South Park © Matt & Trey.

Kyle –

Butters and I worked on the project during lunch, finally perfecting it.

It feels good to have it done early – now I can just spend the weekend taking it easy and perhaps do a little light reading.

I ran laps in the gym's workout room after school and couldn't catch the bus. It didn't mind – I almost prefer walking. I won't deny it, I have a bit of anxiety when it comes to driving and cars. I've never told anyone. I still don't have my license yet because of it. I know I'll have to get it someday, especially if I want to become a doctor. If I am on call, I'll need to be able to get to the hospital quickly…

Sometimes thinking about everything the career entails makes me think I won't be able to handle it. The blood, for one thing. I had Kenny's blood on my hands as he died and I was never really able to get it off, if that makes any sense. It runs deep.

"I'm home!" I yell once I arrive back.

"Welcome," Ike mumbles airily from the sofa.

"What're you doing?" I ask, kicking my boots off and hanging my jacket in the closet.

"Homework," he sighs.

"Is it tough?"

"Hardly," he scoffs, "It's too easy. It's just tedious and boring."

"That's because you're too smart," I say, slumping down next to him. "They should bump you up another grade."

"I know," he agrees, "But I already skipped two… I'm still really young. They probably don't want to bump me up anymore because they think I won't develop socially."

"Yeah, probably," I chuckle. "Mom and Dad home?"

"No, you just missed them."

"Where did they go?"

"Late night grocery run."

"Ah," I say, getting up. "Well, have fun with your math."

I hear him grumble on my way upstairs.

As I reach the top, I open the door to my room and walk inside. It hasn't changed much since I was young; however, I did get rid of the toys and the silly bed-sheets.

I shrug off my sweater and settle down on my bed with my laptop, looking out the window. I still can't help but picture Cartman sitting perched on a fucking tree branch with his camera, waiting for me to start changing or masturbating – virtually anything that would be sufficient blackmail material. I can't even recall the amount of times I've caught him staring at me while in the process of taking of my day-clothes. God damn, he's voyeuristic. It used to piss me off, but eventually I just got used to it.

Speaking of Cartman –

The big game against Denver is this weekend. Everyone is talking about it… Part of me wants to go and see it, but another part of me thinks it would be better just to wait and hear about it at school. The less Stan Marsh I see, the better.

I don't know though. Maybe I'll see if Butters wants to join me…

Naturally, Butters happily accepted my offer. "Well, sure, Kyle!" he said, "That sounds mighty fun!"

And now we are walking to the field behind the school.

"I hope you don't mind," Butters turns to me, "but Eric's joining us."

I feel myself frown. For fuck's sake... "Isn't he on the team?"

"Yeah, but he hurt his knee so the coach advised him to sit this one out."

"Tsk… seriously…"

"Yep!"

I grind my teeth. Why does this always happen. Cartman continues to worm his way into my life, no matter what.

"It'll be fun, Kyle!" Butters tries to reason.

"I should leave," I say. The less time I spend around Cartman, the better. We have such a toxic relationship. I think, in ways, it got even worse as we got older… Actually, scratch that, I know it got worse. We're stupid around each other.

"What? Aw, no, don't go," Butters protests, frowning. "Eric said he'd be real nice to you and wouldn't start any fights. He'd be real sore to have you leave."

Butters is sweet, but naïve as hell.

"Butters…" I say with a long sigh. "You're a good person. You're one of the best people I know."

"Aw, thanks, Kyle."

"But you have this little problem," I continue, "where you see good in the worst people. I doubt Eric Cartman has any good left in him."

"Did I hear my name?"

I turn around and see the stupid fat-ass standing there, looking smug as ever.

"Hey, B-Butts," he says to the blond, before glancing at me, "Hey, Killer."

I don't laugh, and I don't retort. I know that's what he is looking for – a reaction, specifically a violent one. I'm not going to satisfy him by giving him what he wants. I simply walk past him and find a seat in the bleachers. Butters follows after me with Cartman in tow behind him.

The game soon starts, and Cartman is still trying to get my attention but I don't listen. I'm not going to make a scene by verbally attacking him. That's what he wants me to do. It's like Stan always used to say, he gets off on it.

Of course, it was yet another victory for the Cows. No surprise. The bleachers are now a mess of empty alcohol bottles, pop cans and cigarette butts. The principal is probably going to make an announcement about it next week. I can see it now... she'll start ranting about underage drinking and drugs and all that shit. No one will listen to her and the next football game will be just like this one.

It started raining half way through the game, but not one person left the stands. I guess that says something about how exciting the game was. Now we're all soaked to the bone.

Butters is all fucking smiles over the results. "Stan played great, didn't he?"

"Stan's a fag," Cartman says, while I just remain silent.

"Aw, Eric, don't be like that."

Everyone is loitering around the school, feet shuffling. You've got the drinkers and smokers laughing and hanging off of each other, then there are kids like me and Butters who look like we really don't belong. They're all probably waiting for the football team and the cheerleaders to come out so they can congratulate them on yet another victory. I feel myself frowning as I think about it all.

Cartman looks over at me and raises an eyebrow. "What is it?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say a little too defensively.

It's cold out. Cartman offers me a drive, but I decline. "You sure?" he asks, putting his seatbelt on and starting the engine.

"Yeah," I say, standing next to his rolled down window.

"Kahl," he scoffs my name. "It's been a year. It's been a damn long time."

"Shut up."

"Get over it."

With more intent, I repeat, "Shut. Up."

"Get in the fucking car, Jew."

"What?" I ask. "Not Killer this time?"

He gives me a dry stare.

"C'mon, Kyle!" Butters says from the passenger seat. He's hanging off of Cartman's shoulder like a fucking puppy.

"It's fine, I'll walk," I try to insist.

"But, Kyle, it's cold and rainy out! You'll freeze!" Butters cuts in.

"No."

"Come on, Kahl," Cartman says impatiently. "Get in the car… Think of it as, uh… what's it called when you make people face their fears? It's a type of therapy, I think…"

"Exposure therapy," I drone.

"Yeah, that."

I make a face, and Cartman gets annoyed. "Kyle," he says, pronouncing my name carefully. "Get in the fucking car."

I let out an angry sound, relenting and getting in the back seat. Cartman and Butters chat mindlessly about the game – about Stan, Clyde, Token and the rest of the guys. They talk about the girls, too – how hard they cheered and how good they looked as they did it. I roll my eyes at Cartman's comments about Bebe's "big hooters" bouncing up and down because I know that's the last thing he's interested in. He likes small boobs… He's just trying to act the way he thinks the stereotypical jock should. It's so fucking stupid.

He drops Butters off first, unfortunately, and everything is awkwardly silent, but I'm not going to complain. "You shouldn't keep being a little bitch about it," he says out of the blue. "It's long over."

I gape and ask, "Are you being fucking serious right now?"

"Yeah," he states.

"You're a sick fuck!" I shriek, starting to give into my anger. I always do. This is how it always goes. I always give him what he wants. He always wins.

"It's better than being scared of riding in a fuckin' car."

"I'm not scared of cars," I insist, and it's true. I'm not, I just have a little anxiety and I get worried. There's a difference...

"Sure, Jew," he laughs.

I feel my eyes getting glassy. "Cartman, shut up," I say almost pleadingly and my voice is wet. How fucking humiliating.

"Tsk…" he clicks his tongue.

"Let me out," I choke.

"Why?"

"I can't be around you."

"Why?" he repeats.

"Because it makes me sick!"

That's a bit of a lie. It doesn't make me sick; it's more of a sad feeling. I'm sure I'd get the same feeling from being around Stan. Clearly, they've both moved on and I'm still stuck… but maybe that's because I'm a bit of the reason Kenny is dead. I don't really deserve to ever move on from it.

"Heh," Cartman chuckles somewhat bitterly. "You weren't saying that a few nights ago."

"Don't…" I whisper and it's times like these where I find myself wishing Chef was still alive. I know he would force us all to fix things.

Cartman doesn't stop the car. He just continues driving.

I let out an angry breath and wipe my eyes. I give up.

"Tears don't bring the dead back to life, Kahl, so it's no use crying over it. Don't be a pussy."

"Don't you think I fucking know that!" I scream at him, yet I still don't stop. I cover my mouth and let out a quiet whimper. My entire being feels heavy – body and mind – and my thoughts just keep unravelling. Soon enough, I'm full out wailing and I'm starting to think that maybe that was his plan the entire time. He probably wanted me to finally let it all out. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone!" I sob loudly.

"Yeah…I know." Cartman doesn't say anything else; he just keeps driving until we're parked in front of my house. The drive felt long... a lot longer than I know it was.

My head begins to hurt and I'm not sure if it's because of the crying of because of the car. I feel my eyebrows pinch together and I place a palm over my forehead.

"Better?" Cartman asks after I've quieted down.

I don't say anything because I'm too embarrassed. Our relationship really is fucked up.

Cartman turns around to face me where I'm sitting in the back seat and tells me, "Kinny wouldn't want you to dwell on it. He wouldn't even fuckin' care. He'd probably just laugh it off and want you to laugh it off, too. So, for him, you should be able to do that much. Jesus Christ, Jew. You're a fuckin' mess."

I never give him enough credit. So, sure, maybe in his own ugly way, he is trying to make me feel a little better, but it's not working. He just ends up making me feel so much worse. I can't look at things the same way he does.

"I'm not like you," I say, furiously wiping my eyes.

"Well, then, maybe you could learn a thing or two from me," he says with a smirk.

I grimace at him, getting out of the car after spitting out a, "Thanks for the ride."

After he pulls out of the driveway and leaves, I just stand out in the rain for a while, letting it once again soak every inch of me. I look up into the dark sky and sigh. I don't know how I feel anymore. About anything.

When I'm inside, Ike asks me what the hell happened. I shrug him off, running upstairs to take off my wet clothes. As I'm tugging on a pair of sweatpants over my bare ass, Ike opens the door. "Dude!" I say to him.

"Sorry," he mumbles awkwardly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." I shrug into a sweater.

"Was that Eric Cartman in the car with you?"

"He drove me home."

"Voluntarily?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" he pries suspiciously.

"I have no idea," I shrug, settling on my bed.

"Was he nice about it?"

"I don't know… Maybe he was, in his own way," I admit. Cartman and I grew a little closer after Stan fucked off. Pff… Closer. That's one way of putting it.

"Oh," Ike says. "How was the game?"

"Cows won."

"That's good," he responds. "Was Stan there?"

"He's the quarterback," I mumble, "so of course he was."

"Mom and Sharon still talk on the phone sometimes," Ike says to me. "They talk a lot about you and Stan. They wish you two would make up."

I roll my eyes. Fuckin' parents. "Ike, that isn't going to happen. I think our parents know that, too. It's already been too long."

"I guess… The fighting was Stan's fault anyway."

I force out a quiet laugh. "Yeah. It kind of was, wasn't it?"

"He didn't have to say the things he said… or do the things he did."

"No, he didn't," I agree, "but what's done is done."

What's done is done. I wish I could convince myself to actually believe those words, but I can't. I still miss Stan and Kenny, and even Cartman, though I'd never admit it out loud. Cartman is always here, yet at the same time, he's not. It's my fault, though. I'm the one who keeps locking myself away. I guess that's what Cartman figured out. I guess that's why he made me cry. Maybe, in the end, it is a good thing.

"Kyle," Ike says my name piteously and it feels like he's reading my damn mind. "You know I'm here, right?"

"Thanks," is all I respond with.

"Are you okay? Your eyes are red."

"I'll be fine, Ike."

"Well, I'll be here until you're not… so, if you want to talk…"

Again, I say, "Thanks,"

And it's true. Ike is the one who forces me back onto my feet. He's the one who throws me the tissue box when I'm upset. He's the only one who hasn't told me Kenny's death was my fault. Ike is always here at the times when, in the past, Stan would have been.

Stan…