*rises from the dead* It's aliiiiive! This time with South Park. I'm such a deadbeat. I never finish things. But I've decided recently that South Park is actually my favorite TV show, ever. Ever. Period. I will go lock myself in a dark windowless room for a week when it gets cancelled. Which it hopefully never will.

Anyway. My life has been like utter shit lately (um, hello? Mother dropped and broke my laptop. Then tried to deny it.) so I wrote this to try and squeeze out the bad feelings. Like a sponge. Doesn't mean I necessarily condone any of this.

WARNING: lots of violence, blood, and gore. There's a reason this is M.

The bag that I'm dragging behind me wriggles. The vinyl material scrapes against the pitted concrete. There's muffled sounds coming from inside.

"Shut up," I mutter, kicking it before continuing on.

I can see my destination in the near distance. A tiny shack, the guard post for this huge abandoned warehouse that's looming behind it. It looks like a corner of the ceiling is falling in, but I know for a fact it isn't, because I went in there and patched it up myself, using a tarp. A mediocre job, but it didn't matter. Not like I'd be here for a long time.

This bag is getting heavy. I let it go for a moment, and it drops against the ground with a thud. There's a moan, and all is silent again.

I glare at it ruefully. Still making trouble, even zipped into a body bag and half conscious.

Sighing heavily, I pick it up again and start walking. The shack is only fifteen feet away now. I'm confident that no one will see me, because no one ever comes here. That's exactly the reason why I came here in the first place.

Finally, after what feels like hours of effort, I shoulder the door open and drag the bag inside. This time, when I drop it, it wriggles again, more violently. I push my hair out of my eyes with a frustrated noise, and crouch to unzip the bag.

A blonde head pops out, sucking in air. I yank the gag out of Kenny's mouth. He gasps. I whack him in the back of the head.

Kenny growls. He glares at me in defiance, but the anger is only a sham, hurriedly hung over the gaping, empty hole of confusion that's yawning inside him. He doesn't know why I'm doing this.

Good. Neither do I.

I brush his hair out of his eyes to meet his stare. It's an electric jolt when our gazes meet; his irises are like blue lightning shooting straight to the core of me. This is what I love about him: the pure energy he always exudes, despite the fact that he does nothing with it.

"Where the fuck are we, Kyle?" he asks, rubbing a trickle of blood from his chin with the back of his hand.

I shrug, standing up and scanning the small, decrepit room. It looks vaguely like a bomb went off in here; it's just a shell of concrete with scorch marks shading the walls. Either there was a fire or some moron thought it would be fun to pull out a blowtorch and waste it on nothing in particular.

Kenny struggles on the floor, unable to rise because his hands and feet are bound. "I said, where the fuck are we? Answer me, Broflovski."

"Why is it that important to you?" I ask him. "Shouldn't you be more worried about why you're here?"

"I don't give a shit. All I know is, you're out of your mind."

He's still glaring at me. I place my hand over my heart and brush an imaginary tear from my eye. "That hurts, dude. I thought we were friends."

Kenny scoffs. "Last time I checked, friends don't knock their friends out, tie them up, stuff them in a fucking body bag, and drag them out to the middle of fucking nowhere for no reason."

Crouching down, I press a finger to his lips. "Ah, but there is a reason."

"Well, what is it?" he asks around my finger. I shudder delicately, stand back up and step away.

"You don't get to know yet," I tease him, waving the same digit in the air.

"Why the fuck not?"

I turn around, facing the window and staring out it for a brief moment. When I face him again, he's slumped against the wall, looking tired and wary. He sees me looking at him, and pulls his defiant face back on.

I laugh aloud, my voice breaking against the charred walls and broken windows and rebounding back to me in some strange discord. Kenny winces.

"How precious you are," I tell him, a smug smile playing across my lips. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a switch blade, flipping it open and examining it with a degree of disinterest.

Suddenly, I whip it at his head. Kenny ducks automatically. The blade misses him by mere inches, clattering against the wall behind him and falling to the floor, where it lays still and innocent once more.

"I like knives," I say, walking over to retrieve it. Kenny's expression is slightly shocked, but he's fighting to hide it. "They're so easy to use, and so easily hidden. Handy, too. Don't you think?"

He doesn't say anything as my fingers find the handle. I pick it up slowly, drawing the blade along his spine. It cuts through the material of his jacket and shirt easily, leaving a trail of blood.

When I step back, I pull my backpack off of my shoulders and drop it heavily on the ground. There's a clamor from inside, and Kenny eyes me warily as I zip it open and reach a hand in.

"But the thing about knives is, you can't control them as easily. Needles are good too." I pull one of them out. It glints in the dim, grimy light coming through the window. I stole a handful of these from the chiropractor when my mom went for a visit. They're long, and skinny. Perfect. Beautiful.

"What do you think?" I ask, turning to him. "Knives? Needles?"

He doesn't say anything.

"Or how about both? That sounds much more fun."

"Kyle," he says suddenly, "what the hell is wrong with you? You've never been like this. You have a fear of needles. Seriously. Tell me what's going on."

"I realized my fear of needles is irrational," I muse, pricking the tip of my thumb with the point of the metal instrument. A drop of blood wells up instantaneously, glistening like a bright red pearl. Licking it off, I smile.

Kenny cringes slightly when I walk over to him; I don't know if he notices. Well, I suppose he has a right to be scared. I'm pretty sure most people would either be frozen solid in fear or screaming their heads off.

Kneeling next to him, I draw the needle across his cheek. Kenny doesn't move, but stares defiantly at me.

"Kyle," he intones flatly. "Something is wrong. Just tell me what's going on, and we'll fix it."

"There's nothing to fix," I chide him, smiling maliciously as I push the needle through his cheek. He winces, but nothing more. I push it back through the skin, and leave it there, piercing his face, shimmering with blood.

"I just thought it's about time I got to have some fun, is all."

When Kenny speaks, he does so carefully, doing his best not to stretch his skin. "Dude, you do have fun. You do things with Stan and I all the time. Remember? Or is that not fun for you anymore?" When I don't reply, just continue running my finger over a knife blade, he continues. "If it's not, well, seriously, you could've told us. This isn't exactly necessary."

"How do you know what's necessary?" I burst out, brandishing the knife at him. He flinches. More quietly, I ask, "What if this is necessary?"

"It's not," he tells me.

"Well, that's your opinion," I sniff. Moving closer to him again, I take his hands, and rip the knife through the rope binding them. When they're free, Kenny spends a minute rubbing his raw wrists, throwing me a questioning glance.

I grin. He thinks he's free. He's not.

I take one of his hands, play with his fingers briefly, then pin it to a wall. Horror dawns in Kenny's eyes. Before he can blink, I slam the knife through his hand, burying it to the hilt in his palm. Releasing the knife, I lean back, satisfied that it's going to hold in the piece of wood I have screwed to the wall.

Kenny's screaming, bellowing in pain. He tries to pull the blade out with his free hand, but his fingers slip on the blood, and before he can try again I take his other wrist and pin it to the wall too. He knows what's coming next, and he quiets, breathing heavily and fixing me with a monstrous glare. I pull another knife from my pocket, this one slightly smaller, and slowly dig it through his flesh. Kenny hangs his head, teeth clenched around another scream as he violently hisses air out from between them.

The tip of the blade comes to a stop. I look at it quizzically; I know it hasn't gone all the way through yet. Pressing it gently again, I find that there's something blocking it. Realizing it's a bone, I push harder, until I feel the satisfying crunch of that bone snapping. The knife continues through easily, finally sticking in the wood. I smile wistfully, sitting back on my heels.

Kenny is shouting curse words at me now. I drown him out with the sound of the monster purring contentedly in my head.

"Fucking… hell, Kyle," he manages, voice ragged. "What the… fuck… do you think you're doing?"

"Having fun," I respond. I reach out behind me and grab blindly for my backpack. When my fingers close around the shoulder strap, I haul it over towards me. I notice there's a blade sticking out the side, and click my tongue. "Guess I'll have to get a new one…"

I reach inside my bag of goodies, and pull out a pair of scissors. With a twisted smile, I lean towards Kenny and slide one blade inside his shirt.

A minute later, his shirt and hoodie are in strips on the floor around him. I eye my blank white canvas, and consider. What first?

"Kyle, stop this," Kenny begs. "Dude, you've lost your fucking mind. If anyone else finds out about this, you'll be sitting in a padded cell and being forced to hug yourself until your eighty."

"No one's going to find out," I sing. Since I already have the scissors out, I think I'll start there.

Kenny jerks away when I bring the twin blades near his face, but I merely pull a lock of his hair away from his face and snip that off. I curl it around my finger and press it briefly to my lips, then tuck it away in my pocket.

He's watching me with a perplexed expression. I love it when he's confused. It makes things all the more fun.

"You know, Ken," I tell him abruptly, "you need to smile more. Don't you think?"

"How in the hell do you expect me to smile in this situation?"

I snicker, snipping my scissors. "I can make you smile."

He realizes what I'm getting at, and his face struggles to break into a grin. "I'm smiling, Kyle! Look, see?"

It's not a real smile. It's a fake, twisted leer, barely masking his horror. It doesn't look like a smile at all. I sigh. It would be better if I helped him out.

I get on my knees beside him, and slip a blade under his undamaged cheek. Kenny tries to jerk his head away, but only cuts the inside of his mouth.

"Are you sure you don't want to smile for me?" I ask him, pouting.

"I'm smiling!" he insists desperately.

I close the blade of the scissors.

Kenny howls. He's spurting blood all over himself and I, gagging on it. I pull the scissors from his face and survey my handiwork. It doesn't look right; now there's a flap of skin hanging from the side of his face. I should cut that off, too. So I do, being careful to cut upwards.

When I'm finished, I discard the piece of flesh, and examine him again. Much better. Kenny's scream has ripped his skin even further, and torn the other side where the needle is. There's blood still pouring down his front, but now his teeth are exposed. The skeletal grin adds to the menace and pain in his glare.

"I love your smile, Ken," I declare, tilting his bloody chin up. "Absolutely love it."

He spits blood at my face.

Laughing, I wipe it off my cheek, and turn to my backpack once again. This time, instead of reaching inside, I upend it, wanting to fully see my range of options.

Kenny gapes in horror as I pull a wickedly curved blade from the pile of metal.

"What the hell is that thing?" he chokes.

"Not sure," I say, eyeing it critically. "I found it in my dad's collection." When his eyes question me, I deign to explain. "After Ike and I got older, my dad started collecting knives. God knows why – he never told us his reasons. But, well, I suppose they do come in handy sometimes, don't they?"

He's not even watching me anymore; he's focused on the blade of the knife in my hand. I frown. Mustn't have that. I scoot closer to him and place the tip of the blade just under the right side of his ribs. Then I drop it, realizing there's no way I could do minor damage with it.

"Save the fun for last," I murmur, picking up another couple of needles.

"Save the fun for last?" Kenny repeats, disgusted. "Honestly, Kyle. You've gone completely insane. Why am I not surprised?"

I'm the one who's surprised. Surprised he can still speak. I turn to him, hatred icing over my glare. "I don't know. I can't read your mind. Why aren't you surprised?"

Before he can answer me, I take one of my needles and jam it up under his chin. It pushes through his tongue, and I can feel it lodge satisfyingly in the roof of his mouth. Kenny lets out a strangled yell. I dangle another needle in front of his eyes, moving it closer and closer until the point is resting in the inner corner of one.

"Cry for me," I murmur. And I stick the point into his tear duct.

Blood immediately blossoms beneath his cornea. Then it slowly gathers in the corner of his eye, until a steady stream of it is trickling down his face.

I make sure the other eye matches before I sit back and sigh. "You are so hard to work with," I tell him.

Kenny doesn't say anything, doesn't even meet my gaze. I feel anger burbling up, clutching at my throat. Rising suddenly, I kick him in the side.

"Why are you always so difficult?" I yell as his body jerks. "You're difficult with everyone. Adults, other kids, girls, teammates… always causing problems. Why do people still talk to you?"

He has no answer. His mouth is still pinned shut, but I feel like he wouldn't answer me even if it wasn't.

"No one really likes you," I spit. "You aren't as popular as you think. People won't tell you to your face, or maybe they will, but they hate you."

He still isn't responding. The only way I know he isn't dead is the slow rise and fall of his chest.

"You know people hate you, right?" I say, kicking him again. "You know what they say about you? Or do you, and you're just too cool to care?" The fury is bubbling over, spilling out of my mouth like lava. What I'm saying makes me cringe, just because of the raw truth of it.

"No one likes you Kenny! You're not liked, you're not wanted, you're not needed!" The fire turns bitter, ashy. Was that true?

Suddenly the tongues of flame leap higher, and I scream, "Do you hear me?" I grab a knife and slash it violently down his abdomen. His body spasms for a brief second before falling mostly still, and suddenly there's a gash welling more blood. Blood, blood, more blood. Is that all this kid has? It's like he's making himself vulnerable. Pretending to be stupid. A martyr? Or just an idiot? Maybe both.

Taking the knife, I drive it into the back of one of his knees. A ragged moan escapes from between his clenched teeth, and his blood bubbles over his chin. Kenny leans his head back and looks at me with blank eyes.

"What are you looking at?" I seethe.

I see the answer in his eyes: a twisted homicidal maniac.

I shriek in rage and drive the knife into his arm, twisting it. The bone breaks. In response, he shrieks in agony.

With a feral grin, I go back to grab more metal instruments. The needles I jam under his fingertips and slide into his veins. I line more knives up down his arms, and draw lines of blood along his eyelids.

"No one likes you, no one wants you, no one needs you," I chant breathlessly as I work. I feel out of control and totally in control at the same time, and it's a wonderful feeling.

Somehow, by the end of it, Kenny is still breathing, still bleeding. I wonder how he has any blood left in him. I turn around and pick up the last knife, the curved one. When I look at him once again, he's watching me tiredly. With a Herculean effort, he pulls his jaws apart, the needle in his mouth coming unstuck with a hideous sucking sound.

"Ky," he breathes tonelessly. There's gravel and blood and water and oil all mixed in his voice, quiet as it is. "Stop. Just… stop… things will be okay…"

I stare at him, motionless. Then I lean forward, take the blade of the knife, and carve a heart into his chest.

"I always thought you were so pretty when you died," I tell him. My hand is shaking as I slip the knife up under the center of his ribcage. Then, quickly as I can, I stand and make my way out the door.

It takes me less than five minutes to reach my car. By then, I've come up with an alibi for my blood-soaked clothes.

Before I climb in, I smear the front bumper carefully with my hands, keeping a critical eye on the appearance of the quickly drying blood. When I decide that it looks good enough, I open the door and climb in. As I rev the engine to life, I think briefly of Kenny again. Maybe he'll survive until morning. Or maybe this time he'll die and never come back. Who knows.

I don't give him a second thought as I drive away.

When I reach my house, Stan is sitting on the front stoop waiting for me. His very posture looks anxious: shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his knees. His hat is sitting askew on his head. I pull the car into the driveway, and he immediately springs up and dashes over. But he blanches when I open the door and climb out.

"Ky –" His voice breaks as he stares. "Kyle, what happened to you? A-are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I reassure him. As soon as I say it, Stan throws his arms around me and pulls me into one of his bear hugs.

"Why are you covered in blood?" he stammers, sounding afraid and desperately curious at the same time.

"I hit a deer on the road," I explain. "It died immediately, so I pulled over and hauled it into the woods. You know, as a courtesy to other drivers. That thing was bleeding like crazy."

Stan heaves a sigh of relief. "You're such a considerate person. I don't understand how you do it."

He can't see my awful, teeth-baring grin. If only he knew.

Fini. Well, that was my first time with the macabre genre, so don't roast me for it. I wrote it for me, anyways.

See you guys whenever. (I still love you!)

~ Ryuu