Sorry for the lack of updates. The reason being that my exam results came in last Thursday, and I've had a lot of college preparations to do before I return, like enrolling for second year and meeting my new form tutor. I've also had to attend meet ups with friends due to many of them leaving home to attend universities around the country, which is a very sad occasion. Also, I've had severe writer's block these past few days. Hopefully it hasn't damaged my writing any and that you guys enjoy this chapter. ~ Maisy-Shane

Kenny's POV

"Kenny, why the fuck would you want to top yourself?"

I fought the urge to roll my eyes because I knew Stan was upset and most likely distressed. But I'd tried to explain that I hadn't tried to kill myself, discreetly trying to tell him that I hadn't had the balls to do it. The idea of committing suicide was one that was exhilarating and tempting, dangling in front of me like the keys to get out of this place. I so desperately wanted to grasp those keys, but I was terrified of what lay beyond, what would lay waiting for me. So I would just stare at those keys, fantasizing about where they would lead me to, imagining what I'd leave behind.

I had contemplated suicide for a few weeks now; at first it was merely a passing thought and I paid it very little heed but it left its tracks behind in my brain. It kept passing and I kept ignoring it, until its prints were too deep in my mind that I could no longer turn a blind eye to them. They were starting to affect me, starting to appear in my thoughts spontaneously and without reason. When I was lying awake at night, instead of worrying or wondering about the day ahead or remembering the day I'd just left behind, I was planning my suicide.

I was going to take a shit load of pills and see how they worked. I was going to go to Stark's Pond and drown myself. I was going to hang myself in my room while my parents were out. I was going to jump off of the top of the school. I was going to wait for a car that was going at a speed slightly faster than others and jump in front of it. I was going to choke myself. I was going to cut my wrists...yeah, it sounds very bleak and miserable, I know but that's all I could think about.

I started to believe that I'd driven myself insane. It wasn't the fact that I'd just got dumped by someone; if someone was acting this way after a break up, I'd have shaken them and told them that they were young, that they had the whole world waiting for them and that if they stopped now, it'd be a waste. If I could so easily pass on that advice, why couldn't I take it? It was like I had traded every part of me away; who I once was, what I'd once thought, once believed, once felt. All of that had been dealt; I'd played with my heart, putting it on the table far too early. If I'd held off for a while, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much right now. Maybe I'd be okay; maybe I'd be back at school and be friends with...with him. It aches to say his name, is that wrong? Is that stupid of me? Before I'd even realised what I'd done, what position I'd put myself in, I'd lost and everything I had was taken away.

Three months of being in a relationship, was not a long time. Before January 17th, I'd been living life day by day, counting down the days to go until things finally got better. Things were looking a little better for me around then, but then this offer came up that I could not refuse. The offer of being wanted by someone...the offer of being in a relationship had been too great and I'd caved before I could read the fine print. It warned in its tiny voice that things could go wrong at any point, that relationships weren't permanent most of the time and that I had to wait until the right moment to give up everything I owned to share with someone else. Foolishly, I had dived head first before testing the waters.

Now, I was waiting for the hurt to cease. People seemed to get straight back on their feet after leaving a relationship; like Stan for instance. He and Wendy had been dating for God knows how long, and when they broke up he seemed so...so calm, and he shrank back to normality pretty much the next day. When I'd asked if he was upset, he admitted he was and said he would be for a long time; he just had to keep on going. I remembered the admiration I felt for him then. Whenever he passed Wendy in the halls, he would keep his head down and would be quiet for a second or two, but then he'd start talking as if nothing had occurred.

Why wasn't I that strong? Why wasn't I able to wake up the next day and manage to put a brave face on it all? I guess brave faces take years to construct, years to perfect, and I hadn't ever had to use it really before. Now when I needed it, it wasn't working and I was wearing every thought, every feeling upon my face. My parents had tried to understand what was wrong, but as I've hinted before, they were always useless at playing mommy and daddy. They wound up losing their temper half way through and would wind up pushing me away rather than pulling me closer. My dad would say I was wallowing in self pity whenever I left my room, so I stopped leaving my room all together.

I blocked my door and refused to go out unless it was for urgent uses like bathroom breaks or a quick gulp of water whilst the house was empty. Kevin had tried to come in a few times, but he was as useless as my mom, trying to understand but not really getting anything of what I was saying. He stood at my door for a good half hour, asking questions, trying to get a picture of what I was going through but he was getting it all wrong. He assumed I was fed up at home, that I'd fallen out with my friends, that I'd just given up on schoolwork since my family couldn't afford to send me to college. He gave in after those thirty minutes, and hasn't tried since.

So, I'd taken on something I'd never really considered before. When people say self-harm, you immediately picture an attention-seeking kid who wants to create a boo-boo so that someone could kiss it better for them and give them a cuddle. I'd never truly understood it myself, but that itch crawled on me the moment I laid my eyes on a sharpener. I was out of my room on one of those occasions when I had the house to myself; I'd fixed myself a sandwich of stale bread and some lettuce, when my eyes landed on it. It was probably Karen's since she was the artist of the family; she'd probably been sketching and forgot to pack away her sharpener, eraser and a few stray colouring pencils.

When I first saw it, something started to creep up my arms, like a shiver but more gripping. I folded my arms at my stomach, hugging myself to warm me up. I turned my back on it and tucked into my sandwich, not really tasting it, just eating it. My gut gripped and clenched as it accepted the small meal; it was the first I'd had in days, and all the while I wanted to turn around. Eventually, without thinking, I stormed across the room, knocked it to the ground and stomped on it with my trainer. A sharp crack clicked through the air and I continued to slam my foot onto it until it had all fallen apart, leaving the metallic razor sitting there in front of me.

I picked it up and let out a hiss as it cut deep into my thumb. I stared at the small wound with curiosity, gazing at the dark globe of blood that swelled at the tip before rolling slowly down like a scarlet boulder, leaving its cold wet trail behind. I didn't think to wipe it away, nor did it cross my mind that I was staring at my own blood like it was gold that had sprung into the air. I only snapped out of this trance when the ball, lacking in quantity now, dripped onto my jeans leaving their eye-catching stain.

I heard my dad's truck outside and sprinted back into my room, barricading it once again, giving me a sense of security, a sense of isolation that thrilled me. I was alone, and no one could stop me from doing this. I sat on the edge of my bed, my eyes drifting from the razor in my left hand to my right wrist. I began to tremble with anticipation and I rested the blade against my wrist, feeling the corner nip at the skin as I started to press down. Then I dragged it swiftly across and stared in amazement as the blood fled to the open wound.

Cutting then became something I did out of habit; I've only been doing it for three days but those three days felt like a block colour of red and I could imagine no other colour or even shade. It was my world, odd as that sounds. It gave me a place to retreat when the pain became too real on the inside, so I gave it a doorway, an escape that I desired for myself. Today, I had cut a little too deep and despite the amount of times I'd tried to stop the bleeding, I could not. My body vibrating with a chill that was not associated with the outside world, I fainted and that's how Stan found me...he thought I'd committed suicide.

"You're a fucking idiot!" Stan was sobbing now, in a fit of tears I'd never seen him in before. He was pacing back and forth, his hands quaking, shifting frantically from his jean pockets to his jacket ones and then crossing at his chest as he folded his arms. "You tried to...over...you...you fucking..."

"Stan," I cut him off, trying to sound firm and utterly serious so that he didn't think I was making excuses or taking this lightly. "I didn't try to kill myself."

"Then what the fuck is that on your wrist, Ken?" Stan froze and his eyes dropped upon the wounds on my wrist. My cheeks turning boiling hot, I tried to hide it when a new emotion swept over his features and he crossed the room over to me. He took my arm and examined the cuts, grimacing.

"I'll get a tissue or something," he muttered, mostly to himself. Without another word, he rose and exited my room, heading to my bathroom. I stared after him.

My eyes were heavy like strings were attached and someone was pulling them slowly down. My head swam with confusion, exhilaration and agitation; my breaths were deep and made me feel like I was floating somewhere else, swaying to a song that was on mute. My arm was throbbing, sprinkles of stinging sensations running across every mark.

Stan returned and crouched before me, starting to dab at my arm. I yelped, my eyes snapping wide open. He, seemingly expecting this reaction, touched my cheek with his right hand, his left still holding the tissue to the injury. His eyes ran circles around my own, nodding curtly at me as if to ask if he could continue. I felt like shaking my head, telling him to leave to let me sleep, but I didn't. I nodded to give him the permission to continue, and he did, his hand remaining on my face.

Like a sudden, brutish strum of a guitar, I realised that this moment before me was not that dissimilar to the one a few weeks ago, when Kyle was treating the grazes on my knuckles. Stealing a quick glimpse at the grazes I'd tried so hard to avoid due to traces of Kyle's affection still lingering there, I felt a tug in my chest, a violent jerk that made me let out a shaky, elongated gasp.

Stan looked up at me the moment I allowed it to escape my lips and he got to his feet, both hands now cupping my face, leaning over to look me in the eyes. I didn't see him exactly, but I knew he was there in front of me, looking at me because I felt it.

"Kenny? You alright?" he asked softly, with such a knowing tone that I felt highly embarrassed and naked.

He was fully aware that it wasn't the pain in my wrist that was bothering me, nor made me make such a sound. Stan understood that I'd thought about Kyle, and that his presence had allowed it. All the same, he didn't drown me in apologies; he didn't start to cry again, he didn't do anything. He just stood there, holding my chin up like he was keeping my head above water, and stared into my eyes, and gradually he came into view.

"Sorry, Stan," I said, my voice hoarse and alien to my own ears.

Stan smiled briskly and resumed his crouching position, tapping his pockets and then frowning as he couldn't recall where he'd put the tissues. He finally realised he'd dropped them onto the floor in his panic and let out a groan, muttering something along the lines of "idiot" and then hastily departed again to the bathroom to get some more.

I hugged myself tightly, tucking my knees up to my chest so I could feel my heart thudding against them. I closed my eyes and started to breathe in and out, slowly but wobbly. Everything from the outside world reminded me of Kyle...I wish it didn't, but it did. Even Stan's being here reminded me of him. When would all of this...shit stop? When will I be able to see things that remind me of him without feeling that pang, that yearning? I couldn't keep dwelling on the past, but the past was all I had. It was where all my greatest and worst memories lurked, and whenever I needed to reflect on a positive moment in my life, all I could think of was Kyle's arms around me after we'd made love for the first time and he whispered: "I love you, Kenny".

Three simple words, when used alone meant nothing...but strung together, meant everything to me.

I was so stuck in these thoughts, wading through them without any sign of escape, when I felt a pair of arms envelop me, pulling me close. My body seemed to fall limp, my knees dropping so my feet were hanging over the side of my bed, my hands slipping and falling to my sides, and my eyes opened a little. It was Stan; I could tell by that sweet smell that he carried like an item of clothing he never removed. I buried my face into his chest, holding him close to me as if he was going to fix me, like if he was close enough I would become whole again.

Of course, I didn't feel fixed but, despite that twitch of disappointment, I still held him, and the hope that I would someday feel that way...that someday, I wouldn't feel so empty and pointless...

000

Stan's POV

I chose not to tell anyone about Kenny's new...addiction. If it was drugs or alcohol, I probably would've told Kyle, or even Cartman, because it was something people knew how to manage and control. Simply take away the tools of destruction, and not give it back no matter how much they claimed to hate you. But even if I took away Kenny's razors, even if I rid his home of scissors and knives, he would still find ways to hurt himself, more risky ways and I churned the possibilities in my mind like a disgusting, vile potion that sent off fumes of anxiety. I couldn't stop thinking about Kenny, and it was chewing on my mind so much so that I barely noticed what I was doing. It got to the point of me sitting in the bath for a good two and half hours, only stirring when my dad thumped on the bathroom door.

The water had been bone gnawingly cold but I hadn't noticed until my dad had broken the element of silence where my thoughts screamed their opinions at their highest volume. Trembling, I groped for the towel that sat waiting for me in the sink and wound it around my waist, my feet skidding and sliding on the soaked floor. I opened the door to see my dad there, newspaper in hand, browns furrowed.

"Stanley, I've been waiting for you to finish in here for nearly three hours!" he scolded. "I need to use the bathroom!"

"Sorry, dad," I mumbled, nudging past him to get into my bedroom. I closed the door, not even bothering to listen to what he had to say. I stood at the door for a good twenty minutes, just staring into space as my mind gallivanted and strayed as much as it desired. There were no reins pulling them back to reality anymore.

The toilet flushed and I perked up, shaking my head and changing into my night clothes, my teeth still chattering. I barely heard the knock on my door and I didn't even notice my mom had helped herself in.

"Stan, your dad's worried," she said timidly, obviously being forced into talking to me by dad who hadn't the balls to do it himself. "He says you seem preoccupied. Anything you want to talk about?"

If I told her about Kenny, she would definitely inform his family, and she wouldn't mind telling Kyle's mom, and then it would get back to Kyle who would feel like shit and blame me for not telling him. Fuck why were things so fucking complicated?

"Er...no, not really," I replied, not turning to face her despite feeling her eyes on my back. "I'm just...really tired."

There was a pause before she spoke again. "Did you see Kenny today?"

I contemplated lying, but if I did I would be in shit 'cos I could've come home to help my dad clear out the shed rather than have Mr. Broflovski helping him. So, instead, I told a very edited and revised version.

"Yeah, I did," I said slowly, analysing every single word in case I gave anything away. "He's doing a little better now. He might even come back to school next week." I cringed, knowing this would probably not happen.

"Oh, that's good news," Mom sounded genuinely happy and I felt remorse for not telling her the full truth. "Alright, Stan, I'll let you alone now. Goodnight sweetie."

"Night, Mom," I returned, only risking a look over my shoulder when I heard the door close. To see I was alone in my room, I crossed over to my computer and started to look up 'self-harm' on the internet.

There was one site that was full of advice for people suffering with self-harm addiction, but, basically, it just said: "Don't do it". It offered alternative options such as punching a pillow or writing a diary, but that just sounded really gay and I knew Kenny would say the same.

Other sites offered photographs of horrific self-harm incidents that made me heave at one point, feeling nauseated by the thought of Kenny doing any of that shit. In the end, I gave in and retreated to my bed, crawling under the sheets.

Never in my life did I imagine Kenny doing something like that...that horror of believing my friend was dead continued to drag along inside of me, and I knew that that experience would linger for a long time, and that no amount of years could truly erase it. I stared for a good amount of time at my right wrist, recalling all those savage looking marks upon Kenny's skin, how sore and raw they looked. One after the other leaving barely any skin between them, they sat upon his wrist like dark red ditches.

All of this over Kyle who was my best friend. My stomach twisted and I rolled over with so much force it made my bed thud and sink under me. My eyes widened; oh shit, I broke my bed...

A bit shorter than my other chapters but that was because this chapter was so fucking hard to write! Gah! I wrote so many different versions, though none of them seemed to work and when I returned to them they just left me with no place to go and it was just a matter of saving file after file of the same bloody chapter. If this is shitty, I'm really sorry. Thanks for reading though and putting up with me and my irregular postings ~ Maisy-Shane.