South Park © Trey Parker & Matt Stone.

So here I am, once again attempting to write fan-fiction. I just suddenly became very obsessed with South Park and watched it all in a matter of weeks during my exam period. It was proven to be a bad idea, but it was still so worth it. Besides, I passed all my exams and classes. University is really lame.

Pairings: Stendy, minor Cryle, eventually Creek (side) and K2 (main)

I don't wanna sleep
I don't wanna dream
'Cause my dreams don't comfort me

Skillet

Kenneth McCormick – The little things that no one knows

It's a dream...

I'm dreaming?

My feet slam against the pavement in a violent, sloppy manner, disturbing the surrounding silence. It is warm, dark and I'm sweating but I can't seem to stop. Almost there. My legs seem to know where I am going as they propel me onward. As I reach the door I skid to a halt, out of breath, my mouth dry.

I'm led down a bright, white hallway by a woman in a uniform. There are people I know lined up and as I pass by they give me sympathetic looks and I know it is something bad. It is always something bad.

I reach the end and there is Stan, frowning, with an arm wrapped around a sniffling Kyle. My parents are there too.

"No!" my momma's screeching, "My baby! Not my baby!"

We go down a short flight of stairs and it grows quiet as we approach the door. All you can hear are the taps of our anxious feet. Reaching for the silver knob, the door swings open with an eerie creak. We enter a room that looks like nothing I've seen outside a television show focusing on crime scene investigations and deaths.

There are smaller doors on the wall in front of us. My heart starts roaring in my chest as she opens one of them and pulls out the stretcher. When she pulls back the white cloth to reveal the face I can't breathe.

It's me.

Of course it's me. I should have seen this coming.

The woman looks at me with sympathetic eyes. "I'm very sorry for your loss," and I crumble to the ground.

Each night it is the same thing.

Tortured.

Poisoned.

Shot.

Hanged.

Drowned.

Disemboweled.

Fucking syphilis.

And the list goes on for miles.

Dead. Always dead, and I know that these aren't just dreams. This is real. You name it, it's probably happened to me. Dreams and real life seem to mesh together these days. It's funny. I die in my dreams and I die when I'm awake. I attract it. What a marvelous life I lead!

I try to ignore the bad things and carry on with my life as best as I can. I've created this persona for myself. I'm careless, crazy. I do what I want and don't think about the consequences. As a result, people think I'm too proud. It's not that I'm proud; I am just more comfortable with myself than most people are around this age.

No, that's a lie, too. I'm not very comfortable with myself in many senses. I'm just comfortable with myself in ways other kids wish they could be. Sure, I am all right to look at. If I'm horny I can get laid with a simple gesture, but there are things about me that nobody knows.

Lots of people tend to think I'm a whore, or simply an irresponsible never-do-well. I can't really argue with either judgement. I'm easy. I'm told I look nice, but the same thing is never said about my personality. No one has ever said, "You know that Kenny McCormick, he's a real nice guy." No. Instead, they say, "He's a real choice piece of ass."

Yeah, most people assume the worst of me. I'm the white trash kid with the cum-stained playboys scattered throughout his room, busy envying the elegance of a typical human being. Part of that is true. My playboys are spotless, but I am jealous of my friends. They're normal. I look at people like Stan or Kyle and I'm green with envy. I think, "Why me? What did I do wrong? Did I do something horrible in a past life to deserve this?" It makes me want to scream my frustrations and just take a bullet to my brains, but unfortunately that is part of the problem.

"I DIE ALL THE FUCKING TIME!" I'd love to scream, and I have before but the words have long gone stale, forced back down each time they leave my mouth. All the truths I have to keep bottled up inside of me and each time I wonder, "Will this be the last time I come back?" But death seems to follow me no matter where I go so no matter how careful I try to be it's in vain.

I've found out that the longer I take to die, the longer I take to come back to Earth. The first time I noticed it was when we were nine years old. I was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy and put in a hospital to slowly wither away. I was gone for months, and when I finally returned they just asked me where I've been. I was completely pissed off, but at the same time I was relieved. I was beginning to think that I wouldn't be coming back at all.

Each time I die, I end up in hell and I find myself thinking I should have behaved, read the bible, maybe went to church, yet once I get sucked back onto earth I never make any changes. I'm still the same as I was before dying.

I know that throughout South Park it is widely believed that the McCormick's beat their kids and have a meth lab in their back yard. My parents don't hit me much anymore… and well, the second assumption I really can't deny. But no matter how much I say that my parents haven't been kicking my ass, no one really believes me and it certainly doesn't help when I'm all roughed up from avoiding near death situations.

My family has their problems, like most, but maybe ours are a bit worse than most. It's well known throughout the town that my parents have a meth lab in our back yard, but no one really bothers calling them out on it and the police in this town are fuckin' idiots.

Lately, my parents are too busy screaming at each other to lay a finger on me or Karen. And Kevin? Hah, he is in prison, where he belongs. I can safely say I won't be missing his sorry ass.

Right now, it's morning. Mornings in the McCormick household can go either way: very loud or ominously quiet. If it's loud it means my parents are usually already drunk or high, hollering at each other while Karen hides away in her room crying. If it's quiet, they are passed out cold from a night of heavy drinking and drugs.

Today, it's quiet.

I get up out of bed and check on my parents. They're not in their room, so my guess is that they're both passed out downstairs.

As I make my way down the steps my suspicions are confirmed. My dad is lying on the couch with his hand wrapped loosely around an empty bottle of beer. My ma is in the kitchen with her head resting on the table. I approach her and give her a gentle shake.

"Ma?"

She lets out a soft groan and slowly lifts her head.

"Ma, are you okay?"

"Of course, baby," she says softly, standing up. "Help your momma upstairs, will you?"

I nod and wrap an arm around her so she won't fall as we make our way up each step. I help her into bed and go to check on Karen.

The door creaks open and I stick my head inside to find that she is still fast asleep. Thank God.

I return to my room and shut the door behind me, silently thanking the lords for the lack of shuffling this morning. I could really use some alone time. Alone time is difficult to obtain in a house full of rowdy people and a lack of locks.

It makes me want to cringe remembering all the times that Karen almost walked in on me jerking off. That is not a conversation I ever want to have with her. I don't think her naïve mind could handle it.

I stare up at the ceiling. I wish we had a popcorn ceiling. Those are so much neater than smooth ceilings.

I can hear an airplane outside. Sometimes I feel like, with my luck, an airplane might stop working above my house and come straight for me. Would you be surprised? Or maybe I'll be the next Donnie Darko and a jet engine will crush me while I'm in my bed… Ugh.

I take hold of my dick and try not to think about shit like that.

It's raining cats and dogs. I'm on my way to to Kyle's house to welcome him back to South Park. The lucky bastard spent his summer in Florida. I wonder if he got a tan?

I decide to jay-walk, since it's quicker. I look both ways, although the road turns in a strange way and you can't see coming cars. I take one step, then another and I turn my head just in time to see a large semi coming towards me. If I try to move, I'd be able to make it...

If I just...

But I don't. I can't. I freeze.

This will hurt, but I can't bring myself to jump out of the way. I just stand here, and the semi hits me. I hear the tires squealing, the driver must be trying to slow down but it's too late for that. I feel the bones cracking when the semi slams into me and more cracking again when my body hit the ground. I land on some distant pavement and then pain.

It hurts, like dying always does. It's also going to be a slower death, like I prayed it wouldn't be this time.

I hear people voices, but I don't know who. I can't move. I'm bleeding out and I can't move, so I just keep laying here and waiting for it to be over. People are screaming, it's a sickening sound I've grown accustomed to hearing as the years went on.

Footsteps approach and then, "Oh, God, no!" I'm betting it's the guy who was driving the semi. I feel kind of guilty, but he'll forget all about it tomorrow.

People always forget. I'm not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing, all I know is that it bothers me. It's always bothered me. My friends never remember screaming themselves hoarse over my mangled corpse and the next time I see them they grin and say, "Hey, where were you?" They don't understand and there's nothing I can do to make them understand. I'm alone in this and I always will be.

"Shh, it'll be okay, son," another voice says. I want to laugh. I can only imagine the state I'm in. If it were anyone else, I'd call bullshit, but it's me and I know I'll be okay.

He's applying pressure to different parts of my body. If I could, I'd tell him not to bother, but I can't really speak right now. I gurgle and I feel blood spill out from the corners of my mouth. The metallic taste makes me want to cringe.

"Shit, shit, shit, oh fuck," the semi driver keeps repeating in a ritualistic sort of way.

I close my eyes and the man applying pressure yells, "Son, you need to stay awake!"

I don't listen. I can feel the rain washing the blood off my lips. I close my eyes and I can feel myself drifting.

I smile a bit, because it's all too familiar.

Soon everything stops, the pain stops, and I'm whisked away for what must be at least the thousandth time.

At times in your life, you may find yourself saying, "Oh, it's so quiet," but if you actually listen, I mean really listen, then you can hear things. They are little things like the ticking of a clock, the gentle hum of a furnace, or the wind outside your window, but those sounds still matter. You probably don't know what true silence sounds like. When you experience it, you feel like you've gone deaf and it's horrifying.

After I die, I spend short moments like that. It's dark and quiet and it never gets less horrific. I used to wonder if that is what awaits people who don't come back to earth after they die but now I know better. There is a heaven and there is a hell. I've been to both, though hell seems to hold me in favor. Maybe I really am some sort of demon after all.

There is always this white light that I see after the moments of darkness and silence are over. I want to reach towards it, but I can never get close enough.

I never understood what was happening to me when I was young. I guess I still don't understand completely what it is I'm going through or why.

When my vision clears and the silence is over, I am lying on the sofa in Satan's office. Damien is pacing.

"Back so soon?" he asks, after I groan, letting him know I'm awake.

"Sadly," I whine.

"Hey, that time was your own fault."

"Yeah, yeah."

"So," he shrugs, "Up for a game of cards?"

I laugh at the normalcy of it all. "You're on."

Sorry, Kyle. Guess I won't be able to welcome you back.