Disclaimer: I do not own the cartoon South Park, nor am I affiliated with the creators, Matt Stone and Trey Parker, in any way what so ever. This piece if purely a work of fiction.

Author's Notes: Um, wow, hey. No, this story is not dead. I, however, feel like I am. A lot of stuff has happened in the last few months and I would just like to thank everyone that still reads this. It's nice to see that I even got a few new comments the last time I logged in. As a side note: this is by far the shortest thing I've ever written. I had a few crisis's when writing these next few chapters which I won't bother indulging you all upon. I also did not reread this chapter, so if there are any mistakes or cocks to the head of confusion, I apologize in advance.

I Get A Kick Out Of You

Chapter Nine

"Phillip?" A loud resonating knock echoed in the dark, depressed bedroom at the end of the hallway. "Phillip, please talk to me." The tender voice of the woman barely reverberated past the cherry finished mahogany door, yet even so, was faintly audible within the confines of the room. "Phillip, please, let's-."

The soft rustling of sheets was heard before an even softer voice was made known. "Please, Mother. I'd… I'd rather not talk right now."

Pip's mother placed her hand solidly onto the door; fingertips lightly tapping against the nearly sparkling polished wood. "Honey, please. It's been nearly two days since Butters's accident. Please just come out."

"It wasn't an accident! Now leave me alone, Ruth! I don't want to talk to you!" The softer voice grew louder before making its abrupt end. The continuous rustling of sheets was heard before all noise suddenly ceased thereafter.

Ruth let a soft squeak fall from her ruby coated lips at the harsh words screamed from inside the bedroom. "I…" She begins as her hand slides down the wall. "I'll just talk to you later on then." With a deep breath, she carefully maneuvers the dark brown curls over her shoulder and takes a step away from the door. "Your father will be home soon. Dinner will be ready in half an hour, darling." Placing a soft kiss to her palm, she sets it directly onto the door before distancing herself further from her adopted son.

Inside the bedroom, as if having personally felt the kiss directly placed upon the door, Pip sets his paled hand to his cheek; fingers covering the freckled imperfections grazed across his skin. With a quick swipe of his hands, salted tears slide across his fingers before tumbling to the tear stained dirty white sheets of the bed. "I'm sorry Butters…" He mumbles quietly, fluffy blonde hair going astray as he shoves the pillow closer to his face. "This is my fault... All my fault." As the tears fall heavier down his face, Pip's frail body jerks; a sudden stream of jolts to his chests as he chokes air back into his lungs; the byproduct of his fanatic crying. Accidentally knocking his head against the side wall nearby his bed, Pip cries out in pain.

If only he were that much stronger, Pip would have gladly accepted the pain throbbing through his cranium. As far as he was concerned, Butters's accidental death (as the news personnel and his own mother put it) was entirely his fault. Never would it have happened if Pip wasn't so weak and needed protection from the worst kind of monster there was out there. Never would it have happened if Pip wasn't so weak and the other boys in his grade picked on him as if he were a pathetic little girl. Never would it have happened if Pip just took matters in his own hands and stuck up for himself for once. But to him, that would never happen, and although he did not directly kill and harm the people in his class, all the blame was pointed directly to him as if it were one giant neon flashing sign floating above his head.

Pip quickly takes in a deep breath as he rubs the back of his head for a few more seconds. "Stupid head," he mutters quietly, tongue darting out to catch the tears falling from his red bloodshot eyes. Through blurred vision, Pip can just barely make out the sight of bright halogen headlights slowly making their way up the snow covered driveway.

Pip awkwardly stumbled from his bed, catching himself quickly with his sleeve covered hands just before he landed on the ground. With little strength he had, he lifted himself up and immediately began riffling around his room; careful stale eyes drifting from corner to corner in hopes of finding the few necessary trinkets his mind deemed important. "I have to leave," Pip decides finally, hand trailing on the back of his head for a brief moment. With a lunge directed a few feet to his left, he collected the torn and battered brown leather wallet and cellphone from the floor. With a few looks to the window, Pip bit his lip and worriedly looked to the ground. He quickly walked to the door and placed a small kiss upon his hand before setting it to the wood and then making the mere ten feet back to the small window. He throws the window open and turns his head to the side, successfully shielding the majority of his face from the harsh winds manifesting outside from the early brutal winters.

"I have to get out of here," he whispers quietly as his eyes slide down to the driveway below where his father's car sat; steam rising from the engine as it fights the nipping cold. Listening carefully, he hears the man enter the homestead and begin his daily ritual of removing his shoes and tie, setting his briefcase to the floor, kissing his wife on the cheek and asking what's for dinner, completely forgetting about the troubled boy upstairs sulking in his room.

Pip does one quick double take around the bedroom where he snatches up a small black cap from his bed stand, throwing it to his head, successfully covering most of the bright blonde strands that set him apart from the majority of the dark and gloomy town. He looks at the roughly eighteen feet drop down to the snow covered grass below and winces, catastrophic scenarios coming to mind as he imagines his body flailing from the second floor window, landing painfully on the ice like steel ground, bones jarring from their appropriate spots in his body and sliding past weakened muscle and skin to make their appearance to the cold world outside his frail form.

Pip swallows heavily and takes a small step away from the window, a dark look of fear spreading across his face. Rethinking his choice of jumping, Pip brings his thumb to his mouth and bites at the nail, the look of fear turning to one of worry as he hears the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming toward his bedroom door. Without a second thought, Pip climbs to the windowsill and grasps onto the ledge, nearly losing his footing on the slippery sill. Aiming for the set of dead looking red berried shrubs on the side of the house, Pip closes his eyes and jumps, falling from his windowsill and down toward the ground below.

Though without opening his eyes, Pip's brain tells him he is falling a lot faster and a lot further than he should have fallen. What should have taken a few moments quickly turned into minutes followed by hours. Without a second coherent thought from his mind, Pip's body shuts down, his brain following sometime thereafter. As he continues his fall awkwardly to whatever destination it chose to pick, Pip's final thoughts are bleak. He finally slams down on the ground, his body cracking painfully against the surface of the Earth; limbs contorted like no humans should, skull cracking open allowing a river of blood to gush from the side of his head.