Jilted Junkies :||: Kenny x Reader || South Park Fanfiction

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I woke up shivering from the cold. My tired eyes slowly peeled open, and I had the shit scared out of me to see Cartman staring at my sleeping figure. I sat up in surprise, waiting for him to give me an explanation. He was a little surprised to see me awake, but casual nonetheless.

"Your hair looks like complete shit." He insulted me. I blinked at him, glancing around the room. He was already dressed in his everyday attire, stupid little hat and all. Of all times I wanted to question his intentions, this was the time I wanted to the most. So I mouthed my words without any sound coming out:

"What're you doing?"

"Huh? N-nothing..." He shook his head as his round face started to bleed red in embarrassment. I noticed he was suddenly hiding something behind his back, and I gave him an annoyed look as I pointed.

"What? I said it's nothing!!" He told me defensively, but I shook my head at him, not buying it. After a moment of staring at me, he huffed.

"You um... You just look like trash, so- Here!!" He shoved a tiny blue comb into my face, "Fix your stupid hair!!"

As soon as I took it he got up and walked across the room, fiddling with his torture devices and avoiding eye contact with me. I sighed in confusion, but examined the object. Since when did he care about how ratty my hair looked? I figured it couldn't hurt though. I missed being able to straighten it out.

After a tedious few moments of me desperately tugging at the knots in my hair, he looked at me from the corner of his eyes. Then he turned to face me, and he watched me violently pull the comb out of the tangled strands.

"What the hell are you doing??" He asked. I looked at him, then frowned at the floor. I had always been pretty violent with the knots of my head, but with this tiny comb, and the amount of untreated, nappy rats stuck in my dead skin cells, it wasn't working well for me.

"Ugh, come on, I don't even use combs, and even I know how they work!! You have to start from the ends, look-" He said, snatching the comb from my hand. He got down beside me and turned my head aside. I noticed that Butters wasn't anywhere to be seen, when he very gently used the comb to untangle the stubborn knots, pulling balls of tangled hair out along the way. After maybe twenty minutes, my hair was silky smooth, and it didn't hurt anymore when he glided the bristles through it. But he continued to carefully brush, finding it very calming I suppose.

I wish I could've asked him why he was still brushing. But at the same time I didn't care. It was a very comfortable feeling... Like when you're petting a really soft kitten after crying for a hour, or when your Mom rubs your ear while you're falling asleep. I heard him sigh a few times out of content. He mumbled to himself under his breath.

"...beautiful..."

I knew he was the one who had been hurting me... so then why did this feel so soothing? It was mind boggling that he could taser me, day in and day out for a month straight, but still somehow make me want to curl up on his lap and fall asleep. This was wrong... I felt like an abused dog, who's only remorse was to loyally snuggle up to his owner's leg after being kicked by it countless times, just because once in a while he'll get a nice scratch behind the ear. It's weird how a single act of kindness can put you from self defense mode, straight into vulnerability. An incentive of kindness from a capture can drive you to believe there is hope for the end of suffering.

A woman in an abusive relationship will stay with her shitty man, because she's so co-dependent and thinks she sees the good in him.  A hostage defends the person holding them at gun point, because they might've created a bond with them during their time under captivity. Cartman was sick and twisted. Torturing me until I had no choice but to follow him. To join his side in desperation for these small acts of kindness. His logic was to hurt me so much and deprive me of kindness so hardcore that I would accept any form of love, no matter who it came from.