South Park: Pretending (30_tears prompt #12)
South Park
Pretending
Prompt #12, "What Can I Do to Make You See Me?"
PG
791 words
Approx Age: 17
The person having the hardest time accepting Kyle's death is... Kyle.
In case you're wondering: the guy in my icon is not Stan, he just sort of reminds me of him.
Pretending
He couldn’t make it through the funeral. The combination of emotion and boredom was such that he fled the temple before his cousin had even delivered the eulogy. The utterly repetitive uselessness of the ritual prayers and Ike’s feeble attempt at controlling his tears sent him running out the doors and down the streets, shouting and yelping with a mixture of anger, fear and strange elation.
He supposes he can’t be very special, so it must be the case that many people will ultimately witness their own funerals. Still, it’s not something one expects to deal with. Especially not at seventeen.
***
He was always happier at Stan’s house than at his own, and he doesn’t see why this should be any different now. Besides, he’s getting tired of his parent’s incessant weeping, and of the sight of Ike roaming the hallways pining, looking much like a ghost himself, so he says goodbye and heads through the door.
He settles onto the downstairs couch and watches football with Randy. Stan’s father had never been terribly communicative when sports were on, so for an hour or so, he can almost pretend that he and Randy are two healthy, living men, kicking back and watching the game as healthy, living men often do.
It all comes rushing back at him when Sharon calls up for Stan to come to dinner, and the reply is the crashing sound of thrown furniture.
***
At first, he tries playing with the lights. Even with his mind completely focused, he still can’t get the switch to budge. It’s possible, just possible, that Sparky is looking in his direction as he curses in frustration and pounds his fists right through the wall; or maybe it’s coincidence.
His next attempt is on the papers littering the desk, but he fails to elicit so much as a rustle. Stan is lying on his floor and staring without blinking straight through the ceiling. He stands over him, legs a long triangle over his friend’s chest and leans down, and pretending that Stan is staring at him.
***
He’s not giving up, just taking a break. He can’t look at Stan for another moment, and anyway, he figures he’s got all the time in the universe.
He visits Kenny, sits a while in his grimy bedroom and watches him flip through his schoolbooks without reading. He cozies up beside him and watches the words fly by, catching snippets here and there about Shakespeare and Napoleon and the circulatory system. He wonders if Heaven will be a library, and wonders why he’s not there yet.
Kenny’s eyes are dry but there are crumpled tissues overflowing from the wastebasket. He wonders if death is any less of a mystery to Kenny, any less of a thing to be feared. They’d talked about the afterlife once, and Kenny had promised him that there was nothing to worry about; still, every time he died there was a look of terror on his face.
He drags his finger along Kenny’s shoulder and feels the memory of fabric, then he’s gone.
***
In Cartman’s house, he tries even harder to physically manifest himself, get the last laugh of all and watch the fatass piss himself as his desk chair goes flying across the room. When he finally stops long enough to notice that Cartman’s eyes are red beneath his bangs and his arms are covered in fingernail bruises, he flees before he has to make sense of it. He wishes he still had a stomach to blame for the ache that must now, by necessity, be entirely emotional.
***
Of course, there are others he should see, but he’s growing tired; they’ll just have to forgive him. He makes his way back to Stan’s house slowly, a weary but genuine smile on his face. Stan has relocated to his mattress now, his eyes still open and unblinking, kept sufficiently moistened by the steady flow of tears. He crawls into bed beside him and sighs, content and nostalgic but most of all, sleepy.
He gently kisses each tear on Stan’s cheeks, but his lips come away dry.
“Stan?” He whispers. “Stan, I promise, I didn’t mean to die before you.”
He lies back on Stan’s bed, pretending he can feel the softness of the pillow and the warmth of the blankets, and closes his eyes. Now there’s nothing for it but to wait.
***
Stan awakes when the light comes flooding through curtains that he could have sworn he’d closed last night. There’s still a lingering whisper of pressure on his hand, although someone had been holding it just seconds before. He sits up slowly, casting his sleepy eyes around the room, and tries to hang on to the fading memory of his dreams.
“Kyle?”
Pretending
Prompt #12, "What Can I Do to Make You See Me?"
PG
791 words
Approx Age: 17
The person having the hardest time accepting Kyle's death is... Kyle.
In case you're wondering: the guy in my icon is not Stan, he just sort of reminds me of him.
Pretending
He couldn’t make it through the funeral. The combination of emotion and boredom was such that he fled the temple before his cousin had even delivered the eulogy. The utterly repetitive uselessness of the ritual prayers and Ike’s feeble attempt at controlling his tears sent him running out the doors and down the streets, shouting and yelping with a mixture of anger, fear and strange elation.
He supposes he can’t be very special, so it must be the case that many people will ultimately witness their own funerals. Still, it’s not something one expects to deal with. Especially not at seventeen.
***
He was always happier at Stan’s house than at his own, and he doesn’t see why this should be any different now. Besides, he’s getting tired of his parent’s incessant weeping, and of the sight of Ike roaming the hallways pining, looking much like a ghost himself, so he says goodbye and heads through the door.
He settles onto the downstairs couch and watches football with Randy. Stan’s father had never been terribly communicative when sports were on, so for an hour or so, he can almost pretend that he and Randy are two healthy, living men, kicking back and watching the game as healthy, living men often do.
It all comes rushing back at him when Sharon calls up for Stan to come to dinner, and the reply is the crashing sound of thrown furniture.
***
At first, he tries playing with the lights. Even with his mind completely focused, he still can’t get the switch to budge. It’s possible, just possible, that Sparky is looking in his direction as he curses in frustration and pounds his fists right through the wall; or maybe it’s coincidence.
His next attempt is on the papers littering the desk, but he fails to elicit so much as a rustle. Stan is lying on his floor and staring without blinking straight through the ceiling. He stands over him, legs a long triangle over his friend’s chest and leans down, and pretending that Stan is staring at him.
***
He’s not giving up, just taking a break. He can’t look at Stan for another moment, and anyway, he figures he’s got all the time in the universe.
He visits Kenny, sits a while in his grimy bedroom and watches him flip through his schoolbooks without reading. He cozies up beside him and watches the words fly by, catching snippets here and there about Shakespeare and Napoleon and the circulatory system. He wonders if Heaven will be a library, and wonders why he’s not there yet.
Kenny’s eyes are dry but there are crumpled tissues overflowing from the wastebasket. He wonders if death is any less of a mystery to Kenny, any less of a thing to be feared. They’d talked about the afterlife once, and Kenny had promised him that there was nothing to worry about; still, every time he died there was a look of terror on his face.
He drags his finger along Kenny’s shoulder and feels the memory of fabric, then he’s gone.
***
In Cartman’s house, he tries even harder to physically manifest himself, get the last laugh of all and watch the fatass piss himself as his desk chair goes flying across the room. When he finally stops long enough to notice that Cartman’s eyes are red beneath his bangs and his arms are covered in fingernail bruises, he flees before he has to make sense of it. He wishes he still had a stomach to blame for the ache that must now, by necessity, be entirely emotional.
***
Of course, there are others he should see, but he’s growing tired; they’ll just have to forgive him. He makes his way back to Stan’s house slowly, a weary but genuine smile on his face. Stan has relocated to his mattress now, his eyes still open and unblinking, kept sufficiently moistened by the steady flow of tears. He crawls into bed beside him and sighs, content and nostalgic but most of all, sleepy.
He gently kisses each tear on Stan’s cheeks, but his lips come away dry.
“Stan?” He whispers. “Stan, I promise, I didn’t mean to die before you.”
He lies back on Stan’s bed, pretending he can feel the softness of the pillow and the warmth of the blankets, and closes his eyes. Now there’s nothing for it but to wait.
***
Stan awakes when the light comes flooding through curtains that he could have sworn he’d closed last night. There’s still a lingering whisper of pressure on his hand, although someone had been holding it just seconds before. He sits up slowly, casting his sleepy eyes around the room, and tries to hang on to the fading memory of his dreams.
“Kyle?”