A/N; I'm srsly, srsly bored. Being home alone has lost it's appeal to me. Or maybe it's because Toni's going away and I have no one to talk to on MSN for the whole day.. idk. But I'm bored shitless, and I have nothing better to do than write. So here you go - two updates in one day. Wow, I'm on a roll. Oh, title and song for this chapter is "Sleeping Pills" by Her Space Holiday.
"Angel."
A south park fanfiction by Lilzenium
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Previously: I turn to Kyle, who looks thoroughly put out. "Dude, are you alright?" I ask. He glares at me.
"No dipshit. I'm not alright. My date just got stolen by a Harpy, you've turned up after telling me last night was nothing and you expect everything to be hunky-fucking-dory between us. Well it's not. And it's not gonna be until you explain yourself and why the fuck you fucked me and then told me it was nothing. I opened up to you, you son of a bitch!" He's screaming now, tears welling in his eyes. The last thing he says before he leaves shocks me.
"Your feather is red.. You did something wrong, Kenneth McCormick, and I'm not helping you figure it out anymore."
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Chapter Eight: I can't win, so why should I try? (Kenny)
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I'm an asshole. I need that put on my head with one of those rubber stamps, so when I walk down the street people can see me coming and jump out of the way. It's been 2 weeks since Kyle and I last spoke, and it's really getting to me. I said it was nothing so I didn't hurt him, but it seems that plan backfired on me and now I've hurt him more than I could ever have imagined. He's not really speaking to Stan either, so he tends to wander the corridors alone like a ghost, never speaking to anyone. He's deathly pale with huge bags under his eyes which are red - possibly from crying. Nothing seems to be going right for him.
I follow him sometimes, at a distance of course, and I see him with Tweek. When Tweek puts his hand on Kyle's shoulder, it's like there's a monster in my chest.. a monster that wants to tear Tweek Tweak limb from fucking limb just to get him away from Kyle. My Kyle.
"Tweeeeeek," I hear Kyle say, and for the first time in God knows how long, there's a smile on his face. "I'd love to get a coffee with you! Next time, don't be so shy, okay?"
"Ngggn.. It was t-too much pres-s-ssure," the twitchy blonde boy mumbles. "Tomorrow.. uhnng. 6-ish?" he asks, and Kyle nods, green eyes sparkling. Great. Kyle has another fucking date. My heart aches. I need to talk to him, but every time I try he walks away. He just shakes his head and walks the fuck away.
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School's out. I trudge home.. if you can call our tiny living space a home. It certainly doesn't feel like a home - a drunken and abusive dad, an older brother who's never there, a Mom who's run away from us and a little sister who's so scared to live here she's moved into her boyfriend's house despite the fact she's 13. I'm the only sane one around here. I push the door open and find my Dad once more passed out on the rotting wooden floorboards. His beer lies on it's side, the contents branching out across the floor. It mingles with the scarlet splatters of blood and a single scrap of green from a shirt. It's Mom's shirt. She came back for something and Dad hit her, probably. That means the blood is also hers.
I need out. I grab a plastic bag and race up the rickety stairs. Flinging myself into the mess of my room I root around for anything I can use. I stuff some trousers, a clean shirt, underpants, a blanket, my iPod and Kevin's deodorant into the bag before making my way into the cupboard-like bathroom. I bend down and scoop a bottle labelled "Deep zleep" from the broken medicine cabinet into my pocket along with my cigarettes and a lighter.
Downstairs once more I search through more cupboards and drawers until I find what I'm looking for. A bottle of whisky beckons and I take up it's call, shoving it into my nearly-about-to-burst plastic bag. I grab the keys to our red pickup truck and fly through the door. I still have no idea how my dipshit brother managed to fix the pickup, although I guess working in a garage has got to play a big part in it. It's peeling like a sun burnt man, metal peeking through the flaking, faded paint-work but I'm thankful the old girl works.
I hop in, running my hands across the wheel after dumping my bag on the passenger seat. I think I'll just drive around aimlessly for awhile.
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It's dark by the time I know where I'm going. I'm going to the abandoned Raisin's - a newer, fresher and bigger one was built in the center of town and no-one's rented the old one, so it just sits there gathering dust and cobwebs. It's where I always go to escape although I've never slept there. The most I've done is spend 20 minutes there, just thinking.
I park the truck 'round the back car park and get out, lugging the bag with me. I climb in through the broken window, slinking through the shadows like a cat as I locate the light switch. I'm still shocked at the fact that electricity's still being supplied to this derelict place, even if half the light bulbs are bust. I set my bag in the middle of the room and pull a table over the top of it. Then I empty the contents onto the floor and pull out the blanket, which I wrap around myself. I put my clothes in a pile under another table, open the bottle of sleeping pills and empty the remaining 6 into my palm. I check the bottle to see what the recommended dose is and then decide I don't give a fuck anymore. I down all six pills with the whisky, plug my earphones into my ears and settle down to listen to the soothing lyrics of Her Space Holiday.
Hallelujah for sleeping pills And amen for a good stiff drink. You know that I can't sleep So why I should I try. It's been this way for years. You think by know I'd know why.
The sleeping pills seem to be having no effect whatsoever so I decide that I need more whisky to balance things out.
Hallelujah for long shot dreams And amen for our perfect life. You know that I can't win, So why I should I try? It's been this way for years. You think by know I'd know why.
My head hits the floor and before I know it I'm dreaming.
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I can't face school today. I have a hangover that hurts like fuck and I'm not in the mood to learn in a classroom full of hormone controlled, shouting teenagers, so huddling in the blanket under the filthy table of what used to be a sleazy restaurant that's long since been abandoned, I go back to sleep. I sleep. And I sleep some more, until I wake up at 6:05pm and then I panic. I panic because there's something I have to do before Kyle's date ends.
I hurry to the pickup, where I search through the glove compartment for some paper and a pen. I eventually settle for a piece of a road-map that I ripped from our yellowing atlas and a blue biro with not much ink left that was under my seat. In my own, hideously messy script I scrawl a note, plug my iPod into my ears once more and set off at full-speed to the Broflovski's house.
So I drove by your home, To drop off a simple note. Saying: "if it's not too late, Can I call you up after your date?"
I pull a stick of gum from my pocket, chew it briefly and then stick it to the back of the note I've written. I then clamber out of the truck and stick it to Kyle's front door, praying with all my heart he'll listen this time.
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