Rescue Me

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park!

Summary: Kyle needs someone to save him: from the world, from his enemies, from himself. Kyle needs someone to rescue him.

Author's Notes: Welcome to my new project! It's called Rescue Me, and will feature emo!Kyle and confusedhetero!Stan. I also just thought up a really strange oneshot while listening to Weird Al Yankovic, so…look for that sometime.

I'm realizing that writing helps me de-stress, so the angst in some situations might be amplified, unless I'm uploading it on a Friday or Saturday…I don't have anything to do that would stress me out those days.

Without further ado, here's the first Chapter. It's mostly Kyle's POV

-.-

I think it's safe to conclude that I am well and thoroughly fucked. Ever since we all got to High School, things just got worse for me. Everyone got dumber, apparently. Wendy and I were the only ones who didn't dumb ourselves down to be popular. I got constantly harassed for my intellect, participation in classes, and general dress style. I couldn't help it! My stupid mother continued to insist on buying me clothes, thus, I was stuck wearing sweater vests, blue collared shirts, khaki pants, typical nerd gear. The only thing I lacked, thank Jehovah, was a set of braces.

My problems, though, my problems didn't really surface until I turned 16. Not two days after my birthday (although I only suspect it was because he was on vacation), my arch-nemesis (at least, as close as couple of teenagers can be considered in this fashion) Eric Cartman turned up in my room with a knife. Two hours later (Fatass had picked a time when my family was out) I was on my way to the hospital, missing half of my blood from three precisely-shaped cuts on my pectorals and abdomen. They were in the shape of swastikas, and were a good half an inch deep. He'd known that that even if I didn't bleed to death, I would be branded for life as what I really was, a "goddamn, no-good, useless, fucking Jew."

I had talked to the police when they arrived two days after I was admitted to the hospital. I showed them my wounds and allowed them to take pictures, and was more than happy to tell them who had done it to me. I'd had to testify at his trial, but that was no biggie. My father and mother had helped pressure the Park County DA into having Cartman tried as an adult, and also adding a hate crime charge to the previous indictment of attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon, and use of a deadly weapon in the act of committing a felony, and we had all the evidence on our side. I was the last person the prosecution called, and as the DA wound up her questioning, I saw Cartman slide a piece of paper over to his lawyer, who accepted it and nodded without question.

"Your witness, Counselor," the DA said, returning my attention to what I was doing and why. Cartman's lawyer got up and walked over to me.

"Mr. Broflovski, could you remind the court what religion you practice?" he asked. Cartman was up to something.

"I'm a Jew," I replied.

"And…that means you don't believe in Jesus, correct?" he asked. Damn it! I instantly knew what Fatass was planning. He was going to use my answer to this question to allow his lawyer to convince the jury that since I didn't believe in Jesus, I was a terrible person, and Cartman was simply performing his Christian duty to educate people about Jesus. I looked to the prosecutor for an objection to the question, but she just shrugged. I was on my own.

"Mr. Broflovski?" the lawyer prompted. "Do you or do you not believe in Jesus Christ?"

"Of course I believe in him," I replied. "Hell, I've met him at least a half-dozen times. Do I accept him as my Savior and the son of my Lord? No. Jesus was a very special person, yes, but I'm not convinced of his divinity."

"Have you ever assaulted my client, Mr. Cartman?" the lawyer then asked. This time the DA did leap up.

"Objection! Your Honor, Mr. Broflovski is not on trial here!" she cried.

"It provides insight into my client's rationale, Your Honor," Cartman's lawyer replied.

"I'll allow it," the judge said. "Answer the question, son," he told me kindly. Sighing, I geared myself up.

"Yes, I have. Nothing ever any more serious than breaking his nose, sir, but technically speaking, yes I have assaulted your client," I said. The lawyer had a smug look on his face.

"May I ask why?" he asked.

"Certainly," I said. "You're cross-examining me, probing me for something you can attempt to use to justify your client's behavior. If you must know, as you should have heard by now, Mr. Cartman's anti-Semitic behavior goes back at least seven years. Ever since we were in third grade, he's occasionally gone out of his way to make me aware of the fact that I am a-pardon my language-fucking Jew-rat. He goes out of his way to hurt people. He's tried to bring about a Nazi state in Park County at least three times. He's already been convicted once of a hate crime. If you want a full list, settle in. If I told you everything he's ever done, you'd wanna break his nose too, I don't care how much he's paying you."

That did it. Consulting his list, he shook his head.

"No further questions."

"Witness may be excused," the judge said, and the bailiff helped me down from the stand.

Well, of course Cartman was found guilty on all counts. He was in some state prison somewhere on the other side of Colorado. I could only hope that they'd stuck him on a kosher diet and that he was being ass-raped every fucking day.

I apparently became a target for all the terrible things and shit that happens to people who aren't Kenny in South Park then. Every year, something bad happened. When I was sixteen, Cartman tried to murder me. The year after that, my girlfriend of eleven months, Rebecca Cutswald, committed suicide.

It wasn't pretty. Her mother found the body, dressed for her own funeral with a needle that was apparently filled with some drug, heroin or something. Couldn't be much else. I never got to see the toxicology, but the suicide note was an interesting read. In it, Rebecca implored me not to hold myself responsible. I wasn't to blame, according to her, my actions were. I was quite confused. I had never done anything untoward against Rebecca, nor any member of her family. I hated Mark for abandoning his potential (the kid wasn't as fucking dumb as he acted), but I'd never told him so.

That didn't really matter. I spent six weeks wondering what she'd meant by that before I was handed some very interesting explanatory material. In Rebecca's diary, she detailed at length her plans to seduce me and get me to take her virginity before she turned eighteen. The doctor said her time of death was barely thirty seconds after her time of birth. She'd failed her objectives, because I was too big of a fucking prude to just give her what all my friends told me she wanted. I wanted it to be "special," to have "meaning." Well, no, I didn't want it like that. I was a teenage boy, who the fuck are we kidding? I wanted it any way I could get it, but my Mom wanted it to be "special," and have "meaning." I swear to Jehovah, that woman would stand in my bedroom reading from the Kama Sutra every time I had sex if she possibly could, deriding my technique and correcting my procedure.

The craziness of it all led to my own suicide attempt. Let's review my life and see if we can find the reason why, shall we? Let's see…I grew up with a boy who constantly expressed his utter loathing for me, wanting nothing more than a painful death for me, something he almost got two years ago. I hooked up with a crazy girl whose inability to express her desires in a perceptible fashion to me made her KILL herself, for Christ's sake! There's my bitch of a mother, who insists that I do all my schoolwork immediately when it's assigned, controlled every aspect of my life until the day I left for college, to the point where the woman insisted on shopping for my college wardrobe. That's enough of a reason, don't you think? I COULDN'T have a life! If I had a life, I might start doing things that Sheila Broflovski didn't like. God forbid she should have a child that even has a CHANCE to put one toe out of line! The crazy part is, she puts all this pressure on me, but Ike is the most ridiculously out of line with her values that anyone has ever been allowed to. Into "scene" style, loud emo music, weird hairstyles, if it's not mainstream, Ike's into it. Isn't my family fucked up?

So yeah, I tried to kill myself in late May, right after graduation and my eighteenth birthday. Looked up ways to do it on the Internet, wrote a nice, long, enlightening note, and went to do it, to get the fuck out of my hell of a life. I'd just gotten positioned with the knife when a voice came from behind me.

"Put the knife down, Kyle." The one person who could get to me, who'd helped me countless times without ever accepting recompense. If I had a problem, he had a solution. When Cartman tried to kill me, he was the one who'd called 911, ridden with me to the hospital, stayed with me, and encouraged me to talk to the police. He was the one who'd convinced me to testify, and had taken the day off from school with me when I was in court for that purpose. He'd been my rock after Rebecca's death. I spent that night, and several nights thereafter, crying into his shoulder. I think I ruined at least two of his shirts. Now, here he was again, trying to keep me here. Cursing my luck, I answered him, keeping the knife exactly where it was.

"Why should I, huh? At least in Hell, I can get a tan, and I can do shit without the bitch lecturing me for hours on end about how it's going to ruin my future. Tell me why the fuck I should put the knife down, Stan," I said. I heard him sigh, walk over to me and pluck the knife from my grasp.

"Because I said so, Kyle. There's no way I'd let you get away with it, you know," he said, steering me back to my room and sitting me on my bed. "I'd kill Kenny every day just so he could talk to you and tell you how pissed off I was at you. You may think I'm the only thing that keeps you going, but you help me too, dude." Stan had pulled up a chair and was sitting in it backwards, resting his chin on the chair back.

"Now, aside from your mother, do you have any other reason to kill yourself, waste yourself like that?" he asked. I began to explain about how my life had been a living hell for the past two years, but Stan cut me off.

"Don't give me that, dude," he said. "It's been hard on us, too. We were in high school, Kyle! We're not supposed to have to have classmates on trial for hate-related attempted murder, or have to go to a classmate's funeral because that classmate killed herself. It happened to us too, you just were closer to them than most of the rest of us."

That was Stan for you. Always there to help a friend. Very loyal, Stan. Ever since we met in preschool, we were friends. We were friends in elementary, through middle and high school, pretty much up until the day we arrived at college.

We weren't rooming together. Stan and I had come to the conclusion that the counselors were probably right, that rooming together might not be the best thing to do, especially given the difference in our majors. He was majoring in exercise science, I was majoring in…well, officially anyway…business, just like my parents-meaning my mother-wanted. I had his cell number, and permission to call him any time I needed to talk. Nodding, I programmed it in and went back to unpacking.

I haven't talked to him since. I've seen him a few times around campus, at football games, in the cafeteria, but I haven't talked to him since August. He probably doesn't recognize me. I threw out all those clothes my mom bought for me to wear, and her ideas for my major and my future, and gave in to what I'd been feeling ever since that morning I woke up to Eric Cartman holding a knife in my room.

My wardrobe is a lot less bright. The orange jackets of my youth are gone, as are the sweater vests and blue button-downs of my high school years. I've even tossed out the ushanka, let my hair do what it will. Fuck it, I don't care anymore. All my clothes are black, and baggy for the most part. I've got a few band tees, and I suppose that, if Ike were to see me, would call me an emo myself.

To be fair, that's a pretty accurate description. Of course, I can't really pull off the hairstyle with the Jewfro and all, but it DOES now have streaks, black amidst the red curls. I occasionally glace at myself in the mirror and am disgusted with myself. I don't know how or why I've sunk to this level, but all I know is that it's not something I can leave. It makes me feel…well, not happy, that's not the purpose…a little less shitty I guess. I've got a series of small scars where I pricked myself-not cut, that's a little too hardcore, and brings back bad memories-and just let myself bleed. I usually do this in the shower, where if someone notices the blood running into the drain, I can blame a busted scab. They can't see me, they don't know that I'm lying.

Oh, and that whole shit about majoring in Business? Total lie. I'm an Art and Philosophy major. Along with all the emo bands, I've discovered a passion for art, and a small adeptness for painting. Not good art, like the kinds that win prizes and get in museums, dark art. Blood and gore, what I envision hell to be like. Minus Gay Satan and Saddam Hussein, and what everything Kenny says is there. I leave all that out, and go to what Hell SHOULD be. Walls of fire, tortured souls, little demonic minions flittering about and inflicting cruelty out of spite. It gets me passing grades, what do I give a shit?

I'm also going to let you in on another little secret, another problem I'm having. This is a problem that Stan could NEVER help me with, because it's all his fucking fault. I, Kyle Broflovski, am gay. I'll also give you three guesses about who I'm crushing on. That's right. I'm gay, and I have a terrible crush on the only person who I've ever felt comfortable talking about my problems.

So, I ask you this final question: What the hell am I supposed to do?

-.-

Author's Note: Ok, that's the first chapter. Depending on how bored I get over the weekend, you can expect this to be a weekly-ish update fic. Every 4-7 days. Thanks, and don't forget to leave a review!