I hated him. I hated him so much that it almost hurt. I don't even know why we hung out with him. He was a jerk, a bitch, a bastard, a good-for-nothing lowlife whose only goal in life was to piss everybody off just so he could get his laughs. Did I also mention that he's racist? And hates me because of my religion? Yeah, he'll say he hates me just as much as I hate him. But I doubt that. If he truly hated me as much as I hated him, he wouldn't be doing what I was about to do.
What's my name?
My name is Kyle.
What's his name?
The adults call him Eric.
The kids call him Cartman.
I call him… Well, some words are just too inappropriate.
Our little gang of five: Me, Cartman, Stan, Kenny, and Butters. We no longer go to South Park Elementary. No, instead we go to the dreaded hellhole known as South Park High. God, high school sucks. And I thought we had it rough in fourth grade.
So what's worse than high school?
Being sixteen in high school.
What's worse than being sixteen in high school?
Being sixteen in high school while still hanging out with him.
I always thought that high school would be some of the best years of my life. But man, was I off. With Cartman in the picture, school sucked. Why did I hate him so much? Why did I still hang out with them even though I knew he was going to be there? Why don't the others kick him out of the group?
I'll tell you why.
They don't suffer the same pain that I do.
Almost every single day, one of the first things I hear in the morning is, "Good morning, Jew." And throughout the day, it just gets worse and worse. The others don't feel the pain that I go through because he doesn't make fun of them. Through my eyes, there's nothing about them that he can make fun of.
But that pain… That pain since elementary school that I've felt every time that creep was in the same room as me... I couldn't take it anymore.
And that's why I'm sitting on the floor in the center of my room in the dark.
With a knife in my right hand.
I had been sitting there for what felt like hours, just simply staring at the knife, trying to decide if this was stupid or right. I've carried this pain with me for the longest time, and I wanted to let it all out. Even if it involved this stupid thing.
While I was sitting there, staring at the blade and thinking about what I should do, I was also trying to figure out what to write on my arm. Until I decided on one small, simple, powerful, dangerous word.
Die.
I wanted that fat-ass to die so bad that it almost hurt. Why would I want to kill somebody? Even if that somebody was him. I couldn't kill anybody, no matter how much I hated them. So that's why I decided to inflict pain on myself instead.
I know, it's stupid. I mean, really stupid. But the more I told myself I didn't have to do this, the more I wanted to do this. Almost as if my arm was controlling itself, I slowly carved the first letter into my arm.
D.
The D stood for death. Death is what I wanted him to go through. What I wanted to go through.
The pain was unbearable, but at the same time, pleasurable. Almost as if this was the thing I had been craving.
I.
The I stood for intolerance. He could never just accept my religion. No… He had to mock it, mock me, just because of it. But it wasn't my choice. I was born into a family who was raised with it. So I had to be raised with it, too. If I could change it, just to keep him from making fun of me, I would. I would do it so quickly.
The pain had now changed into numbness. Too bad. I was actually enjoying it. My arm was coated in blood. My blood. But I let it stay there as more came gushing out.
E.
The E stood for everyday. Every single freaking day that bastard was in my life was a living nightmare. No, it was a living hell.
The blade was glistening with red blood and my arm was a mess. But seeing that one word carved into my skin made me feel so much better. I don't know how, but it just did. I'd probably go to school and nobody would notice. They'd just go about their day. But he'd probably notice. He wouldn't help me, though. He'd probably make fun of me for it, or tell me I should start dressing in all black, or-
"Kyle? Are you okay?"
No, I thought I locked my door. I could hear my heart beating hard in my throat as I heard my little brother's voice from the doorway. What should I tell him? How could I possibly explain any of this to him? He was thirteen, sure, but to me he was too young to understand this. What do I do?
"Ike? What're you doing? Shouldn't you be in bed?"
I couldn't face him. If he saw what I had done to myself, I'd feel so ashamed. I'm supposed to be his role model.
"I couldn't sleep. I kept having this bad feeling about you."
Crap. I was screwed now. Say something, Kyle, say something!
"Well, everything's fine. Just go back to bed. It's late."
"Why are you sitting in the middle of the floor like that?"
I had always known my brother was smart. He was the smartest kid in his class without being a nerd. That's probably why everyone liked him. So I was stupid to think I could cover this up from him. I didn't speak, but stiffened as I heard his footsteps come closer.
And hearing that gasp from his mouth finally brought the tears to my eyes.
"Kyle, what did you do?" He was now sitting next to me, his eyes wide as he examined the knife and my arm. I couldn't take it. I had to tell him. Hopefully he would understand.
I let the tears fall as I explained to him what I did and why I did it. He didn't interrupt. He just let me talk. I was happy that he did that. Most people would just cut in and tell you what they would do.
I finished, my eyes red from the crying, and Ike just looked at me for the longest time. "Nobody cares," I muttered softly.
Suddenly, I felt his arms tighten around me. I hugged him back, glad that I had someone here to comfort me.
"You're wrong, Kyle," he whispered into my ear. "I care."
Those last two words couldn't have made me feel any better.