A/N: Long story short, I originally posted this July 3 2011. And after taking over a year long break from this website, I came back and read this again. I got really pissed at myself for never finishing this one because I actually liked what I had written. So, I've decided to take it down, remove something, and repost the chapter so I can continue the story. I'll personally message anyone who took an interest in the story one year and a month ago when it was posted but I doubt anyone will even remember, haha. Okay I'll shut up now. Enjoy and tell me what you think so I'll get motivated to write!

-GUN

Disclaimer: I do not own South Park.

Masquerade

A South Park Fanfiction

By googleurname

Christmas Night

The man dressed in a completely black attire vigorously threw Kyle Broflovski into the chilling blanket of snow on the ground. His grip was firm, uncomfortably firm; it felt as if his fingers were five knives poking through the warm protection of Kyle's winter coat, threatening to pierce through his skin. Clenched in the strong, right hand of the man was a shovel. An old, metal shovel measuring about five feet long in length. Staring at a helpless Kyle lying on the ground, the man stroked the cool steel of the shovel, wincing at the sight of the fallen boy.

"Please, don't! Don't kill me! Somebody, help!" The tangerine-haired boy shrieked urgently, his voice clouded by thick cries. The moonlight from the ominous night shone directly on his face, revealing numerous fallen tears and a petrified expression that could send shivers down anyone's spine. The man kicked the seventeen-year-old Jewish student who was wiggling for freedom, causing him to unwillingly give up. The man then proceeded to hit Kyle in the mouth with the head of the shovel, earning a yelp of pain and a long stream of blood pouring out from the teenager's upper lip.

Kyle coughed, and suddenly the pure white snow was tainted was splotches of crimson. Fuming, the man in black placed both hands on the shovel and stared into Kyle's eyes detestably. Get the fuck out of here, Kyle thought while bravely, yet hopelessly, attempting the crawl away. But the man was clearly superior, at least at this moment, and struck him in the back of the head with the frozen head of the shovel. Kyle's face was sent crashing into the freezing bed of snow, ultimately causing sheer pricks of displeasure. Another cry of pain escaped Kyle's gargling, blood-filled lips.

"Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?" Kyle demanded, eyes locked on the feet of the man and sobs escaping from his shaking throat. The snow dripped down his face as he shivered viciously.

"What goes around," The man started simply before taking a brief hiatus, his voice deep with loathe. "Comes around." He then abandoned the shovel, throwing it to the side and admiring the nauseating wounds he had just cursed upon the helpless teenager. Kyle began to shake uncontrollably, thick tears streaming down his face and freezing halfway down.

"Look!" The man ordered forcefully, grabbing Kyle's collar and dragging him closer to the pond. He turned Kyle's head around, forcing him to stare at the frozen body of water. "This is where your sorry ass is going to die."

And for the last moment of Kyle's life, he was absolutely silent. Except for the noticeable exaggerated breaths, there was sound; no requests, no confessions. In fact, the last thing Kyle did before he died was stare. Kyle turned his delicate, fragile head around slowly and widened his eyes in shock as he noticed the identity of his murderer.

And then, the man dressed in black picked up the shovel and bashed in young Kyle's head. The body of the unfortunate teenager fell helplessly back onto the blanket of fallen precipitation. His emerald eyes, intensely locked on the face of his killer, fell shut, and were never again reopened. The man in black loosened his grip on the shovel which fell into the snow. The man gripped Kyle's winter coat and dragged him through the snow, creating a slight path from the lifeless body. Still holding tightly onto Kyle's coat, he kicked the frozen layer of water so that the ice cracked. He kicked it again, causing the ice to shatter and for a slight hole to produce. He then walked behind Kyle and stopped. He pushed him forward into the pond, his body collapsing upon the ice and the ice collapsing underneath his body. Gravity pulled Kyle into the chilling water and he floated there for a brief second before sinking down, the water defeating him.

The man dressed in a completely black attire walked away nonchalantly.

January 9th

Stan Marsh was ill. Physically, emotionally, and mentally. His face, once a lively olive skin tone, had turned white; whiter than the snow his town was so accustomed to. His remarkable blueberry irises had evolved into dull spheres of gray. The stomach belonging to the teenager was constantly churning; sadistically rejecting any form of food or beverage by regurgitating it back up, the acid burning his throat. His heart, in his own words, had felt like it had cut in half, raped, and sewed back together. And to make matters worse, he had began having extremely vivid flashbacks. Not just any flashbacks, but of his dearest, most cherished companion in the entire world. The one he needed. The one he loved. The one who was his; and only his. The one who had died just seven days prior. Stan was sick, and no amount of medication could ever cure him.

It wasn't long until Kyle's body was found, despite it being buried underneath the freezing pond. Stark's Pond was a common hangout for the teenagers in the secluded town. December 26th, the morning after Kyle's murder occurred, Tweek Tweak, of all people, decided to take a brief visit to the peaceful landmark. The highly caffeinated boy's heart boomed within his chest as soon as his jittery eyes noticed the bloodstain on the crisp snow accompanied by the shovel. It wasn't until he saw the path that Kyle's body created and the hole in the ice of the pond that he screamed and dialed 911.

Maybe if I was there, Stan thought to himself. Things would be different. He poured his face into his hands, mentally kicking himself. Kyle had texted him, inviting him to stay the night, but Stan's phone had died prior. If he had just charged his phone, then maybe he would have ended up staying the night after all - maybe things would have different.

Maybe Kyle would still be alive.

Kyle and Stan's relationship itself was quite - different. The two started their intense relationship with being nothing more than casual acquaintances in kindergarten. Their mutual interests and passion for adventure soon escalated them to best friends days later. And when that wasn't enough, they became Super Best Friends in the fourth grade. However, the two hormonal both longed for more when it came to junior high school, the time period where they both came to terms with their sexual orientations. Kyle was homosexual and Stan was bisexual. Soon, the two began a relationship - a secret relationship only the two of them knew of. They were boyfriends; they were each other's everything. And although the two referred of it as a forbidden fact to anyone else, the entire town knew, on some level, of their feelings for each other. The boys were in full of compassion, dedication, and pure love for one another.

And that is why, at that exact moment, Stan was sitting on his bed while grabbing onto his legs and staring intently out the window. Staring, but not seeing. Smiling. His body was physically present, but his mind was elsewhere - somewhere exultant. Somewhere, to him, far more fascinating. He had escaped to his memories, the one location where he could always be accompanied by Kyle no matter what. Paradise.

"Stanley?" His mother called, knocking on his closed bedroom door from the outside.

Stan's smile vanished. His eyes retreated from the window and focused on the door. He was reluctant to say anything.

"Can I come in?" She asked, concern coating her voice. After not being answered, she hesitated but decided to enter his room anyway and sat on his bed beside him. Stan just looked at her with his tired, life-drained eyes.

"Stanley, you need to come out of this room," She informed soothingly, not wanting to upset her son even further. "What you're doing is not healthy."

"Was it healthy when Kyle's murderer beat him senselessly with a shovel?" Stan challenged innocently. He swallowed hard before continuing. "They said some of his brain was on it."

"Just because Kyle is dead doesn't mean you have to sit in your room all day and die, too," The brunette woman said serenely. "Kyle wouldn't have wanted this and you know that."

"Doesn't it matter what I want?" Stan asked, his voice raising ever so slightly.

Sharon Marsh's lower lip trembled in frustration. "It's time for you to go back to school tomorrow, Stanley."

Stan's jaw dropped an inch, revealing clenched teeth. "I'm not going back to school."

"You have to go back sometime. You haven't left your room in weeks - and that was for Kyle's funeral!"

Stan was silenced. The funeral. The crying. The previous fact was, of course, evidently true. Stan had attended the funeral held for his boyfriend the day after his murder although Stan had found how soon it was being held somewhat inappropriate. Kyle's mother had chosen the date. Apparently it was Jewish tradition.

Stan grew quieter, slumping his shoulders slightly. He rested his elbows upon his upper legs and buried his face into his hands, breathing heavily. Sharon, heartbroken, wrapped her arms around her son, squeezing him tightly to her chest.

"My boy," She murmured, referencing the boy she had in her arms. "My handsome boy."

"Leave." Stan requested simply.

Sharon Marsh sighed in defeat before rising to her feet and approaching the doorway. Before she left the bedroom, she just stared at her son with the highest amount of empathy. Finally, she sighed once again and left her son to sulk in his room solely.

Stan's eyes returned to the window, and his mind returned to the joyous reminiscences of his time with Kyle.

"Stan," Kyle said softly. "Thanks for not hating me." His green eyes lowered from the face of his best friend back to the Life board game.

"Dude!" Stan said, urgently; almost offended. "Why would I hate you?"

"I don't know," Kyle replied awkwardly, biting his lip slightly. "My mom banned all video games with violence from South Park. Face it, Stan. You're the only one who's not super pissed at me right now."

Stan sat there for a brief moment, unaware of what to say. "It's not your fault your mom did that. And playing Life isn't that bad." Stan said in his most convincing tone possible, but even that wasn't good enough.

Kyle sat there mutely.

"Look," Stan began again. "You're the only person in this entire fucking town who I don't want to kill sometimes. And if a group of sixteen-year-olds get pissed because a few video games are gone, well, it doesn't really say too much about them anyway."

"You know what? I think you're right." Kyle beamed, staring into his friend's eyes. "Thanks." He said genuinely.

The two then continued to play Life, to which Stan ended up defeating his boyfriend.

"You know, Ky, you're almost as bad as this game as Kenny." Stan remarked, chuckling slightly.

"Yeah," Kyle agreed. "I know."

Stan, coming back from his flashback, closed his eyes for a moment. How ironic, he thought. Kyle losing at the game of Life, and then dying. It was unnecessary and cruel how short the span of his life was. Why should Stan be able to live, and Kyle be the one to die? They were basically the same person. What kind of person would want to take precious life away from someone just seventeen? His life was just about to start before it was brutally ended.

Kyle had been perfect. He had twin emerald irises that glimmered with excitement each time they were gazed into. Kyle also had hair - a lot of hair. Curly, long - but not too long (which both boys found distasteful) ringlets of shimmering red hair that bounced when he walked. Ashamed of this, he would occasionally hide his hair underneath the hood of a jacket or sweatshirt. Even more rarely, he would wear his childhood ushanka. Stan, of course, thought this was preposterous, for Kyle's hair was stunning. He also had a dimple, a cute little indentation underneath the left side of his mouth when he smiled. A scarce amount of freckles painted the skin underneath his eyes and across his nose. Additionally, he was tall - about the same height as Stan, but perhaps one to two inches shorter. Why, Stan wondered, would anyone want to kill him?

The raven-haired teenager walked over slowly to the desk seated beside his window. He grabbed the chair and dragged it slightly away from the desk and sat down, looking down at a piece of paper and a pen that rested on the wooden platform. He took the pen in his hand and began to write.

Kyle,

This is stupid. You can't read this, you're dead. But who knows? Maybe you're a ghost or something and you can read this.

Feeling embarrassed of himself and idiotic, he dropped the pen. He began to stand up, but the pen caught his eye again. It seemed like, somehow, he was supposed to do this. So, he sat back down and picked the pen back up.

Anyway, I just want you to know something. I'm sorry for not answering my phone. I really am. If I could have one wish, it would be for me to be there that night because then I could have protected you. I fucking miss you, dude. Also, I'm going to find out who murdered you. I'll make sure the son of a bitch that did this to you suffers even more than you did. I promise you. I swear on my life.

-Stan

A tear escaped his eye and fell upon the paper below him, creating a miniscule puddle. He did feel better after making the promise to Kyle, even if he couldn't directly tell it to him. Something, however, felt missing.

P.S. I love you.

Stan folded up the piece of paper and slipped it inside his desk. He got up, walked back over to his bed, and crawled underneath the covers, thoughts of Kyle flooding his mind. His eyes were growing heavy and his body craved sleep; yet his mind was too eager to find justice for Kyle to let him doze off. The shivering teenager brought the covers up all the way to his chin, but still remained cold. Life without his secret boyfriend was cold; unwelcoming, unsatisfying. He was addicted to Kyle, and Kyle had vanished -

Leaving Stan to cope in this world, alone.

The next day at school for Stan was a blur. He went to classes he didn't want to go to. He talked to teachers he didn't want to see. He answered questions he got wrong, and he took quizzes that he probably failed.

The announcements came on. Fish sticks for lunch, basketball tryouts next Wednesday, Yada-yada-yadah. "A memorial ceremony will be held next week on January 17th for Kyle Broflovski at 6:30 p.m in the auditorium."

He went to Physics. People, whispers, and pointed fingers.

He went to US History. People, whispers, and pointed fingers.

He went to English 4. People, whispers, pointed fingers, and a pat on the shoulder from Butters Stotch.

All of the classes Stan attended prior to lunch were the same. Most people had treated him like some sort of alienated celebrity; they talked about him, but were too afraid to approach him.

Lunch, however, was a different story. Stan, slumped over, depressed and lunch-less, walked into the cafeteria with his head below his shoulders and his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark green jacket. His hair hung in front of his eyes. The teenager looked like hell, yet he did not seem to care. In fact, his new style slightly resembled the Goth phase he had been acquainted with for a few weeks in his younger years. Stan found a lone table in the corner of the room with no one sitting down and decided to occupy it himself. He drummed his fingers on the smooth surface of the table and gazed out the window, ready to think about all of the memoirs he shared with Kyle before -

"Hey, dude," Someone said. "Mind if I sit with you?"

Stan's unfriendly, emotionless eyes softened when he looked up and noticed that the voice belonged to Kenny McCormick, Stan's second best friend (behind Kyle, of course). If there was anybody, anyone at all, that Stan might have hoped to see that day, it was Kenny. For the first time that day, Stan was glad that someone had made contact with him.

"No," Stan said quietly. "Sit."

Kenny did so without saying a word, setting down his tray. He sat there awkwardly for a few moments, fumbling with his plastic fork and stabbing it in one of his fish sticks. It looked as if the silence made Kenny uncomfortable. Stan, on the other hand, could care less. Kenny's light blonde eyebrows were raised in concern for his friend.

"You look like shit." Kenny noted. That was one of Kenny's faults; he was always bluntly honest, even in times where lying was appropriate.

"Thanks."

More silence ensued. Kenny scratched the back of his head. Stan took this time to study Kenny's appearance. He was tall, and he was pale. Much taller, and much paler than Stan was. His eyes were blue, like Stan's, but if possible, they were bluer; they had much more life in them. And lighter. His hair was a dirty blond and, similar to Stan's, was constantly ruffled. The majority of the time, save that current moment, he would be sporting a charming, sideways smirk. Currently, he was wearing a light orange t-shirt with ripped blue jeans. The jeans weren't necessarily ripped for the purpose of style; Stan knew that the reason they were ripped was simply because Kenny didn't have the money to afford pants of higher quality. Kenny was attractive - no doubt about that, yet he wasn't exactly what most would call stunning.

"I miss him too," The blonde eventually admitted before biting on one of his fish sticks. "He was a great friend and I'm tired of people stepping on eggshells around me."

"He was better than great." Stan reminded, mumbling.

"I know," Kenny replied. "But sooner or later you're going to have to try and keep living your life." He offered a weak smile.

"There's no one to live it with now that Kyle's gone." Stan said, his lower lip beginning to tremble. He bit it deeply, causing it to bleed a little.

"You have me." Kenny offered hopefully, his eyes sparkling.

"Great." Stan said, quietly and sarcastically. Kenny's face fell suddenly, obviously hurt by the response of his friend. Stan licked the blood on his lower lip. Silence.

"So, you're not a gay fish anymore?" Kenny questioned lightheartedly, changing the subject. He gestured to the empty spot on the table where Stan's tray should have been, referencing an inside joke their school shared in elementary school.

"There's no point in eating," His friend pointed out. "We're all just going to die anyway."

Kenny gritted his teeth. "Look, we're all upset that Kyle died. But it doesn't give you the right to act like a little bitch about it and make your other friends feel like shit." Kenny said, crossing his arms and looking to the side. Stan had successfully managed to piss him off.

Right before Stan could defend himself, another figure approached the two. "Hey there, fellas." Butters Stotch said nervously, fiddling with his fingers. Stan rolled his eyes at the boy's currently unwanted, cheerful persona.

"Hi, Butters." Kenny responded casually, looking up at the stuttering boy.

"It really is a shame about Kyle. I feel awfully bad for you both, considerin' you all were so - so close." Butters' voice shook, as if he was trying not to cry. He looked from Kenny to Stan, back to Kenny. The baby blue, innocent eyes of Butters locked dreamily into the scandalous, light irises of Kenny.

"Thanks, we appreciate it." Kenny said genuinely. Butters stepped a little closer to Kenny.

"If you ever want some company or something, you just make sure you let me know." Butters said quietly mostly directed to the blonde rather than Stan, wrapping his arms around him and giving him a hug. Kenny sat there awkwardly, waiting for him to finish. Butters retreated, his face slightly reddish, and began to walk away.

Butters giddily walked away with shaking legs, practically skipping. He exited the cafeteria, beaming, while approaching his locker. The innocent boy fumbled with the lock before eventually opening the locker and grabbing his Hello Kitty lunchbox.

"He hugged me," Butters excitedly whispered to himself, walking in the direction of the boys' bathroom. "He actually hugged me!"

When Butters finally approached the bathroom, he turned the knob and let himself in. Completely deserted, Butters was alone, just like he always was during lunch at school. It wasn't like anyone wanted to sit with him, anyway. He was doing them a favor. He looked over at one of the mirrors, glancing at his reflection. A short, thin teenager with the body of a small boy looked back. He had scrawny arms, baby-blue eyes and rosy red cheeks. His hair was short and blonde, slightly ruffled at the top. Butters, unsatisfied at his reflection like always, frowned at the mirror. In a way, the sadness flooding Butters' mind regarding Kyle's death was accompanied by guilt. What was so special about him? God had decided to take Kyle's life away and let Butters live. Kyle had so many friends; so many people that cared about him. Butters had no one. It would have been easier if God had just killed me instead of Kyle, the small blonde decided, and opened one of the stalls while clutching his Hello Kitty lunchbox.

The first stall had obviously previously been occupied and the one using it had failed to flush. It looked completely unsanitary and repulsive. Butters made a face before saying, "Yuck." He quickly evacuated the stall and entered the one beside it. It was clean enough. Butters, satisfied, closed the lid on the toilet and sat down before opening his lunch box. He gazed around the tight environment. Rumors, secrets, confessions, and girls' phone numbers were inscribed with pen on the door of the stall.

I slept with Bebe Stevens.

So did I.

Call 555-3265 to buy some weed.

Jews are gay.

Vagina.

Butters spent a few minutes reading the rest of the writings while gnawing at one of his mother's homemade chocolate chip cookies. He noticed that there were dozens of drawings of penises. Finding this a little odd, he scanned them with his eyes and giggled after noticing that one was drawn wearing a sombrero.

"Hm," Butters said, fishing to the bottom of his lunch box for a pen. "Maybe I could try this out." Butters retrieved a red pen with a small, plastic flower on the end of it. He took of the cap and decided to write on the wall.

I love Kenny.

Suddenly, the bell rang, signaling that lunch hour was over.

"Oh hamburgers," Butters muttered, noticing that he had barely begun eating his lunch. He closed his lunch box, opened the stall of the bathroom and hurried out the door.

"Loo-loo-loo, I've got some apples," The boy sang cheerily, walking back to his locker. He fumbled with his combination yet again, put away his lunchbox, grabbed a few binders, and continued to sing. "Loo-loo-loo, you've got some too. Loo-loo-loo, let's get together. I know what we can do-loo-loo." He finished his song and looked to the left of him, a few lockers down where Stan was banging his head against the locker.

"I. Don't. Want. To. Be. Here." The raven-haired boy complained to himself. Numerous people were staring at him, yet he failed to care. After a few more seconds of banging his head, he felt a hand tug on his arm. Surprised, Stan whipped his head around to the person that dared touch him.

Standing there was a boy of small height and lanky build. You could tell from his appearance he was at least a few years younger than Stan. His hair was jet black, even darker than Stan's. His eyes were a warm, chocolate shade of brown, yet were filled with insecurity. The boy was Ike Broflovski, Kyle's younger adopted brother.

"What are you doing here?" Stan wondered aloud, eying Ike up and down.

Ike gnawed his fingernail nervously. Ike had always kind of admired Stan, for Stan was his idol. Ike, a quiet freshman, thought his brother's best friend was the coolest, most popular person he'd ever known. This was a thought contained by many, considering Stan's successful devotion to the football, basketball, and baseball teams every year he had attended the school. Stan had it all - athleticism, charisma, and confidence - all of which Ike lacked.

"I need to ask you something." Ike said, his eyes studying Stan. He looked somewhat disappointed when he noticed his role model in such critical condition.

At that moment, the two teenagers could feel a pair of eyes staring them down. Immediately, the two boys glanced at the person who had produced the glare. Eric Cartman, an Anti-Semitic, inconsiderate, basically Anti-Kyle enemy of the group passed by, a look of disgust on his face. His eyes, dark brown - almost black, full of detest studying the two. He ran his stubby, short fingers through his head of light brown hair and his powerful stare on the boys was released. He quickly walked away from them, faster than Stan thought was possible; for he was a large, obese young man. His face turned red and beads of sweat ran down his face at times from even just walking down the halls. Strangely enough, Stan, Kyle, and Kenny, were inseparable with Eric in their younger days, although even then they despised him. Throughout the years, they eventually drifted apart, though their extreme hatred for each other did not lessen. Especially between Kyle and Eric. The two despised each other, and Eric would still often go out of his way to make even the slightest inconvenience for the Jewish teenager. Stan felt a chill down his spine as they both heard Eric mutter one word as he trailed away: "Pussies."

It was their silent agreement that they would ignore the remark made by Eric. "What do you need to ask me?" Stan asked Ike.

"You want to find out who-" Ike clutched his books tightly to his chest, and his face grew puzzled as he thought of the right words to say. "Did it, right?"

This could not have been any clearer to Stan. "Of course."

"Then don't you think it would be a good idea to - question people?" Ike suggested.

"Ike," Stan began. "There are trained detectives and cops. That's their job." He shifted his weight and leaned against one of the lockers.

"Do you know who's in charge of all that?" Ike interrogated seriously, staring intently into Stan's eyes and clenching his jaw. "Barbrady."

Officer Barbrady, probably the most idiotic man in the entire country.

Stan nodded, suddenly understanding and agreeing. He nodded again quickly replying, "Okay."'

"Call my house phone when you'd like to get started," He said. "I don't have a cell phone." Stan planned on it.

The rest of Stan's day had gone by relatively eventless. Boring; an adjective Stan detested. "Boring" was completely imaginary when he had been around Kyle. Dreary events were practically nonexistent, for the two always thought of things to do together. Stan walked aimlessly, lacking a destination at precisely 2:15 PM, post being released from school for the day. Stan let his mind wonder to possibilities of how he could possibly spend his time. All he wanted to do was lay in his bed and look at photographs of his deceased boyfriend. However, Stan decided that Kyle would have considered that "Type-A-blow-your-fucking-brains-out-kind-of-boring." After a period of severe thinking, Stan decided that he would visit Kyle.

"Stan!" Kyle called through pants while running, attempting to catch up to his best friend. They were young, for this was prior to the beginning of their secret relationship.

Stan whipped his head around and beamed when he noticed his best friend. "Hey!" The brunette greeted excitedly. At this point, Kyle had fully caught up to him and now was walking alongside him.

"You have to come back inside the school with me! Cartman fell in the janitor's closet and his fat ass actually broke through the floorboards! He's stuck in the floor and he can't get out!" Kyle said giddily, practically jumping up and down.

"Dude, that's sick!" Stan said, his face lighting up, but the expression quickly being replaced by disappointment. "Ugh, fuck. I have to go to my Grandpa's birthday party tonight."

"Oh," Kyle said, failing to hide the dissatisfaction in his voice. "Can I come?" He said, completely forgetting about Eric.

"Yeah," Stan said, continuing to walk with his hands stuffed in his pockets. "I just don't see why you would want to."

"Me neither," Kyle agreed. "Let's go."

And so the two trotted along to Stan's house, joking and laughing with each other like always. Meanwhile, Eric was trapped beneath the floorboards in the janitor's closet, progressing falling deeper and deeper down. Realizing what had happened, Kyle had abandoned him to go hang out with Stan, he cursed and fidgeted around, attempting to free himself. He only managed to scrape his leg, earning a loud curse. "I hate those gahs," He muttered to himself while he waited for someone - anyone - to find him, and furthermore, to even care.

When Stan and Kyle entered the birthday party, they were greeted by a smiling Sharon Marsh who eagerly handed them two party hats and pointed them in the direction of the living room where Grandpa Marsh was sitting in his wheelchair.

"Billy!" Grandpa Marsh exclaimed. "Billy's friend!"

Stan rolled his eyes. "My name's Stan, Grandpa. Stan."

The elderly man rolled his wheelchair closer to his grandson. "So, Billy, have you given any thought to what I asked you earlier?"

Stan froze. He knew that 'what I asked you earlier' actually meant 'killing me.' The old man was tired of life; sickened with the reminder of waking up each morning that he would have to continue living another pointless day.

"I'm not killing anyone, Grandpa." Stan hissed, his voice remorseful. Despite his moral beliefs, he did feel badly for him. Stan looked over at Kyle, his green eyes wandering the household, bored. Suddenly, Stan felt badly for letting his guest have such a lousy time.

Throughout the rest of the birthday party, Stan and Kyle had escaped upstairs to Stan's room to play Terrance and Phillip: Revenge of the Rectum on game sphere. Their night had been pointless and completely unproductive to say the least. Yet, it was a night worth remembering on both their parts. The night itself proved to both of them that, no matter how unexciting what they were doing was, it would be exciting as long as they were doing it together.

When Stan emerged from his flashback, he found himself standing in the heart of the cemetery. It was cold and unwelcoming in there. The feeling of the setting was eerie; the kind of place a scary movie would start off in. Yet for some reason, Stan thought the mood was appropriate to what he was feeling. He looked in front of him at the newly implanted grave of his boyfriend. It looked unreal.

Stan broke down crying.

"Ky," He said, wrapping his arms around the tombstone. "Why the fuck did you leave me?"

He sat there, hugging the tombstone, awaiting a reply that he knew he would never receive. Kyle was gone, all because of some inconsiderate cunt who decided to steal Kyle's life away from him. Why would anyone do that? Stan wondered to himself. He had loved him. Stan stopped sobbing and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"I hope you know," Stan began. "I will never let go of my promise. Whoever did it will pay for killing you." He said this with an assuring voice.

And he meant it.