Chapter Text
The sound of the alarm clock was the first betrayal of the day.
Its harsh, electronic screech sliced through the fragile quiet of his room like a knife. Kenny McCormick’s hand flailed in protest, smacking the cracked plastic face of the device so hard that it nearly tumbled off the nightstand. He groaned, dragging the thin blanket over his head, willing the sound—and the day itself—to go away. The room was freezing. Frost patterned the edges of his window, delicate white lace that shimmered faintly in the gray pre-dawn light. His breath fogged in the air and hung there like a ghost he couldn’t shake. The sky outside was a muted wash of gray, hesitant light bleeding through the mountains as if the world itself weren’t ready to wake.
Kenny lay still for a few more moments, listening. The faint hum of the old heater sputtered weakly, struggling to push warmth into the frozen room. Somewhere beyond the walls, the town of South Park stirred, though not yet fully awake. Cars idled, distant voices drifted on the wind, and the occasional clatter of a garbage bin reminded him that life went on, indifferent to what he carried every day—the secret of living and dying and waking as if nothing had happened.
Another day. Another shot at surviving it.
He pressed a hand to the side of his head. Phantom pain throbbed there, jagged and unrelenting. No mark, no bruise, no evidence—just the cruel memory of it, echoing in his skull. He had learned to live with it, to accept the ache as part of himself. Always like this. Always alone with proof nobody else could see. He flexed his fingers, feeling the chill seep into his bones. Even the orange parka hanging over the chair, frayed at the cuffs, seemed to mock him with its familiarity. Boots tucked beneath it, waiting like soldiers, silent but ever-ready.
Eventually, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the stiffness in his knees and hips. Every movement reminded him of the bodies he’d left behind in past deaths—bodies that shouldn’t exist anymore, yet always somehow returned to him. He shivered, pulling the parka over his shoulders, zipping it up as a barrier against the creeping cold. The simple act of putting on his boots became a ritual, each lace tied with care, each tug of the leather sending a little reassurance up his spine: today, maybe, he’d survive.
The kitchen smelled of stale cigarettes, cheap beer, and lingering traces of burnt toast. His mom was slumped on the couch, an ashtray precariously balanced on the armrest, her breathing heavy and uneven. She hadn’t stirred, not even when the faint morning light hit her face. Kenny didn’t think about it much; it had been this way for years. His dad wasn’t around either, and Kenny didn’t even know whether he’d gone to work or the bar first. He ignored it; pretending normalcy was easier than asking questions that had no answers.
Karen, his little sister—not so little anyone—sat at the table, a spoon suspended over a bowl of cereal that had more milk than flakes. Her thin face brightened when she saw him, a tiny, bright shard of hope in the dimness.
“Morning, Kenny,” she said softly, her voice careful, as if speaking too loudly might scare the day away.
Kenny ruffled her hair, smiling crookedly. “Morning, squirt. That cereal holding up okay?”
She tilted the bowl, scraping at the soggy bottom. He grabbed a piece of bread from the counter and slid it across. “Here. Carbs.”
Her smile stretched wider, and for a moment, he let himself linger there, watching her small hands move the food toward her mouth. Skipping breakfast himself had become a habit, easier than watching her go hungry or worrying about her noticing his exhaustion.
He lingered in the kitchen a little longer than usual, noticing subtle oddities in the street beyond the window. A shadow shifted behind a curtain in the house across the street—the old Parkers’ place, finally occupied again. Boxes piled near the doorway, silhouettes of people moving just out of focus. Something about it made his chest tighten. He shook his head, muttering under his breath: “Get a grip, McCormick.” And yet the unease clung to him, a small, persistent itch at the edge of his awareness.
Finally, he stepped outside. The cold hit him immediately, sharp and unforgiving. Frost crunched under his boots as he trudged to the sidewalk, and the wind bit at his cheeks and ears. He took a deep breath of the brittle air, letting it fill his lungs, forcing himself into the day. Another day. Another chance. Another chance to survive.
The walk to the bus stop was sharp and loud with winter. Each step on the crusted snow echoed in Kenny’s ears, a rhythmic crunch that seemed to mark time in a world that didn’t pause for him. His hood was pulled high against the biting wind, and he tugged his parka tighter, trying to keep the cold from creeping into his chest. Frost clung to his eyelashes, tiny crystals catching the weak morning light.
He noticed small things that always seemed to go unseen—the way a wisp of smoke spiraled up from a neighbor’s chimney, the subtle movement of a bird hopping between icy branches, the odd tilt of a street sign that had always been slightly crooked. Something about South Park in winter had always felt sharper, more aware, like the mountains themselves were watching, waiting. And lately, with the new neighbors across the street, the air seemed heavier somehow. Shadows moved differently, angles felt wrong, the faint sense of being observed settled at the back of his neck. Kenny shook his head, muttering under his breath, telling himself it was nothing. Yet he couldn’t stop looking.
At the bus stop, Stan and Kyle were already entrenched in argument. The cold hadn’t slowed them down; if anything, it sharpened their words. Stan gestured wildly, a glove-covered hand slicing through the air.
“You totally misunderstood, Kyle. The plan was perfect, and you ruined it!”
Kyle rolled his eyes, voice rising. “I didn’t ruin anything! You’re just terrible at reading instructions! Everyone knows that!”
Cartman waddled up behind them, pulling the hood of his coat over his head like armor, scowling as if the world existed solely to annoy him. “Oh my God, you guys are so dramatic. It’s just a plan. Nobody cares if it fails. I have bigger problems—like my mom leaving me alone with—” He was cut off by Kyle, naturally.
Kenny tugged his hood tighter, letting the familiar chaos of the boys’ banter anchor him. The argument, the insults, the minor betrayals of everyday life—it was grounding. For a few minutes, he could be just another kid, not a boy whose life had been interrupted by countless deaths.
“Dude, you’re late,” Stan finally said, pointing a glove at him. His face settled into a worried frown.
“Had to save Karen from starvation. Priorities,” Kenny replied, voice muffled under his hood.
Kyle snorted, and Cartman rolled his eyes, already reaching into his coat for a snack he had no intention of sharing. “Oh, Kenny, nobody cares about your charity work. I’m the real victim here. My mom—”
Kenny grinned, hiding it behind his hood. Their banter, ridiculous and chaotic, was oddly comforting. The world outside—the cold, the snow, the shadows behind curtains—faded just enough that he could breathe.
The bus rumbled down the street, tires crunching through the snow. The boys crowded onto it, shoving and laughing. Kenny found a spot near the back, hood still pulled over his face, watching the familiar landscape of South Park pass by. Each snow-covered rooftop, each bare tree, each chimney puffing smoke felt like a fragment of the world he could touch, a world that went on as if he hadn’t survived yesterday—or the day before.
As the bus rolled along, he let his mind drift. He thought about streaks—how many days he had survived without dying, how the phantom pain in his head would flare up unpredictably, reminding him that his life was fragile in ways nobody else could comprehend. For everyone else, the world was just another cold winter morning. For him, it was an ongoing battle, subtle but relentless, between chance and inevitability.
By the time the bus neared the school, Kenny’s breathing had evened out. The banter, the snow, the cold—they had anchored him, just enough to feel ready to face the chaos of the day. But the unease lingered. The new neighbors, the flickers behind curtains, the sense that something in South Park was subtly shifting—it refused to leave him alone.
He stepped off the bus, boots crunching into icy pavement, hood still drawn tight.
The school building loomed ahead, gray bricks coated in frost, windows fogged from the contrast of indoor warmth and bitter air outside. Kenny trudged up the steps, boots crunching softly in the lingering snow, backpack swinging loosely from one shoulder. Inside, the hallways smelled of old carpets, gym socks, and chalk dust—the usual perfume of South Park High. Lockers slammed, sneakers squealed, and voices echoed, bouncing off high ceilings in chaotic rhythms that felt almost comforting. He kept his hood up despite the warmth inside, an invisible shield from the world he was forced to navigate.
First period was math. Geometry, Algebra 2, something or other that the 10th graders were forced to take. Mr. Garrison (the man seemed cursed to follow their class forever; maybe, if by some miracle Kenny got to go to college, he would follow him there too) droned on about formulas with a monotone that could put a flock of crows to sleep. Kenny’s eyes wandered to the window, tracing the bare branches of the trees outside, the snow-capped peaks of the surrounding mountains. Everything looked ordinary, yet there was a subtle wrongness in the edges of his vision—a shadow that seemed to linger too long on the neighbor’s porch, a movement behind a curtain he couldn’t quite explain. He shook his head, blinking rapidly, pretending to write down the assignment he had no intention of finishing. Phantom pain throbbed at his temple, a dull reminder that yesterday had happened, and the day before, and the day before that.
By second period, science, the classroom was a bubble of fluorescent light and the faint smell of vinegar from an experiment left over from last week. Kenny sat near the back, letting the lesson wash over him while he noticed the small details: the way Ms. Choksondik’s hair fell unevenly across her forehead, the ticking of the wall clock that measured a time that felt irrelevant to him, the occasional cough that broke the monotony. He was present, technically, but his mind drifted, cataloging patterns, movements, and the little anomalies that nobody else seemed to notice.
Lunchtime arrived with the usual roar of chaos. The cafeteria was a cacophony of clattering trays, shouts, and the squeak of sneakers on tile. Kenny navigated the crowd, slipping past a spill of milk that Clyde had somehow managed to pour all over Token’s lunch tray. Butters ran behind, attempting to explain the rules of a new game he’d invented, and Cartman was already plotting some scam involving stolen desserts and false claims of charity. Kyle’s voice cut sharply through the noise, scolding Cartman, while Stan tried to mediate with a weary sigh.
Kenny laughed, his muffled voice lost beneath the din. For a few minutes, it felt almost normal, almost like any other sixteen-year-old kid could experience. He caught Karen’s drawing of a star chart tucked in his backpack, a note she’d left him about how she wanted to see the stars from the mountain behind their neighborhood. It reminded him that, despite the chaos and pain, there were fragments of life worth noticing, moments to anchor himself to, however fleeting.
By the end of the day, Kenny’s legs ached, not from the walk but from the mental gymnastics required to survive another round of mundane life while keeping his other reality tucked away. He moved between classes, his body present, his mind half-floating in memories of swings and crashes, sharp edges, the brief flashes of mortality no one else would ever believe. Even his friends, the chaos of laughter and insults, could not fully penetrate the part of him that lived in shadow.
The final bell rang, and the students poured into the hallways, backpacks slung, sneakers squeaking, the noise swelling like a wave. Kenny followed the current, letting it carry him past lockers, past groups of chattering classmates, past the sense of looming mountains and the neighbor’s ever-present shadow. Another day survived, technically. But the unease had not lifted—it had grown, coiled tighter, for some reason.
The bus dropped Kenny off near Stan’s house a little later than usual. He trudged up the snowy walkway, boots crunching softly, and knocked on the familiar wooden door. Within seconds, it swung open, revealing Stan’s grinning face, cheeks red from the cold.
“Finally! Took you long enough,” Stan said, waving him inside. “Come on, we’ve already started a game.”
Inside, the basement smelled warm and faintly of old carpet, mixed with the lingering aroma of popcorn. Posters of video game characters and comic book heroes lined the walls. A pile of cushions and blankets covered one corner, creating a comfortable chaos that was perfectly suited for the four friends. Kyle was already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a deck of cards for some tabletop game that seemed to have rules only he fully understood. Cartman sprawled on the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips clutched in one hand, munching away like he hadn’t eaten in days.
Kenny sank into a cushion near the corner, adjusting his hood briefly before letting it slip back, feeling the familiar comfort of being part of the group. The noise, the laughter, the chaos—it was grounding in a way that school, home, or the world outside could never replicate.
Stan held up a controller with exaggerated seriousness. “Alright, you’re up, Kenny. Don’t mess this one up.”
Kenny grinned under his hood, taking the controller. “Try me,” he said, fingers finding the buttons automatically. Hours of playing the same games had made muscle memory a powerful thing.
The four of them launched into an intense session, shouting, laughing, and occasionally arguing about rules or strategy. Kyle’s critical commentary clashed with Cartman’s relentless scheming, while Stan tried to mediate the chaos. Kenny, as usual, let himself float between participation and observation, chiming in occasionally with a quip or a well-timed laugh.
Somewhere between rounds, Butters appeared in the doorway, clutching a makeshift board game he had spent all afternoon designing. “Hey guys! You have to play this! I made all the rules! They’re super complicated, but fun, I promise!”
Stan whispered. “How did he get inside my house?”
Kyle groaned. “Do we really have to?”
Cartman’s eyes lit up. “Finally, something I can win at without cheating!”
Kenny watched as the boys piled onto the floor to inspect the game. He let himself relax, enjoying the absurdity and the way everyone took the rules a little too seriously, as if the fate of the world depended on rolling dice and moving tiny pieces of cardboard. He laughed quietly at Butters’ explanations, the boy’s earnestness infectious, and the way Cartman tried to interpret the rules to give himself an advantage.
Hours slipped by. The light outside faded, shifting the basement from warm afternoon brightness to soft, muted evening tones. Conversation meandered from video games to school gossip, to weekend plans, to jokes that had no beginning or end. Kenny felt himself settle into the rhythm of it, the simple pleasure of friendship washing over him, a rare moment of pure normalcy.
At one point, Stan paused the game and tossed a handful of chips toward Kenny. “Here, you haven’t eaten any yet. Don’t tell me you’ve been skipping meals again.”
Kenny caught them with a quick laugh. “Nah, just pacing myself. Strategy.”
For a while, the weight of the day—the early morning frost, the tedious math class, the endless lunches—fell away. He was just Kenny, sixteen, part of a chaotic, ridiculous, ordinary group of friends. The basement was safe. The games, the laughter, the arguing—it was all real, tangible, normal.
When it was finally time to leave, he felt almost reluctant. The snow outside glinted softly in the waning light, the cold brushing his cheeks as he pulled on his hood. He waved to Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and Butters, promising to come back soon, a small smile tucked beneath his hood. For the first time that day, Kenny felt like he had a grip on something that wasn’t constantly slipping away—a fragment of ordinary life he could hold onto before the world pulled him back into its relentless spin.
The walk home was quiet, the streets of South Park blanketed in snow that glimmered softly under the fading evening light. Kenny tugged his hood tighter around his face, letting the crisp air fill his lungs. Each breath came out as a small cloud, disappearing almost immediately into the stillness. The wind whispered through bare branches, carrying a faint scent of wood smoke from nearby chimneys. The town felt slower now, the chaos of the school day replaced by a hushed, almost serene atmosphere.
Kenny’s boots crunched rhythmically against the snow-covered sidewalk, the sound a steady, comforting metronome. He passed the playground near the edge of the park, swings frozen and frosted over, the slide gleaming faintly in the pale light. A faint breeze rattled the metal bars, creating a soft, hollow clang that echoed through the empty space. He paused for a moment, letting himself take it all in. It was ordinary. Peaceful. Small moments like this were rare in his life, but they felt important, like little pockets of calm that reminded him the world didn’t always have to be chaotic.
The streetlights flickered on one by one, their halos reflecting off the fresh snow, stretching long shadows across driveways and sidewalks. Kenny’s own shadow stretched out before him, elongated and thin, moving with his stride. He thought about the day—the video games, the board game chaos at Stan’s, the laughter, the moments of stillness. These were the normal pieces of life that everyone else took for granted, but he held them tightly, cherishing the ordinary and mundane.
He paused briefly in front of the corner store, the bell above the door jingling as a customer exited. The warmth inside the small building was almost tangible through the glass, shelves lined with snacks and soda cans. Kenny remembered stopping here sometimes after school, picking up a bag of chips or a soda, enjoying the tiny indulgence. Today he didn’t go in. Instead, he continued walking, letting the faint smell of baked goods and hot chocolate drift through the air, a small comfort for the senses.
By the time he reached his street, the sky had deepened into a muted purple, the mountains looming quietly in the distance. His house was at the end of the block, a squat silhouette against the snow, warm light spilling from a crooked window. He paused for a moment at the gate, listening to the crunch of snow under his boots and the distant murmur of the town settling in for the night. The day had been long, but it had been simple in its own way, filled with the small, grounding moments that reminded him life could be ordinary, even if just for a while.
The door clicked shut behind Kenny, shutting out the chill of the evening. Inside, the warmth of the house was faint but noticeable, barely enough to keep the cold from creeping under his parka. Snow clung stubbornly to his boots as he kicked them off and trudged toward the kitchen. The faint smell of burnt toast lingered in the air, mixed with the lingering tang of old smoke from a day—or days—past.
Karen was already at the table, a notebook open in front of her, scribbling notes and doodles with careful precision. She glanced up when he entered, offering a small, tired smile. Her hair was messy from school, strands falling across her forehead, but her posture was upright, almost defiant. Kenny’s chest tightened at the sight of her—thirteen years old, in middle school, already trying to navigate a world that sometimes seemed too heavy for her age.
“Hey, Kare Bear,” he said softly, moving to sit across from her. “How was school?”
Karen shrugged, her pencil tapping on the table in a consistent beat. “It was okay. Math sucked, but my science project is coming along.” Her voice was quiet, but there was determination in it, a spark that Kenny both admired and worried about.
He slid a piece of bread across the table toward her.
Her eyebrow quirked, as if to say, more bread?
Well, it’s not like they could afford to be picky. That was Kenny’s biggest goal in life: to make enough money that he’d offer Karen a piece of bread, and she would throw it back in his face.
“Eat. Don’t skip dinner. You know how mom gets… or doesn’t get.”
Her eyes lit up as she accepted it. “Thanks, Kenny.”
He nodded, brushing it off casually, but the tightness in his chest didn’t go away. Protecting Karen had become routine, almost instinctual, since Kevin had moved to Denver. Kenny’s older brother was, needless to say, the only responsible adult in their family. Their parents weren’t terrible people, exactly—just unreliable, distracted by their own lives. Mom had retreated to her room, lost in some haze of exhaustion and old habits, while their dad hadn’t been seen since morning. It fell to Kenny to make sure Karen had something to eat, that she got to school safely, that she had someone to notice if things went wrong. It wasn’t fair, but he didn’t complain.
As he poured a small bowl of cereal for himself, Karen asked, “Do you think… we could watch a movie later?” She gave a hopeful smile, trying to make the request casual.
Kenny ruffled her hair again. “Sure, we’ll see. Depends on if mom doesn’t fall asleep on the couch first.” He offered a crooked grin. Humor was easier than explaining why she might have to fend for herself sometimes.
Dinner passed in relative quiet, broken only by Karen’s occasional chatter about school gossip and sketches she had drawn during class. Kenny listened, responding with small comments, letting her have the floor. He’d grown used to this—providing the normalcy she needed while masking his own exhaustion and the heavy weight of experiences no one else understood. He pushed aside his own hunger, focusing on hers. She needed him, and that was enough to keep him going.
When he refilled her glass of milk, he caught a glimpse of himself in the window’s reflection. Hunched shoulders, tired eyes, a face that looked older than sixteen. Sometimes he wondered if Karen would ever realize just how much she relied on him, or if she’d always see him as just her brother, her protector, her guide through the small, messy world they lived in. He hoped she didn’t have to know everything—not yet, anyway.
The sound of the heater sputtering was the only other noise in the kitchen besides the scrape of Karen’s spoon. Kenny leaned back in his chair, studying the glow of the light across the room. The house was messy—crumbs on the table, dirty dishes in the sink, a stack of papers teetering dangerously on the counter—but it was their space. And for now, he would hold it together, for her.
As dinner wound down, Karen packed her notebook away and yawned. “Thanks, Kenny,” she murmured again, her voice soft, almost reverent. Kenny shrugged, offering a small smile. “Anytime, squirt. That’s what I’m here for.”
He helped her clear her plate, tossing his own half-eaten toast into the sink. The ritual was simple but grounding: small, deliberate acts of care, a buffer between the unpredictability of their parents and the world outside. For a few moments, everything felt manageable, almost normal. Kenny knew it wouldn’t last forever—but tonight, at least, Karen was fed, safe, and smiling. And that was enough.
By the time Kenny finally climbed into bed, exhaustion hit him like a wave. The day had been long—school, friends, protecting Karen, trudging through cold streets—but for a moment, he allowed himself to sink into the soft, familiar weight of his blankets. The small lamp on the nightstand cast a warm circle of light over the room, illuminating the edges of posters and shelves cluttered with books and trinkets. Outside, snowflakes drifted slowly, muffling the distant hum of the town and turning the streets into a soft, white blur.
He lay on his side, pulling the covers up to his chin, staring at the ceiling. The phantom ache in his head had dulled slightly, but it lingered—a reminder of all the days he hadn’t stayed alive. His mind wandered to Karen, upstairs now, probably working on some drawing or homework, safe and warm. He hoped so. Protecting her had become routine, a responsibility he carried without question, even when it meant ignoring the fatigue gnawing at his body.
Sleep came slowly, creeping in like an unwelcome guest, and when it finally took hold, it dragged him under without mercy.
The nightmare started with black water, thick and cold, rising up around him until it pressed against his chest. The sky above was wrong—too close, too bright, stars pulsing like tiny, watchful eyes. He was alone, yet he could feel the weight of countless presences, whispering promises and threats in a language he couldn’t understand. He struggled, trying to lift his arms, but the water held him, relentless. The pressure in his chest grew, lungs burning, ribs straining as if they would split apart.
Voices curled around him, soft but insistent, echoing through his bones. He remembered swings, collisions, metal and wood and the sudden, crushing silence that had followed every death. Memories flashed unbidden—school, friends, moments of joy and mundane routines—then vanished, replaced by the cold, black suffocating void. He tried to call out, but the water swallowed his voice, leaving only the pounding of his heart in his ears.
And then, as suddenly as it began, he was awake. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and his breath came in sharp, shuddering bursts. His hand instinctively pressed against the side of his head, phantom pain slicing through his skull like a knife, then crawling down his spine in waves. His chest felt tight, a heaviness that was almost physical, though he had no injuries to show for it.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, boots untouched, parka discarded, and tried to steady his breathing. The room was quiet, almost painfully so, the stillness pressing against him in the aftermath of the nightmare. He glanced at the window, half-expecting the shadows of the mountains or the shapes of trees to mock him. For a moment, something caught his eye—a faint movement outside. He squinted through the glass, heart tugging at his ribs.
Two shapes lingered near the neighbors’ house across the street. They didn’t move, didn’t wave, didn’t acknowledge him. Just silhouettes, still and silent, faces tilted upward, watching, waiting. Kenny blinked, rubbed his eyes, and when he looked again, they seemed… ordinary. Maybe they were just people finishing chores or stepping out to stretch. Maybe he was imagining things.
He swallowed, tugged the blanket closer, and muttered under his breath, “It’s nothing. Just tired.”
Still, even as he shut his eyes, letting the mattress cradle him, a tiny part of him couldn’t shake the fleeting impression of the figures—two strangers outside, still as statues in the snow, quietly observing the world, just beyond the edge of normalcy.
And with that, Kenny let himself drift again, hoping tomorrow would be another day he could survive.