the danger it represented.
Approximately a hundred and eighty pounds of sheer muscle hurtling towards you can be quite a formidable sight, enough so that the target -one Eric Cartman- immediately scrambled out of the diminutive form beneath him and off the bed, meeting Stan's territorial gaze with one of his own. Neither moved as Kyle whimpered and curled in on himself tearfully, sniveling pitifully.
Kenny crept around the bed to his partner in crime, hurriedly pressing something into his belt at his back as the man absent-mindedly did his pants back up. The brunette nodded to him and he scurried off to the side, biding his time, perhaps.
Stan was the first to find it within himself to speak. "What did he give you?" he snarled. The form on the bed flinched and he visibly tried to reign in his anger. "Was it a gun?"
Weighing his chances carefully, Cartman nodded, pulling out the gun and holding in as non-threateningly as possible to the side. It was a pretty generic pistol, nothing too dramatic, but everyone in the room visibly tensed up. Stan's gaze flickered from the weapon to the holder, trying to figure out who had the better chances. He pulled out his long butterfly knife and bargained quietly, "Let's make this a fair fight."
Cartman scoffed. "A fight for what?"
Stan's eyes flickered to the boy on the bed. Everyone in the room followed him, taking in the battered, bruised and bloodied prize, their friend who had once been so full of life and beauty. The gun hit the bed near Kyle's back and the knife near his thighs.
Kyle, honestly, was pretty out of it. He knew what was happening -sort of- but he was stuck. Kenny's words drowned out the shouting and banging going on somewhere close by (the sound of an every man for for himself three person brawl, he assumed), horrible words taunting him again and again. He felt helpless.
"You're filthy." He cringed into himself, feeling the cool metal slide into his bared hip. Someone screamed. A sickening thud. Was he dirty? The boy began to shake.
"We've destroyed you."
"You are meaningless."
"You're ours."
"You have no purpose." Was he gone?
Kyle cried out, agony of a psychological kind clouding what he was. He heard something crack nearby. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he felt. He needed. He thought. And he decided it was time he owned himself again.
There was no ceremony, no warning, no lingering looks or second thoughts. This was not a movie. It wasn't an adventure. This was cruel. Five gunshots. One hit the wall. One went clean through Kenny's skull-he clenched his eyes shut and shot again. The sound was terrible-jarring gunshot and a slick, dull sound that indicated they were at least on the ground. He couldn't hear any breathing or other signs of life, just a hysteric screaming. His screaming. He was screaming. The gun dropped and he curled into a tight ball, fists clenched in his hair shoulders shaking, lungs ripped themselves apart to keep a constant, desperate scream.
Kyle's breakdown lasted until his throat was so torn apart that he could barely breathe. He felt sick, his stomach was turning violently. He unfurled and looked up and took in what he caused.
Kenny's grey matter and blood was splattered across the wall, his body limp upon the ground, broken, sitting in a pool of blood. Kyle breathed in a long sigh, tasting and smelling the metallic death in the air, the blood and gunpowder. He swept his gaze across the other two forms, cast in shadow near the far wall. He scrambled for Stan's butterfly knife, carefully spreading it out and locking it into position, vaguely recognizing that he had bought the blade for him long ago.
He kept the weapon in his fist. A sense of horror crept up his spine as he shakily stood, stumbling towards the dark forms near the back. He stood over them, blinking back numb tears as he took them in, haphazardly limp, pale, still-only not. He started as he recognized Stan's chest just barely moving. An illusion? No-he been shot through the leg and his shoulder, Kyle could see the wounds. He could be alive.
"Stan?" At his name, the man's eyes flickered open, clouded and bleary with pain. It took him a while to bring the redhead into focus, but when he did, his eyes softened and he managed a small, pained smile.
A strange sort of joy surged through the redhead and he dropped unsteadily to his knees, affectionately brushing the bloodied man's dark hair from his face. Love poured from every bit of Stan's expression and a weak hand reached up -shaking subtly- to caress his princess's face, leaving a small streak of blood across the pale skin there.
Kyle stared at him. He loved this man. With all his heart. A tear fell down his face. He loved all of them. He didn't want them to die, he just wanted them to be normal again.
It only took a second. Kyle shoved the blade into Stan's throat and stood without a second glance at him.
OoO
Cold, Kyle, cold. This story isn't over yet. And if you want to know what inspired me to write it, go listen to Criticize by Adelitas Way.
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