Kyle's POV
Fuck. Fuck!
Why did I do that? Why did I have to come onto him like that? I'm not even interested in him... I just wanted to get one over on him. I thought it'd be like a funny joke if I actually got him to fuck me. Jokes on me, though, 'cause he was far from interested.
I hold my head in my hands and try not to think about last night's complete and utter humiliation. I'm not used to being rejected. I can't recall ever being rejected like that in my life. God, I feel like I'll never recover. I don't even want to get out of bed now. I run my fingers through my hair before knotting them in the curly strands and pulling.
He didn't want me. Former fat, short, sadistic piece of shit Eric Cartman didn't want to fuck me. He was disgusted with me, I could tell. Hell, I guess I don't blame him. I'm a pretty gross guy.
I let out a calm breath, resting my palms on my knees for a few minutes before finally forcing myself to up. I wander out of the room, across the hallway and into the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm not a bad looking guy... I'm a bit thin, but I have a nice face and a nice ass. So, why didn't he want me?
Probably the scars. I'm damaged goods. Ha.
I know I had one too many last night too. When I went back in the kitchen to grab another drink, I quickly did a shot of Jager. I felt like it was the only way I could deal with the fact that Eric Cartman caught me being fucked in the ass by some ugly guy. Maybe it was the alcohol- or maybe I was just so desperate to get off again- that made my temporarily forget all my scars. Honestly, I thought he would go for it, scars and all.
Or, maybe it was because of the alcohol I suddenly found him to be really attractive. That is, just physically. In fact, I didn't know who it was when I first opened the door. I saw a guy wearing a white, button-down dress shirt with sleeves rolled up along with black slacks and dress shoes. He was a bit taller than me and had a muscular build; it was obviously that this "stranger" worked out a lot. Although one could tell that he's been distressed, his thick, brown hair was neatly parted on the side and he looked as though he came straight from the office. I think there was something about those big, brown eyes that threw me off because they seemed so familiar but yet so foreign.
"Kahl?" As soon as he said my name I knew.
I suppose he really did look good, though I hate to admit it (even to myself). He looked healthy. It's a strange word to associate with someone who was once so morbidly obese. As a kid, I thought he would have died of health complications by now... but I guess not. Time really does change people. I suppose for people like me, the changes aren't anything to be proud of... but for Eric fucking Cartman it proved to be a good thing.
I let out a shuddery breath and decide to distract myself with the only way I know how -
Sex.
I take a shower, washing thoroughly. Around noon my headache wanes and I decide to call up a guy I know. Naturally, he accepts my invite and says, "Be there soon." Feeling satisfied, I hang up the phone and wait. I don't even know his fucking name. I don't put the names of guys I fuck into my phone. I just make up names for them. This guy is Pornstache.
I'm in my robe again. It's easier this way. No point in getting dressed when I'll just be naked again soon enough. When the doorbell rings, I let the guy in. He's not handsome, but he's better looking than the guy last night. At least this fucker doesn't have a beer gut.
"Hey, 'sup, fuck-buddy?" he asks with a laugh. I force a tight smile in response before ushering him inside my dim apartment and dropping to my knees like an obedient dog. "Hn… yeah, fuck…" he grunts, grabbing a fistful of my hair. I know I give good head. Sex is probably one of the few things I'm confident about. It's my greatest talent.
After a few minutes, he tightens his grip and forces me to my feet. Rough hands, but I don't mind. He tears off my robe and shoves me into the nearest wall. I pre-lube for times like this. Not all guys like to take the time to be careful.
I inch my legs apart and arch my back, sticking my ass out and pressing my cheek against the wall. He grabs my hips and my breath hitches as I feel him enter.
"Fuck..." I hiss out, closing my eyes. I can feel his nails digging into my hip bones. It stings, but I don't mind it. I like the mix of pain and pleasure.
Wet slapping sounds fill the room as he quickens his pace. I start panting and whining like a chick in a fucking porno as he grunts behind me. I can feel his breath at the back of my neck and it gives me goose bumps. He presses himself closer, removing one hand from my hips and reaching for my cock. "Are you a little slut?" he whispers in my ear.
"Yes," I moan.
God, I'm disgusting.
Pornstache gets off and, just when I think he's going to pull out and start cuddling, he grabs my hair again, slams me up against the wall, and starts pounding me once more. That's one reason I like him; he can get off more than once and I let him. I didn't make him use a condom this time but that's okay. I really don't care at this point.
When he gets off the third time he starts kissing my neck and wraps his arms around my waist. "Mmm, I wish we could cuddle but I gotta get some work done," I say sweetly.
Pornstache mumbles something and kisses me quickly on the lips before he gathers his clothes and goes to the bathroom to clean up. It doesn't take him long to clean up and get his shit together before I see him to the door. Once he leaves, I walk into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. I drink it incredibly fast, as I am always parched after sex. Then I fill it up again. This time I drink the water slower and I think about everything that's happened in the last 12 hours. Sex with some ugly butterface, getting interrupted by Eric Cartman and then trying to have sex with HIM (only to get rejected), and then first thing this morning sex with Pornstache. I finish that glass of water and then I fill it up a third time. This time, I feel something sick in my stomach. I feel a strange sort of anxiety out of disgust and resentment and I know I'm beginning to panic. When I finish with this glass, I hold it for a second, standing there in my kitchen and not knowing what to do with all these thoughts of disgust and panic flooding into my head.
Holding the large glass, I smash it as hard and as fast as I can into the floor. I watch as the shards seem to fly everything and the sound of glass breaking sounds tragic yet beautiful at the same time. Not thinking, I kneel down and I pick up the largest shard I see close to me and I grip it hard in my right hand, which causes my right hard to bleed some. Paying no heed, I place the shard on my left fore-arm and do what feels right.
I press the piece of glass against the skin on my forearm and slide it across, immediately drawing blood. It feels good. Like an orgasm.
I do it again and again and then I raise my wrist, letting the blood swim down the length of my arm. I'm making a mess, but I can clean it up later. I smile to myself, feeling physically satisfied.
"Mm..." I moan.
Drip, drip, drip.
As much as I like blood, I've never been a fan of slasher movies. It's not the same when it's not my own blood.
I don't really have many hobbies. All I do is work, drink and fuck. I guess drinking and fucking are my hobbies, though "Nice Guys" like Eric fucking Cartman would probably look down on me for it. Ha, nice guys. There's no such fucking thing.
You know, I've tried dating "nice guys" before. I would ask mutual friends friend. "Oh yeah," they said, "he's a good guy. You should go for it!" So, of course, I took their advice and got into a serious relationship with saidnice guy. The last one even lasted a year. Things were great and I have to say that the last one treated me the best.
That is, until one day we got into a fight and he decided to end it because we were "too different" and he "could never understand" me. Now, I didn't know you had to understand someone to love them, but in this case...
Honestly, I think it was just the cutting that he never understood.
I wasn't trying to scare him. I was just trying to be open and honest about myself. But now I've learned that honesty will always bite you in the ass in relationships. That's why I prefer to stay honest and just fuck. No games and not a whole lot of dialogue. It's simpler that way.
If Cartman really IS the nice guy that he presented himself to be last night, I am positive that he would react exactly like the last one if we were to actually talk about my cutting. Sure, he would freak out and be a bit disgusted and confused, but he would ACT as though he accepts me anyways. All men do. They'll say whatever they want to get what they want. Sometimes, they actually mean it in that very moment. But it usually changes the next day. That's the thing about relationships. Why do people put so much work, time and effort in something that is supposed to last and be consistent when everything changes?
People get angry when they don't understand things. Men get upset when they can't help you out and be the knight in shining armor, but I never fucking asked for a knight in shining armor.
"Come to me the next time you feel the urge to hurt yourself," he would say, but I never could and he would get angry. He didn't understand that this wasn't about him. He didn't understand that this wasn't about dying and it definitely wasn't about being saved. I'm not here trying to kill myself. I'm here trying to fucking breathe.
Inevitably, things grew tense. The days leading towards the breakup were quiet and uncomfortable. I knew it was coming, yet I still let it drag on until he was ready to get the words out. I don't know why.
Love always gets thrown in your fucking face, but perhaps, underneath it all, it's something I continue to search for.
When the blood seems to finally be clotting, I get up, go to the bathroom and bandage myself up, as usual. I sit on the cover of the toilet as I contemplate what I should do for the rest of my fucked-up day. I grab my cellphone out of my pocket to look at the time.
11:41.
FUCK!
I really should clean the kitchen and get rid of all that glass, but I know I have to clock in sometime for work. Or, maybe I'll just use some of my paid vacation time and call it a day. Ideally, I wanted to use my PTO for an actual vacation, but what for? Am I going to go to France or Australia by myself? There was a time when I wanted to see all of the world, but what's the point when I'm alone? Who am I going to share my excitement and amusement with?
Paid vacation time it is. Exhausted, I walk into my bedroom and fall face-down on my bed.
There are a great many things I should be doing, but I won't be doing any of it any time soon.
Get dressed. Eat. Maybe go grocery shopping. Plus, I want to buy more liquor. I'm running low on the good shit.
I roll over on my mattress and cautiously stretch my limbs, trying not to break any fresh scabs. I raise my arm again and look at my most recent wound before bringing it towards my mouth and pressing it to my lips. The skin feels uneven and rough. I close my eyes before letting my hand fall by my head.
It still stings, but in a good way.
When I open my eyes I stare at all the swirls and patterns in the ceiling, letting myself space out. I feel groggy. The only time I don't feel groggy is when I'm having sex, but the feeling comes back as soon as I blow my load.
It's fucked. I'm fucked.
Sometimes I wish my parents would come check on me just to make sure I'm at least still alive, but they never do. Sometimes I wonder if they even care at all. I know they're busy with Ike, but they do have another son. They have me and when the apathy subsides, I get so fucking sick of being left behind.
I remember when Ike was sixteen and first started getting into some heavy shit. My parents insisted on sending him to a faith-based rehab center (and by faith-based I really mean Judaism-based) in some shitty town outside Dallas, Texas. Of course, they didn't trust him enough to send him by himself, so my dad went and stayed in a hotel nearby so that he could check on him everyday. Meanwhile, my mom and I stayed in South Park. I remember how worried sick my mom was. In fact, that was all she talked about for the two months that they were gone. "I heard Ike is doing well," or "They're switching up Ike's medication," or "Ike seems to be making a lot of friends there at the rehab center in Texas." When he came back, he was so doped up on medication (he was on at least 12 different ones) that all his words were slurred and he just wanted to sleep all of the time.
"I just don't know, Gerald. Is he SUPPOSED to be speaking like that?" she asked one night, after Ike went to sleep at 7:30 p.m.
"I promise that the doctors there told me that this is normal, Sheila!"
"But all he wants to do is sleep all the time! How could he have learned anything out in Texas if he was barely conscious?!"
Giving in, my parents finally took my brother to see a local psychiatrist who was appalled by how many meds Ike was recently prescribed. She took him off all of them except three. Mothers know best, I suppose.
Somehow, I knew that after a few days of Ike speaking clearly and acting more "normal", it wasn't going to last. I knew that, deep down, he preferred to be doped up.
And that was when he got into pain killers.
It was just a matter of time until all the bills came pouring in from different walk-in clinics. Ike drove all around the metro-Denver area to go doctor-shopping: Strasburg, Aurora, Brighton, Boulder, Fort Collins... And then some. Apparently he always had a back problem. Or arthritis , or tooth pain, or a torn ligament. It wasn't long before my little brother accrued a debt of well over $10,000.
It's scary how easily something like that can happen. It's scary how easily someone can slip and slip and slip until there's hardly anything left of them. That's what happened to Ike. He slipped and he fell pretty fucking far. Maybe that's what's happening to me, too. Honestly, I can't find it in me to care. I wish I could have taken on all of Ike's pain. It's not fair for him to have had to go through so much shit. He's too young to know so much about how shitty the world is. It's not fair. Then again, nothing is.
I've never really been able to protect him. I haven't played the part of the older brother in a long time. Sometimes I miss it, but I don't know how I'd react if I did see Ike. I'd probably just get fucking depressed.
The world sucks and then you die. I guess Ike tried cutting things short and speeding up the process. Sometimes I don't really blame him for it. I don't think it's a selfish action. People who say it is just don't understand that sometimes life gets truly unbearable. Though I understand it, I'd never kill myself. At least, not on purpose. I don't have it in me. I don't have that kind of macabre strength. So, instead, I cut myself up. I guess that's as close as I'll ever get to death, but that's not why I do it.
That's where me and Ike are different. I hurt myself in order to keep myself alive, whereas he hurts himself to try to bring himself closer to death. He has threatened suicide so many times that I've lost count. Honestly, I would've never taken his threats seriously if I didn't walk in on my brother trying to shoot himself that one time. Not that I've told anyone, but I remember one night having a dream where I walked in AS he pulled the trigger. I felt my heart drop into my stomach in my dream, already mentally beating myself up for not getting to his room sooner. Then I felt a wave of relief as I woke up, albeit in tears. What happened that day was traumatizing but I am so glad I walked in there when I did. I had to act strong and collected, as if I could keep a level, clear head under a tragic emergency.
Truth is, growing up Ike and I used to tell each other everything. But as he got into his drugs and as I got into my cutting, we drifted apart. I used to love him so much and, while I still do, it's strange that I have developed a bit of resentment towards him. Ike used to be sweet and he used to care about his friends and family. Not anymore. He is, without a doubt, the MOST self-centered human being that ever walked this planet. He is like the way Cartman used to be but much worse.
Cartman...
I still can't believe how fucking stupid I acted last night. Especially now that he's my neighbor. I wish so bad that I could go back and re-do last night. I would've lied about everything. I would've lied about my promiscuity. I would've said that I love my job and I find it very challenging. I wouldn't have disrobed and he wouldn't have seen my scars. And if he did somehow see my scars, I would've made some bullshit up. I wouldn't have gotten do goddamn drunk and I wouldn't have acted like such a slut, for fuck's suck.
I am fucking disgusted with myself.