All I want to do at the moment is write, yay (: I should just clarify though, I'm currently on antidepressants, but have recently run out so my mood has been... Lower.
It's entirely possible that this is why I've being writing more than usual.
I hope it's not my mood, because I totally want to finish my open fics, but if I disappear for a while that could be why. I'm actually considering going off my pills maybe once a month or something so I can finish these :L
Anyways, thank you for reading!

Two weeks had passed since the 'bathroom incident', and there was still an air of awkwardness between Kyle and Stan, who hadn't dared to bring the subject up again since.

Kenny and Cartman, both too oblivious to notice anything going on, chatted and laughed the way they always had done, blissfully unaware of the conflict and turmoil of the other two boys.

Stan, desperate to make amends, had asked Kyle several times if he wanted to hang out, but each time the answer was the same- "Sorry, I'm busy.".
He couldn't help but fear for his friend, knowing that, if he was hurt by Gerald again, Kyle was unlikely to come to him for help.
The amount hatred Stan harboured for that man was nothing short but phenomenal, and although he felt guilty for it, he also felt resentment towards Sheila for not stopping Kyle from being hurt.
He knew he had to do something- but what?
'I'll give him one last chance to talk to me,' He thought to himself, 'And then I have to do something.'.
After school that day, Stan tugged on Kyle's sleeve, asking if they could talk.

"Sorry, gotta get home." The redhead said coldly, refusing to look his friend in the eye.

"C'mon Ky, I really need to-" Before he could finish his sentence, Kyle cut him off.

"I said no, Stan! Just leave me the fuck alone!" Stan couldn't subdue the anger rising in his chest, and he stormed away, pushing Kyle in the process and ignoring his gasp of pain.
He headed straight to Mr. Mackey's office, thumping his fist on the door. The counsellor opened the door, eyebrows raised.

"Stan? What is it?" The raven-haired boy took a deep breath.

"Can I come in?" He asked. "I need to tell you something."

Kyle rarely took the bus home any more, instead choosing to walk in order to prolong the journey home. His breath fogged and hung in the air like smoke from a dragon, and like he so often had before he pretended that he really was a great fire-breathing beast, who could scoop up his mom and Ike and burn his father to a crisp in the process.
He thought back to his short conversation with Stan, and feelings of guilt started to build up in his mind. Was he being too harsh on his Super Best Friend?
Perhaps, but his involvement in Kyle's home life was starting to unnerve him- he shuddered to think of the pain Gerald would inflict upon him if he ever found out that he had told Stan of the abuse.
This way, Kyle was keeping himself and his best friend safe, and if that meant that he could no longer find refuge in Stan's home, then so be it.
He had to protect his loved ones, even if it killed him.

Mr. Mackey had never been too good at dealing with abuse. As a school counsellor, he should have known better than anyone that protocol is there to be followed, but that day he completely skipped over guidelines on how to deal with allegations of physical abuse.
Yes, Kyle had sported a bruise lately- but as a pre-teen boy, was that even a surprise? There was any number of ways that he could have hurt his face. Stan had neglected to make it clear who the abuser even was, and Mr Mackey had sensed an air of anger around the boy- perhaps this claim was a result of an argument between the two boys, and Stan was just attempting to get back at Kyle.
It was for these reasons, amongst a host of others, that instead of reporting the possible abuse to the principal, Mr. Mackey picked up his office phone, and called the home number in Kyle Broflovski's personal file. And, of course, it was Gerald that picked up the phone.

As he stepped through the front door, Kyle tried to remember the last time he was able to think of this house as a proper home. To most, if asked to draw 'home', they would draw a house with grey cotton spirals protruding from the chimney.
But Kyle? He would drawer his mother, and Ike.
His house no longer served as a place of comfort, but rather as one of fear, and a great deal of pain.

Gerald was on the phone when he arrived home. He very rarely practised law nowadays, choosing to work mainly from home, only occasionally representing an defendant in an actual courtroom environment.
Kyle wasn't stupid; he knew how respected his father was. Dozens of innocent people had been acquitted of their charges under his skills as a lawyer, and many more had been wrongly allowed to go free despite being guilty.
Even if Kyle did report the beatings, it wouldn't be the first child abuser that Gerald would have to defend.

"I see... And Kyle actually told you this?" The redhead froze. Who was on the other end of the phone, and why were they talking about him? He backed away quickly, an icy fear clutching at his heart and tightening his chest. He'd made it back to the front door when his father spotted him and, with a look that could kill, beckoned his son towards him. Kyle could just about make out the sound of a male voice on the other end of the line. As soon as he was close enough, Gerald reached out and grabbed Kyle by the collar, his expression making it clear that if he dared make a sound...

"Well, thank you for bringing it to my attention, Mr. Mackey. I'm sorry for the inconvenience my son has caused you, but I can reassure you that it's all lies- I'll be sure to give him a firm talking-to." His grip on Kyle's shoulder tightened as he said goodbye, and put the phone down, turning towards his son.

"Dad, I-" The boy was cut off by a smack to his face, eliciting a small cry.

"You fucking moron. What have you done?" He hissed, shaking Kyle roughly. "Who the fuck did you tell?"

"No one, dad, I swear!" Another blow, this time to his stomach, causing him to double over in pain- only to be roughly pulled back up.

"Fucking lies. Who did you tell?"

"I... Stan knows, dad, but I didn't tell him, honest! He saw the bruises... Please, pa, you must know it's wrong to hurt us like this if you're this scared!" Kyle regretted those last words the very second they left his lips, and he braced himself for another assault.

"You deserve it. Every time I've beaten you, it's been discipline." He was shouting now, the tone ever-so-slightly edged with panic.

"Discipline? It's fucking abuse!" Kyle yelled back. "And you know it!" Braver now, he altered his stance with his fists clenched at his side, willing his dad to hit him again.
And hit him he did. Punches and kicks rained down on his son, whose attempt at courage had done nothing to prevent his crazed father from 'disciplining' him.
Usually, although compulsive and under the category of abuse, the beatings involved a belt and Kyle's bare back, but now the hits were random. Falling on his chest, head, back, and limbs, the boy tried to protect his face with his arms, crying and screaming for his father to stop.
Eventually, when his breathing was erratic and his heart thumping, he stopped long enough to look at his boy. He knew he'd gone too far.
Grabbing Kyle by his arms, he half-lifted-half-dragged his somewhat conscious son to his room, dropping him to the floor.

"Don't you fucking move," He spat, knowing that Ike was at soccer practise and Sheila was working late. "I'll be back." Kyle barely registered the sound of the door slamming shut and heavy footsteps on the stairs, so great was his pain. Sobs racked his entire body, and he gasped for breaths that came with immense difficulty. He attempted to push himself into a sitting position, leaning against the bed for support and crying out at the agony it caused. Gerald wasn't done with him, he was coming back.

"No..." He whispered to no one but himself. He couldn't go through that again, he just couldn't. He knew what he had to do.
Struggling to his feet, he pulled a belt from his drawer, snapping it between his hands to test the weight. He shuddered as it reminded him of the way his dad would slap his own belts against the couch before turning the implement onto him.
Pulling himself onto the bed and wobbling as he stood on his throbbing legs, he made a loop in the belt and poked the other end over a hook attached to the ceiling that had originally been there to hang his solar system model from.
Slipping the loop over his head, his breathing became shuddery. He didn't leave notes for anyone, because actions speak louder than words.
He didn't need to justify this.

He thought of Stan, his best friend, who tried to save him. He could only hope that he wouldn't pin the blame on himself; this would have happened eventually whether at Kyle's hands or at his father's.
He thought of his mother, whom he knew would do anything to take the beatings rather than letting her child be under the wrath of her husband. He knew she couldn't do anything, and he didn't blame her.
His final thoughts were of Ike, and tears pricked at his eyes as he thought of his baby brother.

"I love you, all of you." He whispered.

Taking a few deep breaths, he moved forward, and allowed himself to slip off he edge of the bed.

...I am so, so sorry.
I think this may be the first ever multi-chaptered FanFiction I've ever written that I will actually finish- probably one or two more chapters left and an epilogue (:
Thank you, lovelies, for reading and (maybe) reviewing!