Disclaimer: I do not own South Park


They all sit there. Smiling. Laughing. Joking about radioactive Tupperware, laser-eyebeams and the mint-berry flavors of a balanced breakfast. Comparing and exchanging their "gifts" like it's some kind of secret club. They think it's fun. They're wrong.

They wear the costumes and act the part but they haven't any idea what it takes to live up to the first part of their self-proclaimed titles. What it means to be super. What it means to live every waking moment of your life, burdened by something only you can know. Only you can understand.

No.

You don't understand it. You've just learned to accept it. You've learned to accept every stab wound, every gunshot….every vehicle, wild animal, poison or illness will have no effect on your person. You'll bleed, combust, or rot away….but you'll always come back. I'll always come back. No matter how many pieces I'm torn into…no matter how many holes pierce my flesh….I'll still wake up the next day, completely unscathed. No scars, no brain damage….nothing. Everything is picture perfect, right as rain, fanfuckingtastic. I'm free to live about my life as if I'd never died at all. No one remembers a damn thing anyway, so why not?

Why not go about my life, trailing after my friends in blissful ignorance?

Why not pretend I get off scott-free at the end of the day? Go home, curl up in bed and close my eyes with the confidence that the world will stay the same? That my friends and family's memories will remain intact and they'll remember events the way I do? That maybe, tomorrow, they'll greet me more with nonchalant grins and lighthearted words; they'll look at me—gape at me—and ask why on earth that buzzsaw or tour bus or machine gun or something didn't kill me. They'll show concern for more than the television, or Eric Cartman's racist banter and finally see the curse beneath the parka.

Finally realize that unlike them, I can't shed my powers. I can't shove them away in a dresser and play "fireman" or "cops and robbers" like I haven't a damned care in the world. For me, this isn't a game.

It's life.

A lonely, miserable life that I've no choice but to walk alone, no matter how daunting and infuriating it might become. No matter how badly I wish someone would just remember…. it will never be.

Believe me. I've tried.

I know.

This is my problem to face.

My curse to deal with.

My fate to accept.

The boy who can never die forever forced to dance with death….

There was no greater, bitter irony.