All I knew this morning when I woke,
is I know something now,
know something now,
I didn't before.
- Everything Has Changed, Taylor Swift & Ed Sheeran
With a start, I spring upwards. Sticky sweat plasters my nightclothes to my skin; rough, papery sheets bunch between my fingers, helplessly trapped in a vice. I struggle to calm my racing heartbeat, but the nightmare fades promptly from memory. For a few moments, each heartbeat, palpable behind my ears, encapsulates the universe. As it evens, however, the whispering hum, the rhythmic beeping blurs slowly into consciousness. I recognize these walls painted subtly in matte-and-glossy maroon stripes, the sterile linoleum tiles. Dread churns in my stomach.
Hell's Pass Hospital.
The accident.
Kenny.
He nearly startles me into a second near-death with his suave, "Good morning, sunshine." I whip around, whimpering when each nerve smarts at the action. His mouth-corners contort in an impish, lopsided smirk.
"Kenny?" My voice, hoarse and unrecognizable from disuse, surprises me. I chance a glance upwards (Was Kenny always so tall?), acutely wondering if I merely fabricated our previous encounter. (Like dreams, except for an unconscious mind.) Our gazes meet; those mysterious beryl irises answer unspoken questions. I swallow, stomach leaden. (Maybe that's just nausea. When did I eat last? How long have I been here?) He holds the Styrofoam cup to my lips and I drink greedily, draining tepid though nonetheless refreshing liquid in several swallows. (Even my face aches.) Kenny tosses the cup easily into the corner wastebin, procuring a laughably dated Nokia from his pocket, as four jarring staccato thumps resound throughout the modest room. Before I even draw breath for "Come in!" Stan bursts through, door slamming into the wall behind him, stumbling over himself (mostly his untied shoelaces) to my bedside. A light sweat not from exertion dots his forehead. Watery snow drips from his leather jacket's shoulder. Disheveled raven locks, slightly greasy from a few days without washing, poke beneath his hat, which leans slightly to the left on his head. Darkness beneath his eyes only emphasizes the sallow pallor of his cheeks. Despite daily football practice, he seems scrawny, ill-nourished. Beside me, Kenny taps erratically at the plastic keys.
"Kyle!" proclaims Stan, gathering me in a fiercely passionate embrace. I cough weakly, body throbbing in dull protest beneath his forceful grip.
"Hey, Stan," I wheeze. And he's gone, horror widening his pupils.
"God, I'm so sorry! Kenny texted me like an hour ago when you began waking up but that son-of-a-bitch Mr. Wilson threatened to give me detention if I skipped the last half of his period again, so I had to wait until afternoon release." He trembles and fidgets, running anxious fingers through his hair and readjusting his hat, speaking so rapidly I barely understand him. He opens his mouth again, perhaps to clarify, but a feminine voice interrupts from the doorway.
"Good afternoon, Kenneth," Wendy Testaburger. Pointedly ignoring Stan, she floats closer, revealing Bebe Stevens and delicate blonde unfamiliar to me. Wendy's sapphire irises affix me with such genuine warmth that I cannot help returning the affection. "We're so glad to hear you're recovering," She begins. Bebe and the blonde nod. "The cheerleading squad misses you terribly." (Since when did the cheerleading squad even acknowledge my presence?) I glance to Kenny a fraction of a second, but he focuses intently on the screen. (Since when does Wendy just ignore Stan?)
"Yeah!" interjects Bebe. "We know how dreary hospitals are, so the girls and I created a care-slash-get-well-soon-package for you." She hands me a giftbag of simple matte cardstock, and despite the teal tissue paper numerous handmade cards peek from the top. Dumbstruck, I smile thankfully, which she returns blithely.
"I'm just glad to see you alive," whispers the nameless, enigmatic blonde. Though adopting a slightly more feminine tone, I'd recognize that voice anywhere. (Butters?) "I-I saw the truck hit you, right after you waved to me f-from the c-crosswalk. I-I was so afraid for you." Mist glazes her eyes.
"Hey," whispers Kenny, betraying his disinterest in his phone. He stands, gently gathering the apparently-now-female Butters into his arms and kissing her forehead. Stan, ever awkward, focuses pointedly on his sneakers.
"You better take good care of Marjorine, McCormick." teases Wendy affably. Marjorine blushes, withdrawing from Kenny and stammering an apology. Wendy's mellifluous laugh momentarily masks the hospital's dreary atmosphere, and soft, unexpected affection overwhelms me as she turns to address me. "I hate to cut our visit so short, but you know how Student Council keeps me busy. Please feel better. We hope to see you back at school soon, Kylie." She leaves with Bebe and Marjorine, who proffers a petite wave behind her. I puzzle over Kenny's dazed expression and rosy cheeks before Wendy's words sink in. (Kylie. Oh, God. Am I dating Wendy in this South Park?) Kenny, still transfixed, offers me no insight. Suddenly weary, I sink into the stiff pillow and groan.
Knight-in-shining-armor Stan rushes to my side, a flurry of questions about my condition. I assure him, yes, I'm just fine. Just weak, exhausted. I was hit by a truck, after all. Laugh. Cough. Cough again. After a few moments of silence, Kenny reclaiming his senses when his phone vibrates (Who's that I wonder?), Stan unexpectedly announces,
"I broke up with her."
(Oh, thank God I'm not dating Wendy. How awkward would that be?)
(Wait, what?)
He licks his wind-chapped lips, steadying his voice. "I broke up with Wendy." Repeats he. "Ever since last Wednesday, when that… that…" Stan seethes, broad shoulders stiffening, malice lacing his tone. "…bastard hit you, I've been a wreck. God, Kyle, I can't imagine life without you. So I broke up with her."
Cadenced monitors breach otherwise silence as I flounder for response. I consider "I'm sorry dude" (But I'm not, not really, they've never stayed together more than six weeks since seventh grade) and "Why don't you Facebook Skye from English? She seems pretty interested in you." (Though, last time I tried something similar he locked himself in his grandfather's 1989 Mustang, threatening suicide, because 'nobody will ever replace Wendy'), but the moment slips through my fingers. Stan's expression darkens, strained but indecipherable, and before I truly grasp the situation he turns towards the door.
"Feel better," he murmurs, the door whispering shut behind him.
