Erosion
I scrub the blood from my carpet, but it's not coming out. I'm so angry. I can't believe Kenny would tumble in here in his stupid costume in the middle of the night and ooze blood everywhere and then just leave when I wasn't looking. I'm part worried that he's bleeding out in an alley somewhere and part furious that he left me here to scrub the red stains from the floor alone.
I had already called him a dozen times. To tell him to come help me clean the carpet, I told myself, not because I was worried. He had, after all, seemed fine when he had left. The memory was vague and hazy with sleepiness, but he had definitely been okay. It was hard not to worry about Kenny, though.
Eventually I gave up. It wasn't going to come out. I should have known that initially, but I had had to try. I tried to imagine my mother's fury when she saw the huge red stains stretched out from my window to the hallway. I tried not to think about how much it would cost to be replaced.
000
Kenny was in school this morning, but Cartman wasn't. Kenny seemed nervous, twitchy, and exhausted. I found myself confronting him at lunch, as he was stuffing his Mysterion costume back into his backpack behind the gym.
"Kenny, dude. Are you okay?" I ask him, and he looks up.
"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" He says, but he won't look me in the eye. Again.
"Well, you were bleeding a lot last night, and today-" He doesn't let me finish. I must have stricken a cord, because he drops he backpack and jumps to his feet, shouting.
"You remember last night!?" He yells, and I can see something in his eyes. Fear?
"Uh, yeah?" I laugh, nervously, "What, should I not? Drug me or something?"
He paces in a short circle then comes closer, tugging his hood down. I don't flinch this time, looking at the scarlet red scrapes on his face, the purple bruises the same colour as his favourite costume. "What do you remember?" He says sternly.
"I, uh," I stammer, confused, "You climbed in my window in your Mysterion costume, you fell down, you got blood all in my carpet and then when I went to call an ambulance you just bolted dude."
He runs his hands through his hair and lets out a long breath, "Okay, wow," He says, "You remember a lot more than usual. I can't believe you actually still had blood on your carpet…" I shake my head, confused.
"Dude, what? Seriously, are you okay? Because you were bleeding a lot…" He smiles, which makes me uncomfortable.
"Exactly!" He cries, and tugs up his jacket, showing his midriff. It's clean, the skin lace with scars, but unbroken. "See? Nothing. How did I heal so fast?"
I furrow my brow and think about it, "I dunno. Maybe I just… imagined it. I dunno." he looks angry.
"No, dude, you didn't imagine it. I died." I groan as he says it and he grabs me by the shoulders, "Kyle." he says, stern, serious, "I shot myself in the head in your bathroom and I died. Where's my injuries, Kyle!?" I shake my head and push him away.
"Shut up, dude! You are not fucking immortal!"
He growls and covers his eyes with his hands, then drops them, "You've seen me die a million fucking times!" He yells suddenly, "You've seen giant fucking robot dinosaurs and imaginary universes! You've met the actual literal Satan! Why the hell is it so hard to believe?"
He has a point.
"I... I dunno." I say. I think about him leaving the room, and I think about how clean his face is. I think about the bright bruises rising from his neckline. I don't believe him, but I want to. His face is so close to mine, his eyes, their bright colours overtaking the usual dullness of his spirit, begging me to believe him, despite my memories, despite all logic. He tastes of cigarettes and blood, and usually, I would hate it, but he's so warm, and under taste of death I can taste something sweet- and I realize with a start that I am kissing him.
He doesn't pull away, though.
000
He spends the night at my house. It's a Friday night, so I'm not worried. We stay up all night, and he tells me about all his deaths. I don't believe him, but I want to, and with each story, each gruesomely detailed death he recalls so intimately I wish I did, a little harder. I don't. But I pretend I do, because it means so much to him.
He tells me Cartman is upset that Mysterion has been on the news so much lately, and wants to play superheroes again for his own ego. Kenny thinks he'll stop in a few months.
000
I drop him off at home, but as soon as the door opens, his father is yelling. I can smell the drink on his breath from here and I crinkle my nose in disgust. Kenny yells back, something about meth, and unlike the many times I turned away in the past, I grab the back of his coat and yank him backward. He stumbles out and I point at my car, unable to even vocalize. His father stares at me, surprised. Before he can say anything, I slam the door, and turn back to Kenny, who looks more surprised than his father.
"You're staying with me tonight." I say, matter of factly. He doesn't look upset, and just nods.
"I have to tuck Karen in," He says, patting his backpack, slung over his left shoulder. This time, I nod.
000
"You're beautiful," I say, tracing the thin red lines crisscrossing his face. He winces as I brush into blues and purples, and his whole face blooms red, beneath the scars and freckles.
"No-" He starts, but my fingers trace the thin lines of his lips, entranced by their pale colour. He is a painting, full of colours I see nowhere else in the world. The pale dirty sunshine colour of his hair, the storm blue-grey of his eyes, the Mysterion purple that dots the nooks and crannies of his body. He is a painting, he is a sculpture, he is a film, he is an orchestra. He is art.
He does not flinch when I kiss him. He touches my hair, and he tastes like blood and paint.
000
I'm downtown, drinking with Stan at a bar we like, trying to muster up the courage to tell him about Kenny, when I see something move along the rooftops outside. I step out, and look up, and I know it's him. I feel my heart swell, and I wonder where he's going- before I notice it's not where he's going, it's where he's coming from. Someone is chasing him, lagging behind, heavy and slow. Cartman.
They're almsot out of sight, and I don't even pause to yell back at Stan, I just take off, my converse slamming into the moist pavement loudly as I desperately try not to lose sight of them.
Kenny is obviously faster, and he's losing the fatass, but Cartman stops. I think he's given up, but Kenny stumbles suddenly, stopping. I squint in the darkness, and there's a glimmer of metal in Cartman's fat hand. My breath catches in my throat. Kenny stumbles toward the edge of the building, catches himself for just a moment, and tumbles over.
KENNY CAN'T DIE, my mind screams, but I don't believe it, and all my mouth screams is "Kenny!"
Suddenly I'm running again, desperate, screaming, begging him to be okay. I reach the alleyway too late. He's spread out over top of a closed dumpster like an angel in an old painting, limbs splayed to the sides at unnatural angles,blood oozing out form beneath him in a river. He stares upward. I scream.