South Park © Matt & Trey.

I hope no one gets mad about this, but not everyone has a happy ending and that's just life. Thanks to everyone who reviewed kindly along the way and I'm happy I've completed yet another story!

Many long Crenny/Cryde/Creek 1shots will be coming up soon, so stay tuned.

(Speaking of, who is nervous about the various possibilities of this week's episode? ME! Never thought we'd see the day where Matt and Trey ask for yaoi fanart.)

It's weird when people die. It never feels quite real, but maybe I shouldn't be so shocked. Kenny warned me of this, after all. I just chose not to believe him. Then I just forgot. I guess he really is clairvoyant.

The funeral is over. Everyone is gone except for me and Kenny. Everyone is at her parents' house, but there's no way I could show my face there. It was hard enough being here at the funeral.

I stare down at the fresh grave. I feel like I'm having some sort of nightmare. I can't even see straight.

"She was pregnant again," I say, feeling like I'm in some sort of daze. "This time… it wasn't mine. It probably belonged to some asshole who will never have to hear about it."

"Yeah," Kenny whispers.

"I think a part of me kind of knew this would be inevitable," I confess. "I feel like I've been waiting for it ever since she left detox and relapsed."

Kenny frowns, nodding his head as he stands next to me. "I'm really sorry, Craig."

"It is what it is."

He puts an arm around me and we continue to stand in silence. I feel like I'm trying to telepathically communicate to her how fucking sorry I am… but I can't keep throwing apologies down her throat. She's gone now. I think, in ways, she's been gone for a long time.

"You can cry if you want," Kenny says. "I won't tell anyone."

I glance at him and let out a laugh. It comes out weak. There are knots in my stomach, lumps in my throat. I feel light headed, like this still can't be real but I know it is. I sniffle loudly when I feel my nose running. "Fuck," I whisper. I really don't want to start getting all worked up. Not here, not now.

Kenny rubs my shoulder, but he doesn't anything else. He stares down at the tombstone and pretends I'm not crying, but we both know I am. It doesn't make me feel any better. People say crying gives you relief, but I don't feel any relief right now. I just feel an overwhelming sense of guilt because this is something I can't make right. It's something I can't take back. Radical acceptance isn't going to help me in this situation. Not for a while.

I'm just glad I didn't have to see what she looked like. I want to keep the image of her that I have – the one where she's young, pretty, smiling…

I don't know why I'm still lingering here. I guess there are still things I wish I got to tell her. We always talked about doing all these extravagant things we never got to do. We wanted to go places, to see things...

I want to close my eyes and see her standing in front of me when I open them. Then I could say this was all just a dream or a bad trip or something. We'd be kids again and none of this would have happened.

There's a knot in my stomach when I think about all these what-ifs, all these things that will never come to be. It's too late. It's too late for what-ifs. It's too late to imagine all the things I could have done right.

I feel like she's everywhere when in reality she's nowhere. I look at myself naked in the mirror and I see her all over me. I look at my bed and I remember fucking her, I remember her fucking me. I look at the cuts on my thighs and remember exactly which ones were from when I'd think of her. I drink coffee and remember how much she'd like the lattes Tweek made. I walk past the diner, the park, the school… and I think about all the damn memories I have of her in these places. Nothing is the same now.

I keep having to remind myself she's gone. No, she's dead. Being dead is different than being gone, 'cause she's been gone for a long damn time.

It's funny how empty knowing that makes me feel. I guess that's what happens when you love someone as much as I loved her. They become your everything and then when they leave you're left with nothing at all. You need to build yourself back up. Then again, I've needed to build myself back up for years and years. I just put it off because I had her. Then I didn't and now she's dead.

I take one last look at the tombstone before forcing myself to turn away.

Bye, Becca.

I glance at Kenny and say, "Let's go home."

Becca did end up travelling and for the longest time she refused to come back to South Park. When she finally did come home it wasn't of her own volition. She came home in a body bag, so she didn't have much of a say in the matter.

But at least she's finally home and I like to think that maybe she's at peace. I don't know if I believe in life after death, but she makes me want to believe there's at least something more when it's all over. Something better.

I close my eyes and my chest feels hollow and tight. I don't really know how I'm going to move on from a thing like his. Do I even deserve to? I guess this is something I'll have to talk about with my therapist.

I let out a shuddery breath.

I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay…

I'm okay.

I open my eyes and see Kenny hovering in the doorway of my dim bedroom. He looks sad – sad for Becca and sad for me, though I know I don't deserve it.

"Don't start punishing yourself again," Kenny says pleadingly.

"I won't," I tell him as I lie in bed. "I just need some time."

"Promise me."

"I won't," I tell him again. "I swear."

For him, I won't. For my parents, I won't. For Ruby, I won't. For my friends, I won't. For me, I won't. Even if I want to more than anything, I won't… but as twisted as it sounds, moments like this make me glad I've been hurt so much in the past. When I'm feeling crippling amounts of guilt I wonder if these bad things happened to me because I myself was doing bad things to other people. I've been hurt because I hurt others. It's punishment.

I killed Rebecca.

The night I found out about her death Kenny just kept telling me I didn't kill her. "It's not your fault," he said again and again and again, but the words were so lost to me. Maybe someday they'll sink in, but not now.

My parents had called me. I could tell by the sympathetic voice that it was something bad. When my mom got the words out, I just let out this long sigh into the receiver and said, "Oh." I hung up after that and I started to shake and my breath wasn't coming in properly. Kenny was in the kitchen, but he heard me in the living room. The rest of the night was a blur. I just remember there was a lot of crying and if Kenny wasn't home, I know I probably would have relapsed or gotten disgustingly drunk.

I introduced her to the drug that took over her fucking life. Her parents blame me. When the wounds are no longer fresh, I'll go visit them. Maybe the dust will have settled and they'll no longer blame me, but then again maybe they will. I can't know. Nonetheless, I hope someday I can come to terms with what happened. I hope I won't always hate myself for it.

I feel like some of that fear is melting away. Slowly, yet surely.

Maybe it's like my grandma told me when she was on her deathbed: "When you get older you get wiser and you're no longer scared."

Scared of what?

Everything.

Living, dying – all the things between and whatever comes after. I found it reassuring.

So, here I am and I'm no longer afraid. Well, perhaps not yet… but I'm getting there.

With one foot in front of the other, I'll take my first step into the light and out of the dark. Time to live yet again. Here goes nothing. I wanna be better, I wanna be better, I wanna be better, I wanna… be.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… All good children go to heaven.

I continue going to therapy and I continue going to my N.A. meetings. I try to put a lot of my time and effort into those two things. Sometimes it's hard to talk. Sometimes I need to force myself and my voice just shakes.

I stare down at the coin in my hand.

Six months.

I've been sober for six months... and counting.

Tonight is going to be a speaker meeting and I'm going to be the speaker. I'll talk about myself and I'll try not to shy away from the parts I like to pretend never happened. So, I'll talk about my uncle. I'll talk about Rebecca. I'll talk about Kenny. I'll talk about my BPD. I'll talk about my drug of choice. I'll talk about wanting and trying to fucking kill myself. I'll talk about all the shit I put myself through. I'll talk about fucking for money. I'll talk about what that resulted in. I'll talk about getting sober. I'll talk about Rebecca's miscarriage. I'll talk about losing her. I'll talk about her death. I'll talk about Kenny some more. I'll say I love him. I'll talk about the light at the end of the tunnel - dim as it may be, it's still there. All the heavy shit I'm no longer burying.

"What are you thinking about?" Kenny asks as he sits across me at the breakfast table.

Just like he promised, he hasn't hurt me. I recognize that forcing him to promise a thing like that was silly of me, but he has somehow managed to keep it. I also recognize that sometimes things happen that are beyond my control and beyond his control. Because of this, he could end up hurting me someday. If he does, I'll try to work through it and not wreck a good thing... because what we've got IS a good thing.

"You," I coo at him, smiling.

"Good things, I hope!" he chuckles.

"As always," I promise.

"Want me to drive you to your meeting tonight?" he offers.

"Sure," I say. "You can stay for it, if you want."

He looks surprised. "You don't mind?"

"No, I don't mind," I tell him.

He softens. "All right... Yeah, I'd like to come."

When 5PM approaches, me and Kenny drive down to the community health center. I feel nervous, but I push it all aside and try to calm myself down. It helps to talk sometimes and it helps even more to talk to people who understand a little bit of what you're going through. You don't feel like you're being judged as harshly.

Inside, the facilitators are getting the seats ready.

"Hey, Craig!" the GSR greets me.

"Hey," I echo, holding up a hand.

"Ready for tonight?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," I tell him, forcing a smile that probably looks somewhat weary.

People begin to pile in and when it hits 5PM, everyone is seated. The group facilitator gets up behind the podium to introduce me. When my name is said, I stand up and take his place behind the podium, staring out at the group of people in front of me. Then I see Kenny. We lock eyes and he smiles, nodding his head. I let out a deep, calming breath.

"Hi, my name is Craig," I start. "I'm an addict."

Fin.