South Park

Nine Lives

Chapter 3 – Over My Head

(Kenny's POV)

It was well into the morning by the time I came out of the haze of delirium I had been in most of the night. I had wandered across all of South Park and back again, steering clear of my home, until finally I wound up at the bus stop. No one was there, it was Saturday morning, and most likely everyone was still asleep in their beds.

Everything was numb. I couldn't help but feel almost betrayed in some way. I felt nauseous, but had already thrown up a number of times during the night. Every time the urge came, all I could do was gag on what little I did not have in my stomach. Even the cold didn't seem to touch me. I knew I was going to die.

Over the next several weeks, the numbness ebbed away and was replaced by depression which continued to eat away at me. I spent days on end locked in my room, without eating or going outside. I lack the will and motivation to do anything.

Finally, my friends came and forced me out of my seclusion. It was Kyle who was the first to ask me why I was so down, though of course any compassion showed by the Jew was shot down almost immediately by Cartman. He responded for me saying 'He's so fuckin' poor, he can't afford to be happy. Ain't that right Kenny?' I hate that fat ass so much, damnit I hate him, but I couldn't even muster up the motivation to retaliate. Instead all I could do was shrug my shoulders and go along with their lame attempt at cheering me up.

The day dragged, like so many others before it. I found myself restless the whole time, and bored with Stan and Kyle's sympathy and worry. I felt almost physically sick any time Cartman would open his mouth, especially when he started in on counting the ways I can die. I felt tense, and anxious, tired, and just about ready to lose it. It also felt like I had an itch but I couldn't find the right source, and when I got close enough to finding some relief, something always seemed to take its place. Half way through the day, I thought I was starting to lose my mind. Everything seemed out of focus, and my thoughts kept wandering back to those papers, and the sick feelings I had.

"So are you going to come back to school Kenny?" Kyle asked.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure." I responded half-heartedly. We had ended the day at Shakey's Pizza, and were heading back to our respective homes. "See you tomorrow," I said as we parted ways. I turned and headed for my house.

Again, by sheer luck, I made it to my house alive and in one piece. I frowned and looked back at the trains whizzing by from the safety of the front walk way. "Strange," I said to myself and entered the house. The whole place was quiet, a rather somber air filtered through the living room. No one was home I guessed and went to my room, closing the door behind me.

I pulled the old blanket that covered my window tighter over the opening to block out as much light as I could, then flopped down on the bed. I started recounting the 37 holes in the ceiling, then looked over at a little rat that was sitting on his haunches at the far corner of m bed. He had a rather expectant gleam in his beady black eyes, and almost seemed to be asking why I was there.

Why was I there? I asked myself and turned my attention back to the ceiling. It had been almost a month now since the last time I was killed in some freak accident or another. A month? I wondered if that was a record for me. 'wait,' I thought to myself and sat up in bed, 'every time I die, I come back, and I'm usually just fine.' I got out of bed and pulled up the covers to peer underneath. "GAH! Get away you stupid fuckin' rat!" I yelled out as a rat jumped at my face from under the bed and started scratching me. A group of the squeaking little rodents swarmed out from under the seclusion of the underneath of the bed and scattered into the walls. I pulled the one off of me and hissed at it, then tossed the thing over into a pile of laundry in one corner. I went back under the bed and retrieved a small box I had hidden there a couple years ago.

The metal box was small and covered with dust and what I could only guess was rat urine. I sneezed, then knocked set the box down on the bed and pulled out a set of keys from my pocket. I opened the box to reveal a pocket knife I had received a couple years ago from Stan's Uncle Jimbo, and a taser I had um, acquired from his shop.

I pulled out the taser and brushed some dust off of its black surface. It was small, but I knew it packed a punch, and could definitely kill me if I let it. I frowned and pointed the thing awkwardly at myself, closed my eyes and pulled the switch. Nothing happened.

I opened one eye and looked at the device I had pointed at myself. I half expected to be dead right now and seeing the fires of Hell. At the very least, I would have thought there would have been some pain to drown out the numbness I had been feeling as of late, but no. Nothing at all.

"God damn mother-fuckin' piece of shit!" I yelled and chucked the thing into the closet, where it promptly exploded with a shower of bluish light. It didn't even make a fire. My next alternative was the knife. I picked it up out of the box and looked at it. I glided my finger across the edge of the metal and flipped the blade out of hiding. It was still sharp, I noted and delicately traced the sharpened edge. I could see my reflection in the steel of the blade. My distorted image looked tired and worn, sick, dying.

"It's merely an escape, not really a suicide," I said softly to myself. My hands were shaking some. "Not really suicide." I didn't feel convinced, but none the less I placed my blade against my wrist. I winced as the blade cut my skin, allowing my blood to flow freely. I gritted my teeth, but traced the blade across a new line on my wrist. I made a couple more shallow cuts before I finally stopped. My vision was growing a little hazy and I felt dizzy, but nothing else. I didn't feel the usual tug I was so familiar with, the one I felt right before I die. I frowned and set the knife down next to me, and watched the blood trickling from my wrist and down my arm. No, I wasn't feeling Death. If anything, I was feeling release. It felt almost good to bleed, to feel.

It made me forget why I did it in the first place.

Over the course of the week following, I returned to school. Everyone was a little shocked to see me, especially when I showed up to school wearing all black and grey. Stan and Kyle expressed their concerns for my new dress code, but I waved it off like it was nothing. Cartman on the other hand said, "Look who's decided to join the ranks of the faggy Goths! He locks himself away in the dank dark of the ghetto, the ghettoooo," he broke into song. I swung around, aiming for his head, but he caught my wrist. "Too slow poor boy."

I winced, and wrenched my arm away from him, "Fuck you fat-ass." I gripped my arm and stared off the other way, ignoring their presence until the bus came to cart us to school. Half way to school, I noticed a sticky wet sensation on my arm, and looked down. My sleeve was soaked through with blood, and it was trickling down my arm. I clenched it tight, hoping to get the bleeding to stop. By the time the bus pulled up to the school, I was in an almost dream like state, but I had managed to stop the bleeding for the most part.

I raced to the bathroom as soon as I was off the bus, breaking away from my friends, who must have thought I was ditching them or something. Once I made it to the bathroom, I washed off as much blood as I could and wrapped my wrist with some bandage I had hidden in my bag. "That should keep it from bleeding again," I said softly to myself and inspected my shirt. I had gotten a fair amount of blood on the sleeve around my wrist, but luckily it didn't look like too much, and my clothing was black, so it didn't show up too much.

I exited the bathroom and made my way to my first period class. I found myself dozing through the whole lecture, and felt very lucky that I sat towards the back of the room and just under the teacher's radar. I skimmed through the first several periods of the day like that, then about lunch time I started to feel a little more awake. I sat down at our table and waited for Stan, Kyle and Cartman to make their appearances. After about five minutes of waiting, I heard Stan talking on about something that was going on between him and his long time infatuation, Wendy Testaberger. Kyle was right there with him, listening, though not really seeming all that into it. I knew he didn't really care much for Wendy, and the popular rumor in the school now was that not only was she a slut with guys, but she also was willing to put out with chicks.

I spotted them coming over, and waited, my eyes quickly scanning over the rest of the cafeteria until I finally spotted Cartman in line with Butters. I could only assume by the grin on his face and the panicked look on Butters that Cartman was hustling him for his spot in line, and was telling some dramatic lie to scare the other boy.

"Hey Kenny," I heard Kyle say as he plopped his tray down on the table and sat across from me. Stan took the seat next to him and started in on his food. I reached over and snagged a few French fries from Kyle's tray. "Hey you guys," I answered. It was so routine. Kyle gave me a disapproving look, but ignored the urge to complain about my stealing his food. We all knew that since we were in high school, there were no lunch programs, and thus I went without lunch most days. It was really kind of sad. In grade school, lunch was the one meal I was guaranteed in a day. I popped the fries in my mouth, and stared blankly at the table. Stan had started droning on about his life with Wendy again, a subject I usually wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.

"Hey, you guys, seriously," Cartman interrupted everyone's thoughts as he plopped down next to me, almost shoving me from my seat in the process. "I convinced Butters that there were starving children in South Park, and that he could save them by giving me his lunch. Isn't that awesome?"

"Not really Cartman. It's kinda wrong," Kyle said, narrowing his vibrant green eyes in disgust. I looked over at Cartman, but didn't say anything, half wondering if it would be possible to sneak some food off the fat-ass. He didn't need it all anyways.

Just my luck, I made it through lunch only managing to snag what I could from Kyle. The one attempt I made at Cart man's lunch wound up rewarding me with a punch to the stomach, a string of insults, and the luxury of watching Cartman eat most of what food there was and then toss the rest. God, if I wasn't trying to ditch the poor sad fuck image, I would have dove in the trash after it.

After lunch hour was over, I started feeling the nagging depression lingering just under the surface. It grew until it was all I could pay attention to. Everything else around me faded, and all I found myself doing was staring at the clock, waiting impatiently for the second hand to move just one more space forward in time. I winced, a sick feeling rising from my fairly empty stomach. I fought back the nausea, and realized that not only was I feeling sick and depressed, I was also craving something. My mind was telling me that I wanted to feel something else. I wanted my release.

As soon as seventh period was over, I wandered aimlessly back to my locker and took out the pocket knife, along with the book I would need for my next class. My mind felt like it was on auto-pilot. The only thing I could focus on was the knife and the blood. I felt like I was sleep walking. It took a minute to make it to the bathroom, since chicks don't know how to share the fuckin' hall, but when I arrived, I was glad to find the guy's room empty. I locked myself in one of the stalls, and rolled up one of my shirt sleeves, and removed the bandages I wore around my wrist. I stared at the scars there for a moment, mesmerized by what they meant and the slight rush of pleasure they promised me. Then I quickly opened the pocket knife and ever so gently ran it over one of the scars, reopening the shallow wound, and allowing my blood to flow freely again. It was almost as soothing as Heaven.

I don't know whether I just spaced out or totally blacked out, but the sound of the bell ringing overhead caused me to snap back to attention. Looking down at my wrist, I saw blood leaking out of the wound, and pooling on the floor. "Shit," I muttered to myself and started wiping it up, then started dabbing the blood off my hand and wrist. After I got mostly cleaned up, I removed some clean bandages from my pocket and quickly wrapped my wrist, replaced my sleeve into its proper places, and flushed all the bloodied toilet paper and paper towels. I felt dizzy, spacey really, as I made my way late to class. I didn't care though, I was on high. The rest of the day passed swiftly, my mind was unfocused and I listened to the lectures half in dream land.

I wonder how long this will last. . .

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