Insanity Bleeds

Chapter One: Die-Ary Entry

HDM: note that listening to Orgy's new Punk-Statik-Paranoia inspired this fic but Especially the song Can't Take This. Green Day's album Shenanigans will be incorporated as well plus System of a Down's Toxicity album. I may have a song chapter to go along with the story but I haven't decided when or which song. (Yes music influence the shyt you see before you)

And about the story...

I have now gotten into South Park; reason I watched the New Year's marathon plus the movie giving me an idea or two. Although I like the pairings like StanxKyle or CartmanxKyle etc. but I don't know if any romance will ensue until later in the chapters. Yes, they're older and I did draw myself a sketch and I will post the drawings when I use my colour pencils (im too cheap for Photoshop XP)

Here's the Tainted Scripture you're damned reading...

I can only hear 'blah blah blah'

I think that I programmed my brain to not even hear the audible screeches coming from every being trying to communicate with me. It's so hard to distinguish the assholes from regular human beings. The assholes manifest this earth toilet; the regular humans come few and far between. Hell, they populate everything and destroy anything remotely good and nice. I cannot see any beauty, why bother? I mean it'll all be cast away to rot somewhere. I should know, I was cast away to rot every damn day of my childhood.

Dying, it's the binding thing that keeps most humans in line. Normal people follow the Rules of Life and Death while others stray from the rules. Most follow a ritual and stay clear from anything that could disrupt their reason to live. The clinically and non-clinically insane do not see the line defining life and death. The red line is a pink dot to them. They think they're invincible; an example would be an arrogant teenager. I cannot be even categorized in any slot. I do not follow the rules but then again the rules do not apply to me altogether. There's no reason to abide or 'rebel' against rules that don't justify things that aren't cared by any supreme deity after death. There's no purpose for me to even try to get myself to fit.

I, Kenny McCormick, have drifted away from being the typical kid who would die every day in the town of South Park. I have actually lived to be the rowdy age of fifteen. The dying ceased after awhile after age ten but I do not know why. I guess the higher deities picked another sap to torture with the curse of coming back again and again to this hellhole. South Park, the town where the only dirty word is hope. Any kind of phenomena, scandal, celebrity interaction, or other worldly disasters happened in the little town of hicks. That's really crude to think, although I would be labeled as 'white trash'.

My friends you could say haven't really grown away from their childhood personas. Eric is still the same; a fatass Hitler reincarnation who gets what he wants. He wears the same thing since he was eight but plus sizes. We found out that he became a bulimic a year ago; Stan walked in on Eric gagging in the can. Eric tried to make it not what it seems but we're not as stupid as he thinks. I could think that he hasn't changed but everyone changes some way. I think Eric, although quite insane, has the best grip about how harsh the world really is. He acts the way he does because maybe that's the way he thinks he can accept how things are. Then again, this is Eric we're talking about...

Well, Stan is something in itself. We all thought of Stan of being the one that would be the all A's, Quarterback, perfect girlfriend, all around happy kid. Stan got into different things that would be considered 'alternatively weird' in a sense. He reads Johnny the Homicidal Maniac while drinking some Vamp shyt. He dresses like Dracula and reads cult things. His personality didn't change, just his interests in things. Football didn't get thrown away but Stan wasn't socially adaptable to be star quarterback. It's a shame; a goth kid playing football isn't the best mix. Wendy worries I guess for his safety, I wouldn't blame her. I'm waiting for the first punch to be thrown.

Kyle Broflovski...what can I say about him. He looks, amazing, to what everyone says about him. He grew out his red hair so now he has these bangs gracing over his green eyes. He has high cheekbones that shape his faces so nicely. He looks like what Bibles picture angels. God I sound like such a fag talking about Kyle like this but that's how I picture him. Kyle has this air to him that you know that he's something different, other than being one of the few practicing Jews of South Park. His attitude in general matured but he's still naive about most things. He isn't logical at all; he's very surreal when it comes to world matters. He has the smarts but questions everything to the point of it having nothing to do with the thing he questions. He's.... different

I can think of them like this because this is how I perceive them behind my orange hoodie. Really that's a metaphor because I don't have my face covered like when I had it at age eight. I do, however, keep all emotions locked away from them to ever question anything. Although it's helpful, I'm forgotten a lot. Christ, I can't tell you how many times where they forget even the most important things about me. I shrug it off, not really caring. That's my problem, I don't care anymore. I mean I'm just too apathetic to give a damn. I know that it's bad that I don't care when I should. I should care when they don't invite me to come down to Stark's Pond or when they go to the movies. I should care when they don't say "Happy Birthday, Kenny!" or "How are things?" when they don't. I should care that when I would die they would say the tiresome lines and forget about me. I just...lost interest on caring.

It's killing me though...

Smoking and drinking numbs my pain. Fucking numbs my pain. Any quick high numbs my pain. It keeps me secure and in control. I can forget about all of my problems for one night or a couple of hours. It's worth the repercussions like addiction and STDs. Anything is better than feeling all of the negativity I could feel if I didn't. Father despises my presence and Mother doesn't acknowledge my existence. I feel horrible about it but I don't act upon it. I get hit or I get yelled at. I once got a bottle of beer thrown at my back. It left a mark for a week or so. A whisk of brandy or a piece of ass can let me forget about my sorrows for a bit. The trouble is that I need more every time.

I have thought of ending my life so many times and then at the last second putting down the razor blade and going off to school. I ache to see if it'll hurt more if I kill myself rather than something else kills me. What would happen? Will I come back? Is it different if you do kill yourself? Is there a special place for lost souls? These questions run through as I hold the instrument with my cold fingers. It seems too easy; I wait for something to keep me from whisking the blade against my thin skin. I hear for the cliché phone call or doorbell. I ache for someone checking to see if I'm okay. I yearn to see someone to look upon me...to see the razor and to see my tear filled eyes. I long for the person to take me into their arms and to tell me it's okay

No one saves me...

I urge to break away from ones who want to hurt me. I want to be rid of things cutting against my cold and clammy skin. I want to eradicate any outside forces causing me sickness and dreadful diseases. I would kill to give them the Kiss of Death. It would make me giggle like a schoolgirl I think...

I sometimes think I hear something telling me these things. I think I am given horrible thoughts of to kill on purpose. I dream of murdering my parents. I awake in a sweat and a Swiss army knife in my hand. Confused, I put away the knife from mattress and lull myself back into dreamland, back into another dream with gore and violence. Maybe it's a premonition or something that is warning me of an outside force playing with my cards. I wonder if I should act upon my dreams or discard them as mere fantasy. I just don't know...

All I can say is that I will be happy when it happens. If some chance my parents are dead or something else extreme I will laugh. I will just laugh and laugh until I turn bright purple. I don't care how twisted it sounds but I will spit on their ashes and throw it all in a garbage dump. I will dance a dance folk will question my sanity and I will laugh for days. Mark this; I don't care of what people will say, I will laugh...

End of Chapter One

This was like a diary entry kind of chapter; the next and few after will be in a chronological sequence. Note Kenny's personality changes from suicide to homicide, very key elements that will factor into this story. I hope you liked what you read; I assure you it will get better and it will pick up.