Kyle Broflovski was dead.
The incident happened seven years ago. And it had happened on December. It was a clear, brisk morning when they found the body, the morning frost still clinging to his skin and eyelashes as his dull eyes stared up at the bright sky, seeing nothing. His throat was cut, and the blood had stained his clothes and the snow around him. Blotchy bruises covered his body, and his limbs were splayed around him.
It had been a group of 10-year-olds who found him. They were just making a snowman, they said, and had stumbled upon the body. They thought it was a sick joke at first, until one of them poked the body, and more blood had oozed out from the neck wound. The children had screamed and ran to their parents, who then called the police.
Kenny remembered that morning. How Stan had called him, screaming at him to hurry, that he had to come right now, and that they had to go help Kyle. There was something else Stan had said at the end, but Kenny couldn't hear it as his own breath hitched in his throat. Something had happened to Kyle. Kenny had ran, ran as fast as he could that day to Stark's Pond, hoping and praying that Kyle was okay.
A large crowd had gathered already when he got there, and Kenny couldn't see anything. But he could hear screaming. A high-pitched wailing filled the air, followed by cries and more wailing that he knew to be from Sheila Broflovski. He had often heard the mother scream in anger before, but he had never heard her cry like this. It was new. It was strange. And it was terrifying. Please be okay, please be okay. Kenny's heart beat even faster, and he shoved and pushed his way through the crowd until he saw it. The body of Kyle Broflovski.
Kyle was dead.
Time seemed to stop, and Kenny couldn't breathe. He was frozen as everything seemed to move slowly before him. Sheila knelt down beside her son, and cradled his broken body as fat tears rolled off her cheeks and onto the bloodied face of her son. That isn't Kyle. It couldn't be. The world was playing a cruel joke on him. Kyle couldn't be dead. They were wrong. Everyone was wrong. That couldn't be Kyle.
Kenny looked away from Sheila, and spotted Gerald in the crowd. Kyle's father had a look of horror on his face, and had fallen to his knees when he saw the body in Sheila's arms. Get up! Kenny wanted to yell at him. Get up, get up, get up! That wasn't Kyle! It couldn't be! Kenny had seen Kyle just last night. And Kyle was okay! Kyle was alive! This person in Sheila's arms was an imposter! He dared not think of any alternative. The alternative was too cruel.
Shuffled footsteps approached the scene. Kenny turned his head to look. It was Ike. Kyle's little brother came forward, still in his footed pajamas as a look of concern and anguish filled his face. "Big Brother...?" Ike had called out softly. But no answer came.
Kenny stared at the body. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening. This had to be some sort of cruel joke. It had to be. Blue eyes stared down at the body in Mrs. Broflovski's arms, and found familiar green eyes staring back up at him. Kenny McCormick screamed.