June 10, 2015
The squealing of rusty swings was too much. Smells of chlorine and sunscreen, clouds slowly shifting, blanketing all of it, made him queasy. Stan left the picnic table with his bike, wheels tick-tick-ticking through the wet grass. People stared at him. Family clusters surrounding barbeques, blowing bubbles and playing 80s rock on their Bluetooth speakers. His shorts were too short, he knew. And his baggy, sleeveless tee-shirt with slits down the sides showed more than they probably cared to see. Maybe they thought his sunglasses were queer- he lost his own and borrowed Sharon's. Maybe they thought it was weird to see a 16-year-old with a gold Walkman. What a way to detach yourself from reality, they might think, they might whisper to their sisters, their cousins.
For Stan, he felt it brought him closer to realness. His phone was at home, stashed in a desk drawer with old notes that Kyle would pass to him during class. They would say things like Are you following this shit? Or you're really cute and it's unfair that we have to behave in public and Stop being homophobic and pay attention to me damn it. He watched the way puddles swallowed his shoes as he walked, studied the sizes and shapes of bug-bitten leaves, children eating frozen yogurt on the sidewalk.
(im a part of all of this)
He smiled to himself. That is such a hippie thing to think.
Even as his tires slipped in a puddle and he fell sideways, nearly splitting his hip, he still felt a part of things. Propping himself up and looking down at his bloody knee and muddied thighs.
(this is real. im real. yes. i dont feel real but i must be)
He couldn't call anyone and he didn't need to.
He was fine. He felt fine.
When Kyle opened his front door to the dirt and blood baptized Stan, his eyes widened with concern, then his eyelids lowered when he saw Stan's face, grinning, arms open like a Cabbage Patch doll.
"What the hell happened to you?" he asked, grinning a little himself.
"What hasn't?" Stan wrapped his bare arms Kyle's neck and kissed him, covering both of them in mud.
"Hi, my name is Kyle Marsh."
He would cut the daisy from his throat if he could.
He stood in a bare, well-lit room with black paneling and a whiteboard. "I don't have a major role in mind. I'd actually prefer to be a background person if you don't mind. I brought a sonnet-" he reached into his pocket.
"Actually, we'd like you to read from this," the director, Brandi, pushed a packet across the table with highlighted dialogue.
"Oh, yeah. Of course. That makes way more sense." He took it with clammy hands.
"You seem a little fidgety. It's okay if you're nervous," the assistant director, Sabina, spoke with a thick Russian accent, "It's just Shakespeare. It's not like he'll hear you if you mess up."
"But you guys will," Kyle smiled. "I'm a little nervous, yeah. Actually, I was wondering, do I need to stay for the whole three hours? It's not that I don't want to be here, it's just that... my friend is in the hospital. But I know he'd kick my ass if I didn't try this out."
"I'm sorry, what happened?" Brandi leaned in closer with his pencil across his lips. Spare no details around theatre people.
"He had a stress-induced heart attack. He's going to be okay though."
"Oh my God," said Sabina, "How old is he?"
"My age. 18."
Brandi shook his head, "You kids really have your back up against the wall these days."
Kyle wasn't sure how true it was, but it was coming from a man in his 60s, with a lifetimes of studying the human condition, there had to be some truth.
"I just want to make sure he comes back to a safe place," something delicate bloomed in Kyle's chest, "You know... clean clothes, and food. We've been through a lot together our whole lives, and especially these past few months with my boyfriend, who is his best friend too, passing away. I think it would be nice for him to come back to something... nice. I don't know."
(what am i doing)
(why am i telling this to complete strangers)
"Kyle, why don't you read this part?" Sabina flipped a few pages in and pointed to a block of monologue.
Only flashes of fluorescent lighting, his mother standing over him, crying (something he's seen over and over again) , a doctor talking to him at one point to which he mumbled something like "tell my sister I love her," and he said, "you can tell her yourself" were what Kenny could remember.
They told him to sleep. Keep sleeping, you're running on fumes, get some rest. He slept on and off for 24 hours, the monotonous beeping of machines cradling him to sleep at times, other times they were annoying, keeping him awake. A nurse gave him an old iPod Nano and headphones to help.
5 am, Kenny woke the morning of his final day there. Karen was curled up next to him, asleep, arm across his torso, holding Kyle's hand, who was slumped over on Kenny's bedside, also asleep, his other hand on Kenny's arm. He blinked hard trying to refocus, see the shapes in the dim light of the room.
"Hey," he nudged Kyle.
"Hnn," Kyle stirred but didn't sit up.
"Kyle, wake up," he nudged a little harder.
"Wha?" He rose, squinting. He yawned, ran his palm over his face. "Hey... how long have you been awake?" he whispered.
"Just now. Have you guys been here all night?"
"Pretty much."
"They let you stay?"
"Of course. Well, kind of. Karen cried a lot."
"Oh, man." He looked down at his sister, still sniffling in her sleep. He hated that he had been unconscious for all of it, unable to console her calm Kyle, "Take her home, please. She doesn't need to be here."
"Right now?"
"Yes."
"But you just woke up."
"I know," Kenny whispered aggressively. "But she needs to go home."
Kyle hesitated. In the warm glow of the bedside light, his eyes looked gray. "I don't want to take her back to that house."
"I don't want her to go back either, but this setting isn't much better," he sighed. "And it's our home. It's all we have."
Kyle shifted and leaned forward, "Maybe it doesn't have to be anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"We could move in together."
"What? And live with your psycho dad?"
"No. I mean, we're 18 now. It could be our own place, and we can have Karen stay with us. Ike too. Make our own home."
Part of Kenny wondered if Kyle somehow overheard his thoughts during his conversation with Bebe. This was impossible. Coming out of nowhere. "How? First of all, they told me I can't work for four weeks. That's going to put a dent in things. Second, you don't even have a job."
"I'll get a job. I'll get two jobs. Hell, I'll get three if I have to. I don't care if it's some shitty two-bedroom apartment. It'll still be better than where we're at now."
"Three jobs? Yeah, that'll work when you start college."
Kyle picked at his lips and said nothing.
"Kyle. I'm not letting you not go to school. You're too good. Too smart, to stay in this rank-ass town."
"But... you're here."
"Kyle, I don't think you know what you're saying. So, please. Take my sister home. Then take yourself home and sleep."
"Fine... but I'm coming back at two to pick you up," he rose, slid the chair back, "At least think about it, Ken."
"I will." Gently, he moved his shoulder, waking Karen. "Hey, Kyle's going to take you home, okay?"
"Okay," she mumbled, climbing out of the bed, turned and hugged her brother, "Bye, Kenny. I love you."
"I love you, too."
She squeezed hard. "Bye," she said again before heading for the hallway.
Kyle lingered for a moment, staring at Kenny with a small smile.
"What?" Kenny asked.
"Nothing. I'm just glad you're okay."
"You know I would have been regardless."
"I know. But still, I don't want you to suffer..."
"Well, thanks."
Kyle looked out into the dark hallway to make sure Karen wasn't in sight. Kenny watched him, his face scrunched in confusion. Kyle leaned down and quickly hugged him, making the heart monitor jump for a moment.
The dream came again. Faster. It was faster every time. He was crawling in the dark, wet soil squeezing under his fingernails, sweat dripping into his eyes. Walls tighter and tighter around his body until finally he was pushed up and floating above the ground, fingers dragging over the cemetery gravel. Burning. Stan looks up at him smiling, standing in his grave, casket open. Another Stan is in the casket, arms at his sides, dead asleep.
Why are you so upset Kyle? He wraps his decomposing hands around Kyle's forearm and lowers him into the grave so that they're standing face to face. Stan points at his gravestone where "Kyle Marsh (1999-2017)" has been engraved in cryptic, angular letters.
I added you today. This way we can rot into each other.
Kyle shakes his head (i cant stay with you stan i would give anything to have you back but i cant stay)
Why? Why not?
(because you are not real)
Kyle wakes up at his desk, his cheek hot from being buried in the crook of his elbow. Stan's notebooks are in a pile on his left, his laptop is open to 25 tabs of poetry sites, each one asking for a cover letter, 12-pt Times New Roman font, separate pages, (no fancy script!), no name on the entries. He wonders how the hell he's going to go through all these pages. Who will take what, what will they think when they find out the author is dead.
He glances at the time on the monitor: 1:26 pm. He would have to pick up Kenny soon. He disobeyed him when he was told to bring Karen home. Instead, he took her to McDonald's, then took her back to his house, where Sheila made her eat even more. In their driveway, Ike was now teaching her how to skateboard. He could hear them laughing through his open window. They were listening to the radio, too.
(i wish stan was here)
In the shower, he roughly scrubbed his face and scalp, the water so piping hot that it turned his skin red. Finally, enough to keep him warm. Reptile.
He went over again in his head what was written so far to these publishers:
Dear Editor:
My name is Kyle Marsh-
His fingers tingle when he types this part. It was only a half-lie. It would be his name soon. Hopefully.
I am the partner of Stan Marsh. I am sending four pieces to you ("Under Fluorescent Lights" "The Family Concert Minus One" "Birds" and "Cannibal Girls").
Stan has been writing for several years, was an honor student, and once fought our English teacher about Sylvia Plath. He loved Phantogram and Butcher Babies and Meg Myers. Sometimes he wore lipstick. He was good at nearly everything he did, and we loved him. I loved him.
Unfortunately, Stan lost his battle with chronic depression this past spring. I know that he would want me to do this for him.
If the material does not fit the genre of your journal, please don't hesitate to send it back. I will not be offended. I am not familiar with this process and will gladly accept any advice that I receive.
Sincerely,
Kyle Marsh
You should be dead. That's what they told him: you should be dead. We've never seen anything like this before. They clipped his x-rays and MRIs to the board, the descriptions growing more gruesome with every finger point. All of this internal damage, from his corroded brain, a strangulated neck, (this looks like disembowelment to me) to broken toes. His heart was the worst, they said. His heart had the worst damage.
Kenny took this in with a small smile, nodding politely. He couldn't say "I figured this would happen eventually." They'd think he was crazy.
They would follow up with him later about potential surgery. He waved it off, "Insurance won't cover that shit." But he was alive, still kicking, far from pushing up daisies, and they sent him home with a list of prescriptions, a pat on the back from one of the doctors, and a "hang in there, buddy."
Hang in there, buddy, hearing it over and over again, in the back of his brain while Kyle drove a little too slow past cows and horses.
Hang in there, buddy, as they walked up the driveway to his house, and Kenny noticed that Kyle was wearing long sleeves despite the hot weather.
Hang in there, buddy, as Kyle took him straight to the bathroom, told him to shower, he's been in the hospital for three days.
After a cold shower, and then a hug from Karen, he went to his room where Kyle was lying on his mattress, reading. He looked up when Kenny entered. "I washed your sheets for you," he said. He wiggled to the side, "You should probably sleep."
"I'm tired of sleeping," Kenny said, but lay next to him anyway. "I should go back to work soon."
"Just take a break, dude. You work yourself hard enough." He palmed Kenny's chest, afraid that he would get up and run out.
Kenny placed his hand around Kyle's, "I just don't want to be useless."
"You're not useless. Just try to relax, please. If not for yourself, then for me."
(youre sitting on my bed how can i relax KYLE)
"And if not for me, then for Karen."
Kenny let out a heavy sigh, gave Kyle's hand a squeeze, "Are you going to stay here? I mean, obviously you don't have to if you don't want to."
"I'll stay as long as you want me to."
"Okay, so forever then."
"Ha, I think you're still a little drugged up."
Kenny pushed Kyle's hand down and sat up, "They didn't give me anything that would make me high."
"Oh. Oh-kay. You definitely need a nap, then."
"No, Kyle. I almost died again."
"I know, and I hate it. I know you always come back but," Kyle sat up too and crossed his legs. He leaned up against the wall, tilted his chin up as if he might kiss the sky. Badly, so badly, Kenny wanted to ask why he was wearing long sleeves but he was afraid of the answer. "I still hate the idea of you having to go through this over and over again..."
He couldn't help it. His sweet side was showing. "Kyle, I love you."
"I love you, too."
"No..."
"No?"
"I mean..." (what if this was my last alive what if what if this curse or power is weakening and i am dying i would have died without him knowing) " I'm in love with you."
"...are you sure you're not high?"
"Ky..." He took Kyle's hand and flipped it to an open palm, traced his fingers over the lines of Heart and Head. The space of skin in between the two was wide.
"You're fucking with me."
Kenny looked directly into Kyle's eyes with his own solemn ones. He shook his head. Reaching his arm around Kyle's back, he pulled him closer to his own face. Kyle did not squirm or shrink away, so he went for it, kissing him lightly. It didn't match his fantasy about what it would be like to kiss Kyle for the first time, but he wasn't disappointed. Especially since Kyle kissed back. It felt good to be touched like this again, but parts of him, with his belly pulling upward and the static in the back of his head fizzling, found guilt. It felt like Stan was watching him. He pulled away.
"Why didn't you say something?" Kyle asked softly.
"Dude, I've been dropping hints since elementary school, but apparently, you're not very good at picking them up... and besides, you started dating Stan and I..." his nostrils burned and his eyes watered, "How am I supposed to tell you something like that when you're with someone that makes you happy? If Stan had been as asshole, or was cheating on you or something, then yeah. I would have been more than happy to sabotage your relationship. But Stan loved you. He really, really loved you. I figured it would be better if I just stayed away."
Kyle thought back to the night where Kenny told him and Stan that he was quitting school. He seemed relieved. Finally, he could work for himself and not have to worry about being clustered in with everyone else from 7:30 am to 2:30 pm. The first week of Kenny not being at the bus stop felt unnatural. Then the second week came. Then the third. The fourth... they got used to it, the emptiness. "I wish you didn't. We really missed you."
"I'm sorry. It was just too painful," he let his hand fall down Kyle's back, "I did miss you though. I missed you a lot."
He wanted to kiss him again, but held it back. "I understand. I know what it's like to have to fight your heart."
"Is that a heart attack joke?"
Kyle's eyes widened as if he were a sensitive housewife, hand over his heart, mouth open, trapped in a black and white screen (Oh good heavens, no dear! I wouldn't dream of joking about such a subject).
Kenny laughed, "Dude. I'm joking."
"Sorry," Kyle bit his lip and looked down. Something changed in his face. A look that Kenny was familiar with.
"What are you thinking?"
"I think that... I kind of knew."
"How?! You seemed so oblivious."
"Gee, thanks. After I found that picture of you and me with Stan folded back," he glanced at the closet door as if he were watching the scene again from outside of snowglobe. "I suspected you. I just would rather you tell me when you were ready. Also... your sister kind of accidentally said something. I only half-believed her."
"Wow..."
"Can I ask you a question?"
Kenny swallowed, "Sure. Anything."
"Why me? Girls really like you. I didn't know you liked guys, but I'm sure if they knew, you'd have some... interested parties. I don't understand why you would want me."
On any other day, or if he was only asking it to himself, he would be able to answer without fear. At least the hard part was over with. He said what he thought with trembling hands: "I just... love how smart you are. I love your sense of humor. It's weird. You're dark but then you come out of nowhere with these dumbass puns. You're sweet. You always put others before yourself. You're brave. Sometimes you can be impulsive and destructive. Sometimes you're mean... but you always own up to it when you're in the wrong. And you're cute. You have no idea... the things I would do to you if I could."
"If you could?"
"If you let me. Like how you let me kiss you just now."
Kyle bit his lip again, turning red.
"And you're warm," Kenny added. "You make me feel warm."
"That's funny. I'm cold all the time."
Kenny dragged his hands down Kyle's inner thighs, "I wish no one was in the house right now because you feel pretty warm to me." He smiled, seeing that Kyle looked flustered. He scratched his arm. "Speaking of which... aren't you melting in that shirt?"
Kyle stiffened. "I'm fine."
"Don't. You're not fine," he pulled the sleeve back to see lesions, circular cigarette burns all over and under his arms. "Oh, Kyle..."
Kyle looked off to the side, not wanting to see Kenny's dismantled expression or his own sabotaged skin.
Kenny took aloe vera from the fridge and rubbed it all over Kyle's arms, much like Kyle used to do for Stan. He wondered, if this was all life was- the same things repeating over and over with different people.
"So, can I ask you something?" Kenny asked, capping the bottle.
"Shoot."
"Why'd you let me do it? You had several seconds to backup or run away or push me. But you let me put my arm around you, like this," he moved his arm to the small of Kyle's back again, "And then you let me kiss you, like this." Kenny leaned in toward Kyle's face. Kyle put both hands up on Kenny's head, stopping him and giving them both a waft of aloe vera scent.
"I can't," said Kyle. "I like you. I really do, and I think that we do have something. But I'm still... I'm still hurting. I need more time."
Kenny took both of Kyle's hands with a sigh, held them tightly in his own. "I understand. We have time. We have all the time in the world."
(lying again)
Transcript from Kyle's voicemail:
June 27th, 2017
Hi Kyle, this is Brandi from the Park Country Theatre Company. We really loved the discussion we had and the reading you did for us. I know that you said you only wanted small character parts, but we were hoping that you might opt for taking the role of Saturninus. We think you have the perfect energy for him. If you're not comfortable with that, it's totally fine, either way, we'd love to have you. Give us a call back, thanks! Bye.