Sorry for the delay – I got depressed over the Olympics' end (eeee, Canada did SOWELL), and, fact of the matter is… I'm still kinda depressed over it, ahah. PLUS I got a new video game on Friday, my first since 2004! So I've been playing that.

I feel kinda bad, though… I wrote this whole chapter in one sitting, and look at how long it took me to actually get around to writing it… aw. Well, at the very least… I'm really looking forward to the next chapter. I've been looking forward to that one for a while now.

Tried a bit of a different style in this one. By the time I actually sat down here and started writing it, I already knew exactly everything I wanted in here, but it turned out to be more confusing than I thought it'd be. But I just kept writing and writing… the ending to this one wasn't planned, and I'm completely thrilled with how that ended up working out. Plus, it should make this chapter make a bit more sense… I would think.

But yeah. You go read now. Thanks for all of your positive feedback, people, I really appreciate it! It makes me feel like I'm a good writer, and that's a very nice feeling to have when you enjoy the art.

Notes are useful things: they can help serve for self-reminders, or inform others of your desires. That doesn't necessarily mean, though, that they're always good – on the former, it depends who has the note. For example, I remember, when I was eleven, I saw a note in Cartman's room reminding him of a new plan to exterminate my people. I grabbed it, ran back home with it, shredded it, burned the shreds over an open flame, and the next day threw the ashes back in his face.

The latter, however, is the here and now. Written sloppily, in a rushed way, in quick, fading black ink, on a small, ripped piece of white lined paper, I found it in my locker as I was getting ready to leave school, home for the weekend. I gaze at it in my hands, not seeing what's in front of me for a moment. Then I look at it, and see the words written upon it, although it doesn't do much good as I still don't comprehend them. It doesn't help much that the writing is squished together and not very legible.

But in a moment of clarity, I can suddenly read it. Even if for just one moment, I'm a fairly speedy reader, so I now know what it says. So I take off, following its single instruction.

The rest of that Tuesday was hell, but luckily I got a bit of relief in the next few days… although I can't say if it was worth it or not. After ripping out one stitch, I ripped out two more… or at least, I thought I did. A quick run to the bathroom and locking myself in a stall so none would question my arm solved the answer: three middle ones were out, and blood was seeping through. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper, wrapped it around the bloodied spots, and pulled my sleeve back down. The rest of the school day proceeded as normal, except during history Pip noted that there was a slight bulge under the sleeve… but a chorus from the entire class of "Shut up, Pip!" dispersed my worries.

When I got home, the paper was disgusting, completely soaked through and bloodied. The top layer was already a medium-ish shade of red, disturbing me as to what would be underneath.

I shouldn't have looked, but I did. The part that had been up against my arm had disgusting black clumps on it, and it was soaked through dark red. My actual arm itself was another mess, but a quick wash under the tap helped fix it a tad… the scabbing was plentiful, so I had the genius idea of picking it off.

Right when Ike decided to walk in to ask me for some help on his sixth grade homework.

He kinda just stood there, blinking and staring, and he dropped his textbook. "MOO-" he started to cry out, but I tackled him down, dragged him inside my room, and slammed the door.

"Ike," I hissed, "Shut up about this. Nobody needs to see this. Nobody needs to know about this." Oh god, I wonder what would have happened to me if my mom found it? I'd have been in a load of shit.

"But—" he protested.

I interrupted him. "Ike, what do you want?"

"But… you arm… it's all bloody and gross…"

I pulled down my sleeve. "There. Happy? Now what is it."

His eyes lowered. "Oh… well… uh… it's this math thing, I guess… Algebra is weird. Can you help me, please, Kyle?"

I helped him with his work. He kept his distance the whole time. After that I went searching, and eventually found a tenser bandage. I used it, and all was well for the rest of the night. I managed to fall asleep with only relatively mild nightmares.

Wednesday came and went. I got a bit of peace. Cartman avoided me, as I did to him. Nothing came up to remind me of what had happened Sunday night. Stan spent the whole day cooing with Wendy. Kenny wasn't there – Jimmy told me that he, Timmy, Cartman, and Kenny had headed out to Stark's pond – which we had gotten back after the initial Wal-Mart fiasco – where one thing led to another, Kenny slipped on some ice, slid down into the pond, avoided drowning, came back up, hit his head on a rock ledge, cracked his head open, literally, and then fell back into the water.

He was back on Thursday, by the way.

But Wednesday was fairly clean. The tenser bandage worked well, I didn't freak out at any point of time during the day, and I spent more time with Butters and Heidi. Things went well. I went to bed hopeful that night, and got crushed the next day, both literally and figuratively.

On Thursday, the first thing that went wrong was meeting up with Cartman.

We attempted to avoid each other, as we had succeeded to the previous day. The only thing that went wrong was that was we slid by each other, our hands brushed against each other. Within a second he slammed me up against the wall.

"Look, asshole," he hissed, "don't EVER do that to me again."

I couldn't help but grin. "You're getting all pissy over one little accident while you've got me pinned up against a wall? Ooooh, Cartman," I said, pretending to flirt.

He jumped away from me as if I was on fire, muttering, "Son of a bitch…" I continued on my way, satisfied.

The next thing was when Stan and I met up with Token and Craig in the afternoon.

The four of us are mature enough guys. I hate Token and Stan hates Craig, and vice versa, but we're mature enough to let it slide. But my encounter with Cartman that morning fucked it up. That along with Kenny's twisted sense of humour.

As we stalked off in separate directions, an anonymous voice – which was later identified to be Kenny's – called out, "Yeah, that's right, run away you little motherfuckers!"

Stan and I stopped in our tracks. I'm sure Craig and Token did, too.

This was when another one – Cartman's – exclaimed, "Aw, what, are you guys scared of us? Fucking pussies! You know we'd slaughter you. Dipshits!"

The four of us whirled around and glared at each other in the eyes at that point. We didn't do anything, just stood there, the four of us, fists clenched, eyes narrowed, breathing heavily. Craig pulled out two middle fingers.

Stan was on him right away. The two struggled about in a wrestling match, with Craig coming out on top first, pinning Stan to the floor. That didn't last long, when Stan kicked out and into his stomach, knocking the wind out of the blue-hatted boy before leaping up himself. It wasn't too long until Craig punched Stan in the face in retaliation, and that was when I decided to jump in, pouncing on Craig and knocking him back to the floor, this time with him landing face-first. That was when Token came in to start strangling me and pull me off his buddy.

Stan went after Token then, as I was struggling to breathe at this point, and when my best friend smashed his side into the black kid's, his grip from my neck was broken and I scrambled off to the side, panting and trying to regain my breath.

No such luck happened for me as the brawl between Token and Stan collided with Craig, and then, in turn, me. That was when the worst thing since Tuesday, at that time, occurred. I ended up on the bottom of a four-man dogpile, which slid across the floor. I was lying on my left arm at the time.

Nothing physically happened, but a rush of images came flooding through my head, and recalling it now, at this moment, as I'm rushing and scrambling and tripping all over myself at five o'clock on a Friday evening trying to get out of my school, in the here and now, it makes things worse.

But then, that entire night came flying through my head at a high speed. Running through the snow, hearing the sounds, glimpsing through the trees, seeing it, gory and disgusting, being grabbed, whisked away to the side, a threat, a slice…

A threat, a slice…

A threat, a slice…

A threat a fucking slice cutting right through my fucking skin with unimaginable amounts of pain all from one fucking KNIFE!

I passed out. Apparently, after I was knocked unconscious, I was pretty much ignored as Stan went nuts. He flung Token off – he has no real direct quarrel with him, he later told me – and attacked Craig, and then it was broken up.

When I came to, I noticed that the other three boys were all sitting around me, outside of the guidance counsellor's office. There was talking going on in there, although I couldn't make anything out, so I glanced around at everybody else's faces. Stan was fuming, Token was staring at the ground, and Craig was glaring death threats at anything that moved. I had taken the only alternative option that was left and sat there, brooding.

After a few minutes the door opened up, the principal curtly walked out, and the guidance counsellor, a pretty young blonde who appeared to be in her 20s, signalled for me to come in. So I went in.

"Broflovski… Kyle?" she asked, shifting through her papers. Wow, that's a great counselling method, treat your patient like it's just a file. Nevertheless, I nodded. I was feeling pretty queasy back then, and didn't want to start anything up.

"Alright," she said, shifting through a few more things before she sat up to face me. "Now, I called you in first because I was told you were of a higher priority than the other boys out there…"

I think she wanted me to say something, but I didn't. She sighed and crossed her hands on her lap. "Can you tell me why I was told you were first priority?"

"'Cause apparently I'm both suicidal and crazy!"

"Kyle," she started off, "can you tell me what's wrong? What's causing you to feel this way?"

"Nothing," I replied, "because I'm not actually suicidal, or crazy."

"Well, people seem to think you are," she retorted.

"People aren't always correct," I answered.

"Well, if your behaviour leads others to believe—"

"Then by no means does it mean that others are completely right. Why would it?"

"Well, oftentimes our own perceptions can be biased or wrong… It's fully possible that it's a subconscious thing, and other people are picking up on it, while we ourselves don't," she said, making a good point. Goddamnit.

I paused. "But… that doesn't always mean that that'll be the case, either."

"That's true, too," she said. "But… now, can you tell me what happened? Please? I'm here to help."

I had no hesitation that time. "No."

"And why is that?"

"It's none of your business." God, looking back on it now in my panic-y rush, she could have at least looked and sounded like she cared. Or she could have at least been funny in some way. Chef, he was genuine and honest, and is part of the reason that makes me feel a bit depressed that we all grew up and ended up cutting off our ties to him, somehow. And Mackey… well, at the very least, you could get a laugh from him, and at the most, he could be helpful.

Damnit, I don't want this high school crap filled with its falsity. Things are so much more honest when you're a kid.

But back to the then. "Kyle, I won't judge you—"

"I don't care if I'm judged or not. I just don't want to remember any of this."

She paused for a brief moment. "And… this… what is it?"

"Sunday night."

"And what was—"

"I haven't told anybody. Not the doctors—" shit, that's a point gotten away, I just realized it now— "not my parents, and not even my best friend. Why would I tell you? You're just some stranger I can only assume has been taught the kind of skills necessary for the study of the mind, whereas I trust my best friend with everything. I just haven't told anybody anything because I want it to disappear. I don't want to remember it. If I forget, everything will turn out alright."

Suddenly she seemed to have taken a personal interest. "Kyle, you're a pretty smart kid," she remarked, "But why do you believe that if you simply forget, it'll go away? If it's something of this magnitude, it probably won't."

"Yes it will." I truly believe that. I did back then, and I do now. If I forget it, and spread no details, it will never bloom up, I'll never accidentally spurt it out, and I'll be off free.

"Okay, it won't…" she said, trying a different angle, "But have you thought of the effects that keeping it bottled up inside would have on you?"

…

What? Did she actually ask me that…?

"Um, no," I had answered.

She sighed. "Keeping things bottled up inside never does one any good. You need to get it out somehow. If you don't want to tell anybody, write it down, and then you could destroy the note. Or you could write it in a secret message."

Back then, that sounded like a good idea. But in the here and now… no, I can't risk that, either. There's so many things that could just go wrong if I let it out anywhere…

But before she had given me the chance to comment on her suggestion back then, she changed the subject. "Now, as to the real reason why you're here. What happened in that fight?"

"Well, uh… it was just… well, I dunno, but I think something may have just been set up or something… I mean, Token – he's the black guy – and I are just, like… enemies, for some reason, and Stan and Craig have been, too, and something just happened, and it led to some kinda fight… and… I just… got caught up in it based on this rivalry thing going on… it's nothing, really."

She nodded. "Alright, Kyle, thanks. That's enough for me – you can go now."

I stood up and walked over to the door, and placed my hand on the doorknob… but a sudden thought had struck my mind, and before exiting, I had to ask her.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

"Hmm?"

"… Do you think I'm crazy?"

It seemed to have thrown her off a bit. "Why, no, I—well… what kind of crazy do you mean?"

"Um, crazy-crazy," I answered, puzzled as to what she meant.

"No, no," she said, shaking her head, "Like… paranoia… psychosis… Those kinds of things. Which kind of crazy do you mean?"

"Oh. Uh, paranoia, I think."

She glanced down briefly. "Yeah, I think you are a bit… but if things are as bad as you say they are, then I think you have good reason to be… but… well, what was your mental state like before this event occurred on Sunday night?"

"… Healthy, I think."

"Any signs of aggression?"

"Well, uh… just to Token, although I don't know why… and Cartman."

She paused for a moment. "And… why do you hate this Cartman fellow?"

"Because he's a fat, intolerant, racist, sociopath. Doesn't help things much that he idolizes Hitler and I'm a Jew."

"Oh, my…" her voice trailed off a bit, "Well… what do you two do now?"

"We've both agreed to avoid each other right now, for a more personal reason."

"Kyle… at the mental state you're in right now, I'd suggest avoiding him for the rest of your life, or however long it may take for him to change."

That was when I left the room.

Back to the present. I've stopped running because, by recalling the events of the past few days, I've forgotten what I was doing. I stare dumbly at the note, but I only see the guidance counsellor's final words to me on it.

Kyle… at the mental state you're in right now, I'd suggest avoiding him for the rest of your life, or however long it may take for him to change.

I… how could I do that? Stay away from Cartman… forever? I mean, as appealing as the whole idea sounds, I don't think it's very well in the realm of realism. I can't ignore him for the next three and a half years of my life. Sure, after high school it should be easy: I should be going to a prestigious university while he will probably be stuck here, but three and a half years is still a long time for somebody who's only fourteen himself.

And… the whole premise of the idea… I couldn't. I've been hanging around with Cartman since we were just toddlers, and to just cut off all connections with him… I hate him, he hates me, but I just can't see it happening. We've grown up together, and we still are growing up together.

And… well, he's still pretty good for a laugh or two, isn't he? Although that's hardly worth all of the crap I have to go through around him, pre this whole crush thing, but, hey… there's a silver lining on every cloud, or whatever the phrase is.

And besides, maybe, once I forget, the whole crush thing will go away, Cartman will go back to being straight – for now I'm just convincing myself that he's bi, no way he could be the whole way, and I highly doubt I'm some "special exception."

But… there's one other part of what she said that I don't really like.

Kyle… at the mental state you're in right now…

What did she mean by that? I mean, paranoia couldn't have anything to do with going berserk around one guy, in the violent sense, not the terrified sense. In the violent sense – which is me – that would be completely psychotic.

Psychosis. Thought and perception are severely impaired. I think I'm thinking straight, but that doesn't necessarily mean I am. Everybody thinks that they're thinking perfectly normal. We aren't fit to judge ourselves properly.

Hallucinations and delusions may be experienced. Yeah, I definitely have those. As well as paranoia… I don't know why she asked that one separately, but that's true, too.

Although when one thinks of psychosis, one usually thinks of mentally ill criminals. Or, well, at least I do.

As well as… personality changes, no, I think I'm fine there… and… uh… thought disorganization… Yeah, I've definitely had that…

And… there's also… it's like… there's no proper contact with reality.

Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god. Does not being able to see count? Does not knowing what I'm doing right now count? Does it count that I have no clue what is going on, where I am, and continuously lose myself… and does it count that it's been like this the past few days? Oh, god, does it count? Does that count as losing contact with reality?

Am… Am I actually insane? I mean, well, why do I know all of this stuff to begin with? Is that normal? Is it normal to know so much on such disturbing subjects?

Hell, am I normal? I mean, before Sunday night, I was pretty sure that I was. Now it's been almost an entire week and… I mean… am I actually… The only thing I couldn't relate to myself was a change in personality… but who am I to say if that's happened, too?

No. I don't think it has.

But that's one out of many.

I… I… I'm scared. I'm scared of myself. Are you ever supposed to be scared of yourself? Shouldn't you have complete control of yourself, and know all of your actions and words, and not second guess them like this? Shouldn't you be much more sure of yourself? Shouldn't you know who you are?

But… I… I don't think I do, now. I did a second ago, but now… I… I… I…

Kyle Broflovski. Best friend of Stan Marsh. Jew. Resident of South Park, Colorado. Age fourteen. Birthday May 26th. Son of Gerald and Sheila Broflovski. Brother of Ike Broflovski, adopted Canadian. Currently attending South Park High, grade nine, freshman. Known best for favourite green hat. Normal. Normal. Normal.

…

Self-declared insane. Not normal.

I hope to god I'm wrong.

…

Shit… where'd reality go? As my dad likes to say, you can't do anything about the past, you can't predict the future; all you can do is live in the present. Does that also mean live in reality? Because… I don't think I am… meaning what he says applies to normal people only, and is null and void for me.

I look down at the note, still grasped in my hands. I look at my surroundings. I'm standing in front of my locker. But I'm only here so late because of that uneventful detention I received for that fight yesterday, right? Right? But I… I haven't moved for two whole hours, since I found this piece of paper. I… I thought I had moved. Run around. Read the note properly.

I haven't read it at all.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. This… this can't be good.

I look down at the note once again. I read it properly this time. I dash out of the empty building, praying to god that I'm not too late. This is one of the last things I need right now.

It's dark out… really, really dark out… like that night I was chasing Henrietta. And it's still early evening… when'd it get so dark? What a way to start the weekend.

I dash off, so fast that the snow behind me sprays up. In my hurry I drop the cursed note, but that doesn't matter. I know what it says now, and it's not going to get out of my head this time, no matter how insane I might very well be.

What I once thought had said Kyle… at the mental state you're in right now, I'd suggest avoiding him for the rest of your life, or however long it may take for him to change actually says, Meet me by the tree.

And for once I know exactly what she's talking about, and I don't have to second guess myself here.