So, this is my first story. :D On this account, that is... be nice, I haven't written in a while! Any ways, all I have to say is that this is going to be a depressing fanfiction!
It will contain implied gay love very often, and Stan will probably end up trying to get in Wendy's pants half the time. You've been warned.
Until then, enjoy the prologue (and the rest of the story, if you follow), and I now present you with the mandatory song-lyrics! :D
Isn't it strange that a gift could be an enemy?
Isn't it weird that a privilege could feel like a chore?
Maybe its me, but this life isn't going anywhere.
Maybe if we looked hard enough we could find a back door .
-Incubus, Privilege
Maybe I'm a terrible friend for not remembering the conversation with the doctor verbatim, but I remember the cold words he uttered and with such uncaring tone in his voice that it felt like the whole world could fall upside down and no one would care. That's pretty much how it was. I remember the sick, dead feeling that started in my brain and enveloped the rest of my core, telling me to give it all up now and forget about my best friend when the doctor let out the unforgiving, even confusing statement that he gave. My question was to be expected from an unknowing teen. Sure, me and my friends always ripped on people for having Breast Cancer and Diabetes and what have you, but that's the basics, along with AIDS and all that good stuff.
"What's Lupus?" I could hardly force my tight jaw to open and crack out the words that were so shaky they put my structure of sanity in total jeopardy, daring to collapse the membrane and let all my perplexed thoughts come crashing out like some freakish teenage tsunami. I tried to listen to what the man had to say, but all I could make was a lot of mushy sentences masked by the deafening thud of my heartbeat in my ears and individual words, like "painful," "disease," "deadly," and "incurable." The last one shattered any chance at happiness that I would ever try to muster that day, because, at hearing that, what was happiness? Happiness was two hours before that, actually, when the poor kid I call my best friend wasn't dying in a dilapidated hospital bed.
Mrs. Broflovski was also losing it -her sanity, that is- and fell to her knees, sobbing and praying. The sight was startling, and almost scary, because you don't expect to see someone's matured mother brought to the brink of her own joy. My breath was uneven and audible: too audible. It hurt to do just that, to just breathe; my throat was tight in an attempt not to cry. It hurt to see everyone so lost and pitiful, and I wondered why I of all people had to become to attached to such an unhealthy boy.
"But he's fifteen!" Mr. Broflovski seemed to be trying to reason with the doctor, persuade him out of allowing their son to be diagnosed with something labeled as 'incurable'. The doctor's movements were all too perfect, indicating that he'd done this 'revealing' process many times. He looked to the floor and let out a faux sad sigh. Then he turned partially on one heel, and Sheila rose, as did my head. I peered into the room where Kyle lay in a cot behind a curtain, covered for privacy.
"I'm sorry. You may visit him now, but keep conversation simple. He's under much stress with the knowledge of his own sickness." The way that he so flawlessly spit the sentence at us made me sick, and I pulled a Craig Tucker-move, balling my hand into a painfully tight fist then flicking out my middle finger once he was walking away. Finally, I went into the room to greet Kyle with an overwhelming hug. He gasped and hugged me back weakly, smiling even less convincingly, but it was confirmation of his mortality enough to send me into a tasteless, dry sob on his lap. I wasn't even the person being given an expiration date, but it sucked, and that's about as best as I can describe it. It was about as blatantly screwed up as someone having to find out their mom was murdered or their dad raped to death, and that's no joke. It was just a deadpan thing, and it took a hell of a long time for it to settle in. It didn't even begin to make it's way into my brain while I hugged the sick Jewish boy, it was still making it's way through my system with the start-and-stop motion of my pounding blood.
My visual and auditory senses were out for the count, but it smelled like death and sickness, and I just wanted to scoop up the dying redhead and run away and say this never happened. The little glimmer of hope that this was a dream flashed, but a very small voice shattered it, along with the twenty other slivers of possible-escapes.
"I'll be okay, they say," Kyle tried to reassure me. I bit my lip, really wishing he hadn't said that. It sounded like a pathetic lie to cheer me up, and that's not what I wanted; I wanted the truth. Eventually, he'd probably die of this 'Lupus' thing. I didn't want to know when, I just wanted to know if it'd hurt him. "You got me here in time for it to be discovered before any thing too bad happened." Though quiet, he sounded grateful. "Most people who contract it don't know till they're dying from the result of it: kidney failure. So thank you."
"Kyle, no, I-!"
"Never tell Cartman." Confusion knocked out all other turning wheels in my brain. Sensory-overload at it's best. "You heard me! Never. Let. Cartman. Know." The accent in his words made me wince. At least Kyle was still in there, sick or not.
I made it my life's goal to make sure that Eric Cartman would never find out that Kyle Broflovski was an angel. A Lupus Angel.
Okay, I'm done. :D Prologue! I have no idea how this will turn out, but if you give me reviews, I'll continue!
Sorry for the slow prologue. D: I promise it'll get funnier after character-introductions and explaining just what lupus is and all. :0 For now, bear with me, please!
Also, if I wonk up any of my statements about Lupus, tell me! All I know is what my mother tells me about herself.
