"I don't know what's right and what's real anymore/ And I don't know how I'm meant to feel anymore/ When do you think it will all become clear?/ 'Cause I'm being taken over by the fear."

-Lily Allen, The Fear

-Ike's Death Draft 1-

I woke up to the irritating sound of my alarm clock. Damn, another day. I really don't want to get up, but my mom would kill me if I didn't. I don't really feel like getting stuck talking to her.

I stand, dreading the blinding sunlight pouring from my windows. Quickly, as to avoid the other residents of the Broflovski house, I grab my clothes and speed to the bathroom. I really don't want to see anyone today.

Looking around, I notice I've stepped into Ike's bathroom. I look at the green, bloodstained walls. Ike's blood. I run my hand along the shredded shower curtain, also tinted pink from the crimson liquid. I can almost see how easy it must have been for the man. And I didn't even notice. How did I not notice a 200-pound-creeper sneak into my house with a knife?

I shake my head. There's no use in getting upset about what could have been. I strip and slip into my normal clothes- jeans and a simple t-shirt. I pick up my toothbrush, drowning the head in toothpaste, and scrub my teeth clean. If only they had invented the brainbrush. Then I go downstairs, grabbing my faded orange jacket off the coatrack at the door.

"Don't you want breakfast, Kyle?" asks my mom from the kitchen. That's strange. She's never up this early.

"No," I reply. An easy answer. Although I really wasn't hungry and told her so. However, I did omit the part about not wanting to get sucked into a conversation with the red-haired bitch.

I pull on my green hat, making sure to hide all of my dark red curls. Why does everything have to be red? I just hate the color red. It irritates me to no end. My hair is red, my mother's too. Blood is red. I've been seeing red, literally and in the other form, so much that I've gotten rid of anything red. No red pens, colored pencils, sharpies, paper, anything red. It all went straight to the trash. Except my hair, which I only keep because Stan likes it.

"Hey, Kye," comes the comfortingly familiar voice of my boyfriend, Stan. I just love Stan, although I'd never admit it. He's so perfect and charming. Like some sort of prince. He's been so helpful the past few months I've gone without Ike.

I give him a weak smile. "Hey," I reply quietly. He comes by every morning so that we can walk to the bus stop together.

As I step out of the house, I make sure to shut the door completely before taking Stan's proffered hand. When I do, he smiles at me. He has such a nice smile. It even makes me smile a little as we walk.

There's a crowd at the bus stop. I pick out Cartman and Kenny in the cluster, bickering over something or other, probably about Kenny's lack of money or his ways of making money. Then there's Tweek and Craig sharing a coffee again. Everyone else is exchanging idle chatter, waiting for the bus to arrive any minute. I sigh inwardly.

'Happy face,' I remind myself. 'They'll think you're weak if you don't suck it up.'