Have you ever tried to kill yourself inconspicuously?
I have. And I have to tell you, it worked perfectly until someone observed to closely and fucked everything up. I was left feeling bittersweet.
Throughout my entire life in America I had been the central target of harassment, whether it be vocal or physical. I was born and raised in England, until one unfaithful day my parents wanted to visit my distant family in one of the states. Sure, at first I was kind of excited to get reacquainted with some old relatives, and a few I haven't met like my cousin, but at that time I didn't think my life would turn to hell the second I stepped foot on American soil. I should have known it was some sort of taboo, or a curse, or whatever, dealing it's cards, giving the bloody relationship the British and Americans have had throughout history.
Remember the American Revolution? I do, I've learned about it in history, and seeing as how I was the only British-born child (or have any affiliation with Britain) I was instantly blamed. It's laughable because that's the only time they actually call me British, instead of the ever unappealing French-men they accuse me of being.
It hadn't been even ten minutes of getting off the plane before my life was turned upside down, and left me falling into a black hole. It was an insignificant occurrence, compared to things that will take a slippery slope, but as we were walking around the baggage area, some dimwit ran up next to us, successfully knocking me and my parents over, and snatched my mother's purse from her shoulder and ran off!
The nerve of some people.
Later when we told the security guard, he said that they will try and find the person responsible and return her purse and its contents to my mother, which, even as a six-year-old, I doubted heavily. Thankfully, our passports and other various things we needed to get back to our country were in my father's bag, and with much aggravation we got our bags, packed them into the taxi cab's trunk, and were swiftly on our way to visit some distant relatives.
We got to their house fine and dandy, it was when we were situated there that things began to heat up. Apparently my father and the relative's did not get along. Neither did my mother and the relative's. They were too much immersed into the sick, lethargic, and monotonous American culture that it bugged my father to no end, even having him insist on doing something British-related. The father of the relative's, who's name I had learned to be Joe, had rejected the idea of trying to go back to the old ways and was even stubborn to have afternoon tea. That only fueled my father's disapproving actions. We had planned to stay there for a month and a half, but the trip was cut short after an especially loud argument between Joe and my father, and my mother and the relative's, Anwen. After that fight my father hard stormed around, taking and packing our belongings into our suitcases clumsily and saying we'd be leaving today. I was still to young to understand what the fighting meant, or what was happening, but I still didn't get a good feeling about it.
We didn't even wait for the next morning to come to leave safely, no, my father decided it would be so much better to leave in the middle of the night in a blizzard to stay at the airport for a couple of hours until our rescheduled flight. He should have known it was a stupid idea, and I was too tired to argue and my mother was not completely against the idea of leaving the house, of what she liked to call, "heathens."
So, there we were, up at an ungodly hour, stuffing our suitcases into the trunk of a cab and in just a few minutes of a bitter goodbye, left speeding down the highway to get to the airport. All the while my father pressed the driver to get there faster, and faster, until they started arguing about it being dangerous. I remember getting a headache from it, all this constant bickering. The driver was getting frustrated, and as he kept arguing with my dad, his eyes were spent more and more time off the road, and his hand more and more off the wheel, it seemed he didn't even notice he pressed harder on the accelerator. Soon, between the mix of snow, slush, and ice, the car began hydroplaning. I don't even think that they understood what was happening.
My father sat in the passenger's seat, my mother behind it, and I sat in the middle, the most "child-approved" seat in the car, with no booster seat. Along the way my mother started to pitch in her two cents about the situation, agreeing with my father. Well, to my luck I had another five minutes before the best thing on this damn family trip happened.
Can't you just hear my voice dripping venomously with sarcasm?
Shortly after the car had hydroplaned, the cab driver lost control of the wheel as it spun out of control and took the car with it. To his credit, he did try to spin it the other way, but it was far to late. We were twenty minutes away from the airport. The car's tired skid, and as the seatbelt snagged me to my spot, awakening me from my semi-slumber, the car slipped sideways and tumbled. There was no time to scream, to time to react before we collided with someone else, knocking them into the column that split the highways from north and south, and them colliding with someone else. As for our car, it had landed on it's side and slid for half a minute before coming to a complete stop.
Luckily enough, the side that skid on the highway was the one on the left, where I was safely away from, but unluckily, the cab driver had been on that side. Poor unsuspecting soul. I bet he didn't even think that he would die today. But I digress, after the domino affect of car crashed had ceased, there were about ten cars blocking the highway, one semi-truck, seven people terribly injured, and four dead.
I had barely been awake when everything stopped moving. My body ached, I was trying to stay awake to take in my surroundings. Could things have gotten any worse? Indeed they could. When I had first noticed I was leaning heavily to my left, I also felt something cold dripping onto my cheek and into my hair, on my clothes. It wasn't until a minute or so later that I had looked up to where my mother had been sitting next to me, and what I had seen could have scarred me for the rest of my life.
At first I registered that the window had been cracked, the small frail pieces of the window chipping off and falling onto my face and into my hair. I had barely identified it as broken, and then I had also taken into account that some of the shards where soaked in a red substance. I move my glance a little more to my right and come face to face with my mother's half-lidded eyes. I blinked a couple of times before it finally hit me, as much as such knowledge could a little kid like me, and I screamed, scrambling around to unbuckle my seatbelt before falling into the space with the most shards of glass as it dug into the palms of my hand and trying to poke through my clothes.
Her body was limp, her hands slightly swinging left and right as the seatbelt kept her from falling onto me, her legs in the same fashion, except one was folded in the most unnatural of ways with a gapping hole, blood rushing out and dripping onto the seats of the cab and myself. Her eyes were glazed over, death filling them, her strawberry blond hair was matted and infused with her blood, I know understand that it she had slammed the side of her head against the window, causing the window the crack and eventually break with the abuse of the car crash, as well as effectively opening a gaping wound that lead from her temple to the side of her head. The blood had been dripping fast, as I recalled, before it slowed its pace, taunting me with the unenviable truth my small little six-year-old mind couldn't handle. The red water on her face looked like veins, going no where but to the edges of her face and dripping onto mine, and sliding down my terrified expression. Her mouth, slightly open, was blood-caked, and I couldn't stop starring at her in fear.
Eventually, I forced my self to look away, anywhere but her, and ended up looking around the car for further damage. At that moment I had started to breath jaggedly, uneven, one breath after another becoming short and shorter. The entire car was spewed in blood. Trickles of it, some dots and spots like a spray paint effect. Involuntarily, I took a deep breath in, barely seeing the red, white, and blue flashes of light near the car, before the inhalation turned into a frightened scream, longer than the previous one. That was when I started to freak out; the car was too small, there was too much red, too much blood, my body was sending too many pain impulses to my brain, the synapse was happening to fast. I tried shoving myself further into the ground, trying to push away from the body that hung limply down on me, I flung my arms, kicked my legs, and continued screaming even as my throat and eyes started to burn. Tears that at first pricked at my eyes now fall from my eyes easily and stream down my face, my scream went an octave higher in pitch and slightly louder.
I don't know for how long I screamed, all I know was that the car door near my dead mother had opened and she was taken out of the car, some blood frozen over with the harsh December air and snow. It was then when I has noticed I was freezing, that my injuries stung unnaturally. Widening my eyes a fraction as the pain seared over me, I let out a choked sob, curling my flailing appendages into myself. Slowly, a voice came into hearing distance. Of course, there were noises before but they just came as white noise to me, my mind had not registered them in the slightest. A voice, a deep voice, slightly soothing and worried, penetrated the frightened exterior of my ears and I looked up to the dark figure above me through the open door, his face lit up dimly with some light from all around. The man beckoned me, hands outstretched to take me. At first, startled as I was, I flinched and whimpered. Eventually the man coaxed me out of the damaged vehicle and, holding me as he would a kid, took me to a large, white truck, sirens gleaming at the top.
I chanced a look around me, to see how the world looked like after the terrible accident, and cringed at the sight. There were multiple cars around us with almost the same condition of the taxi cab, almost, which meant that things weren't as brutal for the rest of the victims. The cop, who I assumed was a good man, handed me to a lady that was in the big white truck, the insides where lit with tools and utensils, and various other things. She cleaned me up, gave me some pain killers, and proceeded to clean me up, tweezing out the imbedded shards of glass in my calms and exposed skin.
The lady stayed with me in the car, holding me soothingly as the truck drove away somewhere. They took me to a hospital, where I could get treatment for my hypothermia and various injuries. I was lucky, I got away with only a couple of scratches, bruises, a slight concussion, and a sprained ankle. Later, maybe a day or two, after asking the nice doctors where my parents were, I learned I was the only one that survived the fatal car crash. I had broken down that day because they told me that I couldn't see my parents anymore. You don't tell children flat out that people die, that'll damage their psyche, but people are stupid. After thoroughly annoying the nurse with my crying and prying to ask to see my parents, she screamed at me that they had been cut up in tiny pieces, stuffed in trashcans, and dumped in a dumpster.
Seriously?
I cried harder, and the nurse had lost her job for causing a child mental discomfort. The next nurse was much nicer, much kinder, and explained to me that my parents did not get cut up and thrown away like yesterday's garbage, but instead they had just gone on a long vacation. She told me that God had needed them for a job, and that I should not worry because they were safe up in heaven in the willful eyes of God. I believed her, and she had been the most wonderful nurse I ever did have.
They had identified my family relationship with the Clearwater family and relieved their custody of me to them. Sure, Joe and Anwen had been devastated by the fact that my parents died and I was left all alone, but the truth was they were probably filled with too much guilt that the entire thing was their fault. It was their fault they started arguing with my parents, it was their fault my mother and father stormed out and it was their fault this chain of events happened, leaving me an orphan. They didn't adopt me out of the sympathy of their hearts that I needed a family to be supportive of me, they took legal custody of me because of their own selfish desires to quell their overbearing conscious.
That wasn't even the cherry on top of an ice-cream Sunday. Sure, they had taken me in and became my family for the sake of themselves and partially of myself, and I was grateful for that when I was a child. Again, I digress.
I stayed optimistic, thinking this was normal to go through. I was a happy camper, thinking I'll get my due and live a good life at the end of it all. Wasn't I laughable?
School life was horrible, adding on to the symptoms of an abusive, unwanted life. Even in elementary school, the kids would tell me, "Shut up, Pip! Shut up, Pip!" I had thought it was rough housing, just to let me know that I wasn't wanted at that moment. Hah, how gullible was I to believe my naïve childish mind? They had made me into the laughing stock of the entire county, the teachers didn't do anything about it either, just stood by and watched and sometimes pitching in their two cents. Otherwise, no one was really on my side. There was sometimes nurses or teachers who watched on with pity and sadness sprinkled in their glances towards me, some even made attempts to console me.
I remember even, there was a new kid, called himself the "Son of Satan", he had anger issues, too. I remember the kids immediately kicked him out of the inner social circles and dubbed him an outcast, like myself. Me, being the pious little dimwit I was, had befriended him in hopes of having to talk to.
Oh, have I told you everybody gave me a nickname? Pip. They gave me the nickname "Pip", and you wouldn't guess for what reason! It was because they outright hated me. So, for my elementary days my introduction was, "Hi, My name is Phillip Pirrup, but everybody calls me 'Pip', because they hate me." And I said it with such happiness and vigor too, what was I thinking?
And the best part was, even after I had befriended the anti-Christ himself, I had given him a chance to worm himself into the lives of other children. Deliberately, he had taken us to a party that we had been, technically, banned from, and used his "Satanic" powers to turn me into a literal firecracker, fireworks thing in front of all the other kids at the party. After all, if you pick on Pip then you're considered normal, you'll be within the social norms everybody excepts of you. Bahh, those imbeciles haven't the brightest idea about how that would affect me in the future, and at that time neither did I.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the most abused child of them all? I am. Elementary school was only the starting point for bullies, it just grew and grew. From fifth grade, the abuse had been added physically. At first it was a push or shove into the wall or locker or whatever, but at middle school rolled around, the abuse only got worse as the bullies got more bold. They started to punch me, kick me, push me down, one time someone had even been dauntless enough to push me down the stairs. They got suspended for a couple of days but that's all I know of it, I don't know if they got reprimanded by their parents or not.
But, but, I haven't told of the best day of my middle school career. By now, we have lockers. They aren't those small ones in the newer schools which are half the size. No, there lockers are rather big. They're tall, taller than me by a lot, maybe six feet tall, and two feet wide. Who would need such a big locker, I wouldn't know.
I was getting my stuff for my next class, reaching from the top shelf that was in my peripheral vision if I stood on my toes. I felt a soft tap on my shoulder and I turn around to address the person who seeks my attention. I wasn't surprised when I saw a boy who had a height advantage over me, as well as a muscle advantage, standing right behind me with the most devious smirk I had seen in my lifetime of bullies. He greeted me casually, asking me if I needed any help, and just as I said no, and even was about to thank him for the absurd question, my upper arm was clenched tightly between his hand and I was propelled into the locker. Once every single part of my body was inside the locker, me being stuck face-first into it, the light from the outside world receded quickly and when I had finally registered what was going on, turning around to get out, the locker was slammed in my face. Outside, I could hear a click of my lock and laughter. Laughter, at my expense.
I had laughed nervously along with the people, then knocking on the inside of the locker door and asking for someone to get me out, that it wasn't funny anymore. There was only more laughter, a jeer, and a snicker. Eventually my nervous asking had quieted down, me stopping everything as I was doing for the moment, letting the situation sink in. The four walls of the locker seemed too small, there wasn't enough space for me to be comfortable in. As my silence continued, there was murmur outside from the students, some asking if I was okay, or asking if we should get me out of the locker. The bully snorted, and said they shouldn't even pay attention and go to class. Between that and the soft hum of the students, a scene flashed behind my blinking eyes.
I screamed.
I screamed, suddenly remembering why this small, closed, confined space made me feel uneasy. Suddenly I could see my mother's dead eyes boring into mine, the blood dripping everywhere, oh God, all the blood, began to fill the small space of the locker. The small spaces in the locker that let light into the locker space reminded me of the flashing sirens of the police cars and ambulances, of all the damage that happened that night. The more I remembered, the more I kept staring into the glazed half-closed dead eyes of my mother, the more I saw the blood and all the glass, the more I screamed, the more frantic it became. The more frantic I became, the more I flailed my arms and legs in an attempt to escape this prison. I hit the doors on all sides, my eye sight loosing the light that shone through into the locker that told me where I should be calling out for help. I flailed around my limbs, hitting my head a few times or so, enough to where my head hurt severely, but I didn't care. My ears muted the surrounding sounds like it did so little years ago, the murmur of the student body becoming white noise as I try to find a way out in this small black box. Throughout my frantic screaming I had even thrown in some profane words and phrases, adding to my ever rising fear of being drowned in the blood I imagine that is filling the locker.
My heart rate increase twenty fold until it hurt, my throat and eyes burning, the same similar sensation of me hyperventilating, tears flowed from my eyes and mixed with the blood of the dead people in the car. I was on the verge that I would have passed out, had the door to my locker not been open, the light filtering my confinement. I leap at the chance to free myself, and immediately dart from the locker, and in my imagination those who died that night had taken hold of one of my ankles and tried pulling me back. In reality, my foot snagged at the bottom of the locker before I continued running, knocking someone out of my path as I barreled into the next set of lockers on the other side of the hallway. I turned, staring wide-eyed and frightened at the open locker, now normal. I shake, and slide down the locker rather fast until I am in sitting position. I dare not blink, incase the image returns to me. The other people are still white noise to me and my scarred psyche, but they murmur and look onto me and the effect this little encounter had.
I shift to the side, curling my legs close into me and gripping my arms in comforting way with a tear-streaked face. I couldn't calm down, and that only fed the unnerving feeling in my stomach. I felt my stomach constrict with the sight of blood behind my eye-lids, and my throat burned more. Before I knew it I was throwing up vomit and breakfast onto the tile floors of the school highway. Soon after throwing up all the contents in my stomach, the teachers and nurse came to my aid, and only one could calm me, the school nurse. It was because she was a familiar figure, nurses had always comforted me in these situations.
I was pretty sure that my reaction had disturbed more people because I was left alone for a couple of weeks before the verbal abuse picked up again, followed by physical abuse from my peers. No one had ever pulled that trick on my again.
After that incident, along with the bill for some medications and therapy, Joe and Anwen has started to bicker. Apparently, they didn't want me anymore. They had disowned me in eighth grade, giving me up to the orphanage that would have taken me in otherwise. I told you they only adopted me out of their own guilt, otherwise they would have sucked it the fuck up and dealt with the mentally messed up kid I am. During that time I had learned how to hate, how to feel bitter, albeit in private. I had picked up how to get irritated, how to get depressed.
The bad luck just never stops, huh? Family died, disowned by my adoptive family, hated by the community, what else could I do? My life was basically hell, with the people of the community being imps and tormentors, there was really no one there for me.
Luckily my life at the orphanage wasn't that bad, but life at school got worse…and worse. The physical aspect had widened. The bullies now knew how to draw blood, isn't that nice? Everyday my body was sore, aching, and in pain for the majority of my wake.
Besides that, everything else was going pretty well. Actually, by Junior year I was already used to everyone's actions that I barely flinched when the bullied attacked. However, it wasn't something I wanted to live with for the rest of my life. Inevitable, I had started to plan my self-destruction, or suicide. At first I tried cutting my wrists, and was too scared to cut too close, but it provided great pressure relief. The next I tried to starve myself, and I was doing so well. Everyone should see me now, my frame thin and lithe, brittle bones poking out sharply in designated areas, but is wasn't enough. My five foot six stature and one hundred and ten pounds were not enough for me to drop dead because of all the pressure on my body, I needed something more.
That was when, in biology, I learned of the perfect way to die.
Since the second quarter I had changed my diet completely, and started eating only a little bit more than I had done in the past. I devised the perfect suicide plan, and no one would ever know. No, people wouldn't even know it was a suicide, I'll just suddenly drop dead.
My diet consisted of supplements, iron, zinc, magnesium, and many other metals, and weekly I increased the dosage of each pill. It was pure genius, really. As each pill increases, so does the toxicity of my body. Eventually, I will obtain metal poisoning and die. It was such a brilliant plan, and it would be gradual too, so no one would see it coming.
What I hadn't been expecting, however, was one certain boy's interference.
Kenny McCormick. The town's poorest child, had fixed his eyes on my rapidly changing body and antics, my movement. He observed me especially closely. It wasn't until a month in into my plan had he started taking notice of me, because I was changing, and changing promptly.
I had once been a collected child, calm and sweet and every so lovely to anyone. Once, I had been a healthy looking child, the epitome of that one angelic child. Once, I had been all those things and more, where as no I am none of those things.
I am sickly pale and bone thin, and every day I feel more jittery than yesterday. I feel my anxiety grow, I couldn't sleep, I kept wringing my hands and started to obsess over the smallest things and how they were placed or put in someplace. Nothing had my attention for long, the most being twenty minutes. I was more irritable than I had ever been, and nervousness plagued me every now and then with frequent visits.
Even bodily, my mouth watered excessively, leaving a metallic taste in my mouth. I got hunger pangs out of nowhere, feeling a tight pinching pain in my stomach. My heart rate was never the same in the time span of an hour. It was fast one hour, slow the next, and it would never stay constant, and I would often obtain pain in my chest. I would get headaches just as frequently my heart rate changed, I would get dizzy and faint, confused and lost. My hands would shake, or my legs, and eventually, every so often, everything just felt numb. Long story short, my body was breaking down bit by bit. I knew I only had a few weeks to live, and that somehow brought on a sick kind of joy at the bottom of my heart.
At first, I suppose Kenny noticed my changes and thought me a druggie, because he had asked as such, and at my denial he had only been intrigued more. In those few weeks, I noticed him more, his eyes trailing the path I walked, scrutinizing every single fiber of my body. How anyone could provide such attention to one person was beyond me, I could barely keep my attention on the teachers anymore.
But he had, and rumors had it once he was interested in you, there was no way out. I had thought it was too late for him to figure it out, my immunological symptoms had showed up, and that meant I could be but a week off from death. As much as it hurt, as much as it pained me to take those pills, I shoved them down my throat every morning. I forced myself to take them, and one day I asked myself, "Why not just overdose instead of trying to stretch out your suffering?" And I thought, "that's a brilliant idea!" Because, really, I could just end it all with a few pills of a multi-metal supplement.
Final exams had flown by, and I knew I flunked them. I couldn't care less, because at home, there was a bottle of metals waiting for me to digest. And just in case, I had also bought some powdered version of gold and silver, and an old-school thermometer. I could create like best poisonous drink ever.
By now I live alone, I had emancipated myself from the clutches of the orphanage and live by myself in a small one-bedroom apartment. And by this day, I have bought all the needed supplies of my suicide. I set out pills on the counter, a couple of the multi-metal supplements, some more magnesium, some zinc, and various others, while in a small shot glass I poured in the iron and gold shavings. I broke the thermometer, and poured in the liquid into the shot glass as well.
Kenny didn't approach me after asking me if I was a druggie. He would usually get close, and either I would scamper away or he would leave without a word after checking out my physique. Don't ask me why, I wore twice much too baggy clothes and covered every inch of my body. People these days are so oblivious that they couldn't figure out my self mutilation. I guess, at first, I had wanted to get people's attention, so they can notice me and I could pretend that they cared. Now, I don't believe that.
The mixture of metal knotted my stomach in anticipation. Only a few more minutes, I thought to myself. A few more minutes and I'd be free from this damn place. I didn't care if I went to Hell for this, at least they would want me for torture. At least they wanted me, even if it was for that sole reason.
The metals were all lined up on the counter, me couching slightly to look at them at eye level, making them lined up perfectly. I had obtained that obsession to control these little things. When I stood and gazed over my work, glee and mirth shinning through my eyes, a knock on the door caught my attention. It wasn't loud, but it had ferocity in it even though it was soft.
I shook it off, grabbing the large glass of water and taking five pills into my mouth before drowning them with water. After another dosage, I took the shot glass of iron and gold shavings, and with another gulp of water they slid down my throat. I shuddered, feeling the small grains sliver down my throat. Everything I do is heightened in respect to the sense it uses. The affects start to kick In before the pills hit my stomach, and I have a hard time staying up in my respectful standing position. Quickly, I clumsily shove a couple more metallic pills into my mouth and gulp them down with water. I could feel my mouth water, the salivary glands acting up as they now try to make myself throw up the acidic supplements.
Shakily I took the small shot glass of mercury, the red liquid swaying around in the small glass along with my trembling hand. By this time my legs had given out and I was perched on my knees, leaning against the counter for leverage as I tip the poisonous liquid at my lips into my mouth. Some slid down the side of my chin, but what had gotten into my mouth I had swallowed.
Haphazardly, I try to get some more supplements. However, I cannot. I am disoriented by now, and I fully let myself lean back against the cupboards, knees drawn to my chest and my breathing slowing. I chuckle to myself, feeling my head get lightheaded, the butterflies in my stomach. Even I did throw up all of the things I just took, I had already been exposed to too much metallic radiation. I hum to myself, satisfied.
"Hello?" It was a voice, from where it came from I don't know. Who was it? I couldn't care less, although it probably would have been a smart idea for me to lock the front door. "Pip?" The voice was distant, mainly because of how badly I was zoned out. I was going back and forth from consciousness, and at one time I had seen a glimpse of who came into my house. Kenny. I think I had growled, before mellowing out, although I am not sure.
He had cursed my state, and mentally I laugh. He was too late to do anything. I was happy that he didn't get to me in time. I must have laughed out loud too, because he stated at me in such a credulous matter. I couldn't help but feel high and mighty. For a moment I had thought he came here to "rescue" me, and as I thought that I laughed, because he was too late. Too late to do anything. I don't remember much else, except, vaguely, that I was picked up before I went out like a light.
When I woke up, I had expected to be somewhere with brimstone and fire, and agonized screaming, not a silent place, white and fluorescent, with beeping sounds next to me. I groan, trying to figure out where the hell I was and how I got here. Things did not come rushing back to be, but I did remember pieces of the day before, or what I thought was the day before. My perfect suicide plan, had it been thwarted? I try sitting up in the uncomfortable thing the people here called a bed, and was reminded of how my body ached from it not being used.
"Hey, hey. Don't get up so quickly." That was the voice besides me, and then I felt hands on my back and stomach to help me into sitting position, leaning be back against the newly propped up pillows. I look to my right, and guess who was there? Kenny McCormic. I should have known. If anyone was smart enough to flaw my evil plan, it was him. The one who's eyes have been trained on my for the past whatever days they have been.
I couldn't say anything, too weak in my voice and not trusting of my speech and emotions of the failure I had gone through. Let us just say, the next few days were quite between us. He always left at ten o'clock at night, and came back at three the next afternoon and sat here with me in silence, watching the small TV in the room. One day, however, when I had been here for a week, he ventured to speak to me. I don't know why we were compelled to have these few words of exchange, but we did.
"How are you feeling?" He asked. I didn't know it he meant mentally of physically, I took it emotionally.
"Bittersweet."
A/N: Hmmmm. I don't know if I like this ending. But, oh well. Happy whatever day it is? : D I totally got this idea in Biology, too
Disclaimer; I don't own South Park or its characters. But, I do claim the story line.