During fourth period Eric acted as though I didn't even exist. We read our speeches as though each other weren't in the class with the other.
As I sat on the bus, in the same seating arrangement as I had this morning, I caught Cartman's eyes. He was indeed glaring at me, and it only intensified as Stan scooted into the seat next to me. "So Kyle, wanna come over to my house?" Stan asked, smiling. I blinked for a moment. Would Cartman get mad? He certainly didn't seem too happy now… but whose fault was that? He's the one who was all cold and icy this morning. I don't know what he expected. "Sure, Stan."
We got off the bus, Stan, Cartman and I, (Kenny had decided to walk Butters home) and the awkward silence ensued. When it came time to part ways, I looked up to see Cartman glaring at me, his eyes a swirling chocolate thunderstorm of hurt. And I immediately felt terrible. I wanted to run to him, tell him I love him and hug him as close as was physically possible. But I felt Stan lead me away from him, my eyes not leaving Eric's until I couldn't see him through the falling snow.
"Where are your parents?" I asked, walking into Stan's house behind him. He grinned at me. "They went out of town. Won't be home for a whole two weeks. And Shelley is staying with her boyfriend til they get back." He explained, taking his red and blue wool hat from his head and sitting it on the coffee table under the key hooks. "Wanna play a game?" he asked, still smiling. I put on a smile for him, nodding, yet my mind was still trained on Cartman and the look in his eyes. "Wanna just stay the night?" Stan asked, beaming and I nodded hesitantly, walking over to the phone to call my mother.
She seemed more than happy that I was spending time with Stan instead of Kenny or Cartman… judgemental bitch. I hung up the phone, frowning, before turning to Stan, a smile back on my face. "so dude, what do you wanna do?" I asked, trying to sound cheery. He didn't seem to notice, as he produced two game controllers. "oh yeah." I chuckled softly, walking over with him to the couch. Seemed to me that every house in south park (with the exception of token's) had about the same layout. Living room downstairs, couch television, next to the kitchen; rooms and bathrooms upstairs. I sighed as I sat next to Stan, remembering the day I had spent with Cartman on his couch gaming.
"stupid fucking kike." I growled, kicking over a trashcan in someones yard. I nearly screamed obscenities when I remembered that my key was broken and that id have to practically break into my own house. I made my way through the snow, back to the kitchen window, climbing up on the pile of wood that we never used and through the window, stepping carefully on the edge of the sink. I sighed, closing the window behind me. Who knows when mom would get enough money for a new key (I shuddered to think of how she got her money anyway). I shook some of the snow off of my person, before removing my coat and boots and trudging upstairs. "dumb… ass… fucking… bottom… jew… girly… bitch…" I cursed with each steps up the stairs to my room. Then I slammed that so hard, the pictures in the hallway shook. My mother wasn't here. And I was glad for small miracles. I was not in the mood for her high-pitched sugar coated voice, and I was damn sure not in the mood to hear her with one of her "gentleman callers." As she put it. I snorted. You can spruce up the way you word it, mommy dearest, but you can not change the fact that you're a whore. "speaking of whores…" I mumbled, my mind turning back to Kyle. "what the fuck was his problem?" I mumbled. Did he think it was okay for him to just run off with Stan? It's not! I mean, sure I told him not to touch me, but I didn't need others finding out. I mean, as soon as they know I'm gay, all of a sudden I'm a minority and I get called a hypocrite for making fun of others. And god forbit they know that Kyle is gay. Id have to practically carve my name into him to keep guys off of him! well, that doesn't sound too bad actually. Wonder if Kyle would let me do something like that? I suddenly hoped that Kyle was a masochist. It would match my sadism perfectly. Well, the sadist part of me anyway. My eyes trailed down my own wrists, looking at the self-inflicted burns. Kyle had noticed them, what he hadn't noticed – I paused in my thoughts to roll up the sleeve of my black shirt- was the various scars and bruises. I had been cutting since about fifth grade. That was around the time I noticed something about myself. I couldn't feel… anything. Sure, I derived pleasure from causing problems for others, making others cry, hurting others (I once had a masochist girlfriend. While she wasn't the best looking (id have rather dated Wendy honestly, she was that bad) she was a lot of fun. Though one day she said she couldn't take it. I think she moved out of south park), but that wasn't real pleasure. I never smiled of my own accord unless I was acting to get what I wanted. I rarely laughed unless Kenny died. I felt… so empty most of the time. The pain I gave myself, reminded me that I was human. The few times I did smile, were moments Kyle gave to me, granted he probably would never dream that he was making me feel anything other than hatred, but he was. When he helped me with my math, even though I made jokes about his jew-money counting skills. When he smiled friendlily, despite himself, it would make my heart skip. I punched my wall. "fucking dumb-fuck jew." I growled, not really feeling anything as my hand broke through plaster. That's why I had to start with the burns. After a while, id get numb from the cuts and couldn't feel them, even as I saw the blood trailing down my arms. So id switch between burning and cutting for days at a time. Those emo kids at school had no idea what it was really like. I sighed, trying to calm the burning of anger in my chest. Why didn't that jew get it? I decided that I needed to think, laying sprawled out on my bed, rubbing my temples. Maybe I should get a smoke. I picked up my pack of cigarettes from the window sill, crushing it when I saw that I was all out. that fucking fat lard bitch of a mother mustve been taking my cigs again. I growled, picking my coat angrily from the floor as I made my way outside.
I was stomping through the snow banks angrily. Why did the fucking convenience store have to be so far away? Why did that whore-bitch have to take the car where ever she went? Why am I suddenly noticing that I have to pass Stan's house to get there? I stood across the street from Stan's, glaring.