A.N./ This is, and will be, the shortest chapter in this entire fanfiction.
So, no worries. The next one will be much longer. Hopefully.
Yeah, that's cool, parents. Lock me out of my own fucking house.
I slammed the door with my hand, eventually ending up kneeing and kicking it. "Open the goddamn door!" I wailed.
Leave it to me to forget my keys. Classic Kenny moment right here, folks. And considering what a piece of shit door we have, the fact that I couldn't break the thing down to the ground was also pretty humiliating. I fiddled with the rusty doorknob a bit, pulling it frantically. Where the hell were they? Was this some kind of sick joke? Because it isn't fucking funny.
"MOM. DAD. KEVIN. ANYBODY?" I screamed, slamming against the door with all of the weight in my body. Which wasn't very much, considering I starve to death nearly every night. Except at Stan's place, clearly.
I finally gave up, and leaned, arms crossed, against the door. Life kept throwing the punches, but I'll get through. Not the first time I've been locked out of this house. Actually, I'm pretty certain it was the fifth time that this has happened.
It was 9AM on a Saturday, where would they all be? I mean, at least one of them would be at home. Or have been kind enough to remember that their son was gone overnight and would be returning the next day.
Or they might just not give a rat's ass.
Ah, my family made me feel so loved and appreciated. I guess it was better than the times they had actually kicked me out. I shit you not. I slept outside those nights, although it was usually on a side of our porch they didn't bother to look for me on.
I gotta admit, though, sleeping outside is much more comforting than sleeping in my house, trying to tune out my parents' constant arguing and screaming. In the summer, especially. Something about sleeping around fireflies introduced an entirely new degree of relaxation.
But, it was almost winter, and cold as fuck overnight. So, I'd most likely rather put up with my parents' bickering than become a human popsicle. But it looked as if I'd be here until my parents finally came home, or opened the damn door if they were just screwing with me. I'm pretty sure they know not to get me enraged, though.
I sat on the porch, keeping a beat with my hands against the decaying wood. Why wouldn't they tell me they were going to be gone? Maybe they did and I ignored them? Nah. Something probably came up.
Though I couldn't recall the last time they were out of the house for something other than church. And my funerals. It made me shudder at the thought of all of my past funerals, you'd the service would get tired of me eventually.
I scoffed, standing up again to look for an open window or something of the sort. It's about time I learned how to break in to my own house. I knew for a fact that the window in my room was screen-less, and the glass was always slid half-down (or half-up, for you optimists), which I probably could manage to squeeze through.
I approached my room window on the right of the house, and sure enough, it was open. Slightly. Just enough for me to squeeze through. I took in deep breaths, rolling my shoulders back to prepare. I got this. I got this.
I tilted my head to the side, gripping the sides of the windowsill to stable myself. I began to slide it through the opening with care, my head getting squeezed in the slightest. My eyes and nose were through, and I could smell the familiar scent of my musty, old bedroom. Almost there.
I eventually pushed my head through, tilting it upwards once more. Now for the shoulders. I bent them back as far as possible, pushing off of the porch with my feet. I slid my torso through, and got wedged at my hips.
Shit.
My head was now touching my tainted carpet, and I pushed against my room's wall to fit my hips and thighs through. I bent my knees, my legs sliding through the window and into my room. Fuck yeah.
I was inside, thank god, but I did get a shitload of splinters on my face. And hands. But I was inside the house.
They didn't call me "Krazy Kenny" for nothing.
I pulled myself off of the floor, groaning. Now I wish that I had stayed at Stan's place just a bit longer. I could've gone back to sleep, slept through the day, avoided awkward moments with Kyle, come back here at night and not end up hurting myself in some way. But there were too many things in my life I regret doing already, most of which were a lot more serious than staring a guy's ass for a few minutes. Hell, I do that daily already.
Besides, I could catch up on my lack of sleep right now anyhow. I had a bed. There was a roof over my head. I didn't have to mooch off of Stan and Kyle.
But it would be nice.
I flopped on the mattress that was lying on my floor, which wasn't any softer than actually lying on the floor. It'll do, man, it'll do. I needed to stop being so ungrateful. And jealous. And relentless. And too much other shit to count right now.
I gazed up at my cracked ceiling, trying to find shapes of objects within the cracks. There was one that totally looked like a dick. Like, it was perfect.
Or maybe that was just me.
I should sleep. I need to sleep. Everything felt so unreal, like how you feel in a dream. Or when you die, but no one else probably could relate with that. Even people who get shocked back to life with defibrillators couldn't, because they're only dead for a few minutes. I have been dead for months at a time and I'm still here today. In fact, I haven't died since I was fifteen, and that was… two years ago? Yeah, I haven't been dead for two years.
That's a personal record. If I kept this up, I could probably live the rest of my life without dying. …Wait.
I mean, until I die for good.
…Would I still come back to life then? Like, when I was actually meant to die? That was a mindfucking thought.
Yeah, I definitely needed to sleep now. Whenever I end up thinking about life and death, my brain aches like a son of a bitch. I barely understand any of it.
I just needed to sleep, that's all.
