I'm so thankful for the positive responses – thanks a TON, guys!
Updates may be a tad bit slower because I'm trying to find a balance in my writing and drawing now, so I'm gonna focus more on the latter for a bit. (Also, I finally got my South Park seasons 1-5 DVD's! I'll be getting season 6 and BLU soon, but I decided that I'd give you guys something to read before I go and have fun with them.)
Also, well… this chapter would have been up much sooner, but, sadly I had Hebrew homework on Wednesday, I got re-addicted to Marble Drop on Thursday when my dad managed to install it into my computer today, and last night I got really, really hyper with my best friend (which resulted in two inside jokes slipping into this chapter!), and finally got the rest of The Rasmus' songs. Okay, people. Best. Band. Ever. Their older songs, which were the ones I got, were the ones that provided me with much inspirations. DOWNLOAD THEIR STUFF PLZ. Both new and old, it all kicks ass!
It's really funny, you know? You almost die a couple of times and nobody cares anymore, but then you almost die in a different way, and suddenly everybody's flocking around you and not letting up.
Well, judging by reactions so far, I can just tell that's what's going to end up happening. Hell, even by Stan's reaction alone, I know everyone else is going to be like that. I… I just really, really don't want that. I don't want all this attention and special treatment given to me, and, much as it pains me to say this, I just really wanna go to school. Just put this whole thing behind me. Never speak of it again and shove it back within the depths of my mind for it to never resurface ever again. I know that's not going to happen but I can hope.
It's just… well, why does shit like this always have to happen to me? What the hell did I do? I know if Cartman was here and reading my thoughts he'd say it was because I was Jewish. God I hate that asshole so much. Why do I hang out with him; why do I consider him a friend?
It's about then that I remember that I'm still in the hospital bed, my arm is still a bloody mess that could really use some cleaning up, these stitches are starting to piss me off, my family and the doctor are still standing in here and my best friend is hiding under my bed. I need to get them out somehow so Stan can get out and not end up late for school. Maybe if I pretend to go to sleep…
"Kyle, open your eyes. You need to hear this and we need to hear some things from you."
Fuck. Why can't my mom be more like Cartman's and just let me do what I want?
I barely open one eye up and fix it on her. "What," I croak out, not even phrasing it as a question – I just want them to get the hell out of here. Maybe some more sleep would do me good, actually, I still feel a bit dizzy.
She's glaring at me. Looks like she's pissed. Good, maybe that will make her go away. Dad and Ike are just sort of hiding away in the background, and I don't blame them. If it was anybody else in my situation I'd be with them, but really, I'm too tired to care.
The doctor coughs and my family looks expectantly at him. I exaggerate a yawn. Maybe if I act like a total jackass they'll go away. I'm ignored though, and he steps forward, towards me. "Kyle," he begins, and I'm ready to tune him out. I don't care… but his words still reach my ears, goddamnit. I've never been one for tuning things out. "Well, the good news this time is that you don't have a disease," he continues. I think he's trying to be funny. He's not funny. Go away. "However, you've got quite a large wound on your left arm running from about mid-way between your shoulder and elbow to your wrist—"
"No shit," I say, cutting him off. Both Mom and doctor glare at me. I shrug.
"Ahem," he resumes where he left off, trying to keep his professionalism about him, "This is important stuff, and you should know what's going on. Now, we managed to stitch it up, but obviously, you lost quite a lot of blood—"
"Oh, really? Then maybe you should let me rest so I can regenerate some energy."
I've got two angry faces staring back at me. Ahah, I think I just showed the doctor up. I'm probably right, too, I mean, it'd make sense, wouldn't it? That would explain why I've been feeling so woozy, dizzy, tired, whatever other adjectives you can come up for it lately. Dad and Ike are still hiding in the background. Mom stalks over to one of the chairs, sits down in it, and folds her arms. Her eyes are narrowed and brows furrowed. I know she can be a real bitch at time, and I don't really try to defend it as much anymore, now with teenaged parent angst forcing me to join the side of my peers. Still, though…
"I'll do that in a bit, but it's just a good idea to brief you in, just in case…" Oh, right, the doctor's still here. "Now, there isn't really much else to inform you of, because, well, we don't know a lot of what happened," he says, "so we'll need you to tell us everything you know."
"Dude, I don't remember anything. Please let me sleep."
"Are you sure?" Dr. Doctor persists. He thinks for a few moments, but then looks back up, meeting my gaze. "You were found outside, in some hills behind your house, lying face down in the snow in a pool of your own blood, your left arm completely split open, in below freezing temperatures."
Below freezing? That's odd. "I didn't find it that cold," I announce.
His eyes glisten. What? Did I say—
"I thought you said you didn't remember anything," he smirks.
… Damnit.
"So we'll try this one more time," he resumes, "Do you remember anything from last night." It's more of a statement than a question, now.
"No," I reply, because I really don't.
He takes a step back and crosses his arms, saying, "I see. Self-harm, perhaps, then?" Wow, this guy takes no beating around the bush—wait, WHAT? Why do people think I would do this? I mean, true, I don't even really know myself, but, well… If people are going to insist that that's how it happened, I'm going to insist it didn't.
"What? NO!" I cry out, quite loudly, taking on the immediate defensive. He nods and "hmms" a bit in response.
"You know, denial is—"
"Oh, stop it! Shut the FUCK up—" whoops, that was probably a bad move—"about all of this crap you're spewing out! I didn't fucking—" okay, now it just doesn't matter anymore—"hurt myself! I don't fucking know what the fuck happened! I'm fucking tired, I'm fucking dizzy, I'm fucking PISSED now, but most of all, I fucking HATE YOU ALL!" I scream. I realize then that I had managed to sit all the way up during this outburst, and I fall back, even more exhausted than before. My vision goes blurry. I'm not crying; I'm just tired as hell. Or maybe I am crying. I don't even know anymore.
"Because of lack of information and your obvious want to not cooperate," Dr. Doctor says, still keeping that professional air around him – I guess things like this must happen a lot, "We will clean up your arm when you're asleep and you'll be free to go home tomorrow morning." And with that, I hear the door opening and closing… but my family is still here.
Oh. Shit.
Mom gets up from her chair and marches over to my hospital bed. Stan is still under there, I remember. This isn't good. There's no doubt where I get my violent outbursts of anger from – I just hope she doesn't get physical which I often do.
"Kyle, we need to discuss these matters, now," she growls, almost… snarls? Dad and Ike are still in the background. This is where I make a point of turning over onto my right side and snuggling under the blankets.
"Mom, let me sleep."
"Not after that kind of behaviour!" she exclaims, and stomps over so that she's in my line of sight. "We can talk about what you said to these people who are trying to help you—"
"Who obviously don't know the best for me since they won't let me rest," I counter.
She huffs. "Kyle, don't interrupt me. You got plenty of sleep before."
"Mom, I was unconscious."
"What did I say about interrupting?" She's acting too calm. I think I'd prefer it if she was a raging, screaming mess. I'm more used to that. "No, what really matters to me now is your behaviour from last night."
This… this is just getting frustrating. "I DON'T REMEMBER ANYTHING FROM LAST NIGHT," I yell at her, "Why do people keep talking to me about it? How many times have I said I can't tell them anything?"
"Then I'll refresh your memory as best I can. After spending so much time in your room, you eventually came out, late at night, slammed your door, stomped the whole way down the stairs while swearing under your breath the whole time, and when Ike approached you you muttered something to him that made him back off right away. When I came to you to try to reason with you, you had a fit, walked outside, slammed the door on your way out, and that was the last I had seen of you. I went up to your room and…"
Oh… oh my god. For once I'm able to tune my mother out, and I wish I couldn't. I just remembered everything that happened last night. Every little detail. I never tried to kill myself; it was… oh, christ… I don't want to remember this. I want to keep this in the back of my mind. I want to completely forget this. The warning bit… and… oh, god if I talk… if I even think about it… I could… I have to hold this memory back.
I'm not spilling anything.
I bring myself back to the real world, trying to forget those images, and see my mom's facing staring expectantly at me. Her eyes are narrowed and her brows are furrowed, her fists are clenched and her face is red. Wait, what? When did this happen? "Uh… what?" I ask, innocently.
"WHAT?" she roars in my face. Oh yeah, she's pissed alright. "WHAT I asked you was why you found it necessary to call me a 'fucking bitchcunt!'"
"Because you ARE ONE!" I yell back at her. "God why can't you people just leave me the fuck ALONE?"
"WhatwhatWHAT?" she yells back at me, in shock. "Kyle, I don't know what you think you're doing but this kind of stuff is absolutely UNACCEPTABLE! You, sir, are GROUNDED until… until… Oh, I don't even know! Until you're in COLLEGE!"
"Go ahead and ground me, bitch!" I shout back to her. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Dad has left the room, and Ike is still there, sitting in a chair, eyes moving from me to my mom when either of us speak, a little smile on his face. Little bastard! He's only nine and he's already amused by things like this. Then again, I guess I was no better when I was nine, but, still… I casually flip him off, and he returns it, not missing a beat. "See if I CARE!" I start up again, "I had plenty good reason to be pissed and you would be too if you had been in my situation!"
She spins around from leaving and glares at me. "Maybe, but I wouldn't have done anything like what YOU did! You have to learn to control your anger and until then you're grounded!"
I… I have to learn to control my anger? The hell? She isn't one to talk at all! The only person in the world who can dig deep enough under my skin to get me that pissed is Cartman; for her, it's almost anything! She's opening the door, and this is where I feel I should tell her that. "Hey, Mom, don't act so high and mighty! You're no better – it's no wonder where I inherited this trait from!"
Well, that stopped her in her tracks, well enough, because she's turned back around and shut the door again. "What!" she snaps. "Don't insult your own mother, Kyle!"
"I've done it before and I'll do it again and again and again! You know, everybody – everybody – in this town thinks you're the biggest bitch in the world, and now, I'm agreeing with them! Stop thinking you have so much power and stop being so full of yourself!"
She isn't saying anything now, but she looks even more pissed. Finally, she opens the door, steps out, and slams it real hard. I could even swear that the room is shaking for a little after. On the other side of the door, I hear a loud, frustrated, strangled scream, and then it's quiet. Now it's only me, Ike, and Stan, who is still under my bed, in this room. Ike looks up at me, and I say to him, "Ike, go away." He does and follows my mother out.
How long has it been? Not very, apparently… those two arguments may have only lasted about half an hour, tops, meaning Stan still has time. That's good.
Speaking of Stan, he finally slides himself out from under that bed and stands upright. After a bit of silence, he finally says, "…Whoa, dude."
I blush a bit. "Err… yeah… well, you'd better hurry now, I guess." Only now do I realize that I've been sitting up this whole time. I feel even more exhausted from all of those arguments now, though, so I fall back.
He blinks. "Uh… yeah… see ya," he says, opens up the window, and jumps out, landing on the ground below and closing it back up. It's a good thing I'm on the first floor. The sun has started to rise already, so he's got to hurry, but I'm sure he'll make it easily enough. Stan's pretty fast.
People do and say really stupid things when they're tired, and I guess that was my case here. But I also really don't mind getting myself in trouble if it digs my best friend out of it… oh, god, I don't even know right now. I just want to sleep. Finally I have a moment to myself—
No, wait. That damn heart rate machine is still going. Would it shut up already? Now it's making me even MORE pissed. I tear off any wires or whatever shit is on me – it's not like I know about hospital stuff, and it's not like I should even be need these any more anyway – and it stops, but I still hate that thing. I notice there's a glass of water next to me, and, in a fit of rage at that damned machine, throw it at it. The glass shatters and is spread out all over the floor, the machine is soaked and sparking, not to mention it's pretty smashed up, too. I finally roll over and get some sleep, content that I have some peace and quiet, and pleased with myself, although I don't really know why.
It's sometime around 3:30 p.m., I know that much. I woke up about an hour ago to find myself much calmer and more relaxed and refreshed. I guess a sleep was just what I needed. That machine I broke is gone from the room now, along with all of the glass on the floor. My arm is cleaned up and completely sealed up now, which is good, I guess. I noticed a small TV in here so I turned it on and started channel flipping. Found some old Terrance and Phillip reruns, so I've been watching those, for old times' sake. Makes me feel kind of nostalgic.
"Well Terrance, I hope you've learned something today," Phillip says on the screen at the end of an episode.
"I sure have, Phillip. I've learned that you're a great big fagoot!" Terrance replies. Ah, Canadian accents. At least Ike doesn't have one because he's grown up here.
I turn my attention back to the TV when I hear Terrance fart, the two of them laugh, and then the episode end. That's when I flip the TV off. I couldn't help but smile a bit at that end, I mean, I'm still a kid, and I'm still amused by that. Not as much as in the past, though. Stan will probably be back here soon, and with Kenny, and maybe even Cartman, I'll bet. The hospital's bound to let them in. I'm just glad I haven't seen any of their staff since this morning, and I hope something will come along so I won't have to, either. Definitely not in the mood.
I don't want to see Cartman, though. Damnit, I hate him so much.
I flop back down onto the pillows. Nobody has bugged me this morning, and I'm really thankful for that, because I feel a lot better (albeit a bit of regret for my actions this morning, but, hey, I was tired, right?).
That's when I hear the door open and see Stan's head peek through. "Kyle?" he calls, and I sit back up and wave.
He opens the door wider and I can see that Cartman and Kenny are there, too. The three of them enter, and Kenny is the first to notice my left arm and make a comment on it.
"Whoa! Kyle, that injury's fucking huge!"
"Thanks for the newsflash, Kenny," I mutter.
"Can you move it now?" Stan questions. I nod in response and bend it and swing it around a bit, which pretty much shows that I'll be fine.
It's then that I notice that Cartman has yet to say anything; he's too busy staring at my arm. Finally, he speaks up, "Whoa, Kyle… so… I helped that happen?"
I glare at him and speak through gritted teeth, "Yes."
Stan and Kenny's eyes instantly shoot to the two of us. "What do you mean?" Stan asks, glaring at Cartman. Cartman gives him a smug smile back, while Kenny shakes his head at how typical our behaviour is.
Rather than answering the question, Cartman asks me, "What, I upset you enough to make you try to kill yourself?" Fat boy looks mighty proud of himself.
"No and for the last damn time I DID NOT TRY TO KILL MYSELF!" I scream at him. Double-chins continues to smirk though, probably because I'm so pissed but can't hurt him this time.
Suddenly, I feel a stinging pain on my right cheek, and turn to see that Kenny has just slapped me. God damn that kid can really slap. He locks eyes with me and speaks slowly and clearly, "Kyle, what did Cartman have to do with this?" I bet he's asking me because he knows he won't get anything out of Cartman. Those two have been best friends, kinda like Stan and I but not on the same level, for quite a while now, although Kenny is definitely the more sensible of the two, like Stan's much more sensible than I am. It's probably because Cartman and I are fighting all the time.
I shrug. "It's nothing much, really. Fatass called me for last-minute math homework help," I start, still amazed that Cartman actually does care about his grades. He probably cares more about math, though, because in the end, that subject will give him the most help with money. Typical Dickface behaviour, really. "After he gets the concept we get into another argument." Stan and Kenny groan, Stan pinching the bridge of his nose and Kenny slapping his forehead in agitation. Once again, no surprise.
"And Kyle, because he's so gay for me, was so upset that after our discussion he had to run off and cut himself," Cartman finishes for me. I growl and jump up out of the bed, my anger not allowing me to remain still in that bed.
"I swear to god Cartman, I'll kill you!" I shout, and his smirk vanishes. Stan runs over to restrain me, while I continue with my outburst. "You know that's a load of crap! I went outside to cool off! Damnit, Stan, let go of me!"
Kenny stands by the side, highly amused now at how Stan's struggling to hold me back. When he notices my anger directed at him for a brief second, he raises his hands up in defense. I guess there's really no debate as to who the toughest one in our group is, since Kenny backs down from no one.
"Hey, hey, wait," he says, trying to calm me down in case Stan loses his hold on me, "That doesn't explain how you got hurt."
"Yeah," Cartman agrees, "It doesn't. So, Kyle, how did you get hurt?"
I cease my movements and stand still. I'm… I'm just going to remain silent on this one. No way are they dragging this out of me. When Cartman notices that I'm not going to say anything, his smug smile gets even bigger. "So, Jewboy won't tell us, huh? I think my point's been proved. Too bad he didn't die."
"Cartman!" Stan shouts at him, letting me go. I, meanwhile, am pissed, knowing I can't say a word to prove him wrong, and I can't do anything more than continue to stand there stupidly.
Cartman walks up to me and prods a fat finger into my chest. "You know why you tried to kill yourself?" he asks. Before I can tell him that I didn't, he continues, "Because you're just a little faggy Jewish kid who knows you'll never amount to anything." He turns around and walks out the door, waving his hand as he leaves. "See ya, Kyle!"
"Fuck you!" I shout after him, but he keeps on walking and waving. I bet he's still smiling, too. Kenny gives me a look that says "Sorry" and dashes out after his best friend, to talk some sense into him I hope.
I sit back down on the bed and hold my head in my hands. Stan joins me. "Man, I really hate him sometimes," he says, and I nod in agreement.
"I know. I really hate him, too."
