I am SO EXCITED for the new season now! My god, and judging by that Entertainment Weekly article, it is going to KICK ASS. New episodes won't get in the way of my weekly updates, though. I'm still working on this, and we're getting quite a bit closer to the end now, too. That makes me happy, but it's still quite a ways off. Regardless, here's another chapter, enjoy, etc!

I need a good grasp on things. That'll assure me that what's going on really is, and then I'll finally be able to make sense of all of this. A good grasp will also mean that I'll have a good hold of it, in the literal sense, too. It won't be able to get away from me, and it can't be used against me, because I'll have it. And that's just what I need. I can't get anything done if I don't have this.

In order to achieve this, I need simplicity. Simplicity is often underrated for the flashier, fancier effects. People want complicated things, for some reason, even though simplicity just makes all of our lives that much easier. Is it that people feel the need for a challenge? This conflicts with humans' general laziness and selfishness, so how does that work? Really, I'm as much for a challenge as anyone else, and probably moreso, even, but I'd rather it be within the boundaries of reason. This is not. So why am I going through all of this? Shouldn't this just be one of those things that if I ignore it, it'll go away? That'd sure be simple.

But if I'm so much for simplicity, then why did I just do something I didn't understand? Why did I trust myself solely on a gut feeling? Sure, gut feelings are fairly simplistic, but this is a more potentially dangerous gut feeling. And I'm really not too sure about that. Of course, if I could understand everything as a whole, then there would be no need for questions…

What is it with questions, anyway? I don't want questions. I don't want made-up excuses. I just want answers. Nothing more, nothing less – aside from some peace of mind. But peace of mind can easily be reached as long as I get these answers, so…

The weight of my injuries suddenly comes crashing down on me. My ignorance of reality finally abandoning me, I lose my footing, and then I realize that I had just been standing still. I hadn't moved since my initial stop upon realizing that I didn't know what I was doing. And yet I fell, face-first into the mild snow bank building up behind these houses. My legs just kind of… snapped, gave out under me. And I didn't even notice it.

Fuck. The pleasant coolness of the snow from the afternoon is gone once the sun sets. Now it's just a biting cold. And now that I'm actually feeling really hurt again, and now that I'm starting to feel frozen, I'm not sure if I can actually make my way back.

I manage to pull myself forward with my elbows, and then bring my face up and out of the snow by putting pressure against the ground, too. From there, I slowly hoist myself upright, and lightly touch my forehead. My head is throbbing, and I can feel blood flowing down it once again, surprise surprise. I blink and let the settings around me have their way with me.

And then I remember, once again, that I do have family worried about me. It's been days. I need to get back home, for their sake, at least. Sure, you can't choose your family, but it's not like that fact is going to make me hate them. And I'm sure they're worried about me, anyway. And that it's not that fake, generic, only-because-we're-family kind of worry. It's probably genuine.

And besides, it offers free protection. And it sure as hell beats being out in the freezing cold.

I drag my limbs, ploughing through the snow and trying my hardest not to collapse again. Simultaneously, I'm sure to keep my mind active, because if I don't, I'm sure that'll freeze, too. And I'm so sick of cold right now.

I have to blink a few times as blood will obscure my vision, and I don't want to try to expend the energy to wipe it out of my eyes. It's not very nice, but Stan and I don't live too far apart to begin with. I've just been slowed down by outside factors.

And outside factors continue to suck. They continue to get in the way, make things more and more complicated, detracting the simplicity and increasing the unnecessary challenges of life. It's not fucking necessary, but it exists anyway. But really, I think I've been humbled down enough, now.

Not only is this unfair to me, but it's unfair to others, as well. It's unfair to those who care about me. Or maybe something is just smiling down on the ones who hate me. It's very appreciated, I can say that much. There's nothing more that I like than amusing some jackass who has no good reason to hate me in the first place. Hello, Cartman.

I blink rapidly a few more times, trying to clear my eyes. There really isn't that much blood, but I think I'm slowly but surely losing consciousness. And feeling, too, since I'm already starting to lose sensation in my toes, as well as my fingers. I didn't think it ever got this cold in January, but it probably doesn't help much that I'm not in very insulated clothing, and the clothing that I do have has been torn all over. I'm wearing glorified rags. Awesome.

I stop my trudging for a moment and lift my arms to tug my hat further down on my head. It's still very, very intact. I'm so, so thankful for this, because this is really what connects me to what I was more like before all of this happened. I've always worn this hat. Always. And it's gotten me through everything. Christ, it's so stupid, but if I were to lose it…

Each movement I make seems to stand out all the more to me now. I lower my arms and resume my walking. My leg movements are stiff and forced, but they're getting me somewhere. It's not very quick, and I still can't see my house, but I might not even be able to do that until it's staring me in the face, anyway.

Adding to my luck and the gayness of outside factors, it starts to snow. This further obscures my vision, and makes it colder, but at the very least, it's a light snow. It's not a flurry, or anything, which I am so thankful for. I remember being excited for snow when I was younger; my friends and I. We'd go out in play in it, chuck it at each other and make snowmen out of it and have endearing mishaps…

Growing up fucking sucks. But I never would have seen this in my future, anyway.

And suddenly I stop moving. I bend my head down oh-so-slightly to find my legs rigidly standing in place and doing nothing more. I try to move them and nothing. I try to move my arms and nothing. I'm stuck, and I can barely feel any of this. I guess not being able to feel would normally be a good thing, but I feel a stinging pain, anyway, for some reason. This isn't even a true numbness. I just can't get a break anywhere.

And nobody knows that I'm out back here, probably. I don't see my house anywhere near me. I open my mouth to shout out for help, but no real sound comes out. I'm going to die here. I'm going to freeze to death and this will have all been for nothing. Maybe that's why I gave Stan the gun? So that someone else would be able to protect themselves? Or even go on a violent rampage?

Except that's not in Stan's character, really. Then again, I didn't think it was in mine.

The worst part of this is that I'm painfully conscious. My vision has been darkening, my blood freezing, and sensations are ebbing away. And yet I'm still fully alert. It makes no goddamn sense. It's just more needless torture to stuff me through. What did I do?

Something is tossed at me from behind, and I fall over from the force of the impact, stiff as a board. The something flutters down on top of me, and over me. I manage to make out part of it. A thick, heavy blanket.

Honestly, though, I don't think that that's going to do much good at this point. I need full-blown defrosting, not just a fucking blanket.

I'm just barely able to make out the scenery starting to move, even though I can't move myself. I'm lying on my side. Which, I'm not sure. But I'm not warming up at all.

Just barely, I can see my house. But whatever it is that's going on causes me to pass right by it, and I stare after it as long as I can. 'Cause, well, damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit. I need to let my parents know that I'm still alive. I need to get back in there and not let them worry any more. Because worrying about people sucks, and it's time consuming, and just not worth it, especially when the person is alright. It's another one of those fucking unknowns that further complicates life.

I lose all recognition and just watch the snow go by instead, not really wanting to close my eyes in case they freeze shut. I just went through something similar to that. It is not happening again. But eventually I stop and change direction, and soon enough, I feel the air around me warm up.

And I'm forced right back into a radiator, and my back stings with new burn marks. My body lurches forward immediately, and I lie down on the carpet, recognizing this as someone's home. But it's not my own. So, then who…?

"Get up," someone commands, and kicks me in the side. I wince and feel even more pain as feeling returns to my body, and attempt to obey, but I'm unable to. I'm kicked even harder. "Get up."

My mind is still fogged up, so I'm really not too sure what the specifics are of where I am, or who just saved me. This treatment isn't all that great, but it's better than freezing to death. And I feel like I should be grateful, too.

Warmth continues to rush right into my body, and I shudder at it. I can move that much, but I can't get up, no matter how hard I'm pushed to. I feel completely immobilized. I'm kicked again, and I can feel the pain really getting at me now. "Get up," the voice hisses once again, and suddenly, I snap right to awareness. Well, my body doesn't, really, but my mind sure wakes up. I recognize where I am, I can identify that voice, and I manage to get myself up on my hands and knees.

And then I'm kicked right in the stomach, and I cough up a small bit of blood. I look upwards to find Cartman standing right in front of me. He gazes down at me, coolly, and I'm so confused.

"Cartman…?" Cartman just saved my life? Cartman? If you hate someone so much that you just torture them, why the hell would you go out of the way to save their life?

I then realize that we're in his living room. I vaguely wonder where his mom is, but find that I don't really care. Even if she did come down here to find this, she wouldn't be able to stop her kid. The people who you should be relying on are so fucking worthless.

"Get up," he snaps, kicking me once again. I cringe and double over, not appreciating the abuse and trying to escape it by curling away from it. Such is a natural body reflex, and such is a stupid one that doesn't get you anywhere. The body is really, really worthless most of the time.

When I don't comply with what he says, mostly because I can't find the strength, he kicks me again. And again. And again. And I can't do much to stop it, but upon finding the smallest bit of spare energy, I lash out with one of my own legs, kicking him and apparently hitting a weak spot, as it causes him to fall over.

My mouth gapes open when I see that he's now bleeding, my knife having pierced him somewhere in the leg. He must have had it on him somewhere, and his falling over shook it out from a safer position to one that could actually stab.

But I do feel a bit better, finally seeing someone bleed other than myself. And it's also quite a bit nicer to see that the one who has been causing me so much abuse is the one who's doing the bleeding. But I'm still confused.

"Cartman? You saved me?"

He grunts. "I wasn't going to let you be mother nature's bitch. I'm not done yet, Kyle. You…"

"But… you saved me?" I stutter out once again. The idea is so incredulous that I just can't wrap my mind around it.

"I just fucking said—"

I cut him off. "Yeah, but…"

This time, he cuts me off. "Fuck," he snaps, pulling the knife out of his leg's side and pushing his fat body off the ground to elevate himself to his full height. The tallest one out of all four of us. And I got landed with the shortest. Judging by physical appearances only, it's not that great of a deal for me. "Look at what you fucking did. God damnit!" he shouts, throwing the weapon with a good deal of force right into the ground. My foot twitches back, narrowly avoiding being impaled. I blink.

"That was your own fault."

Upon failing to get a smartass answer in return, I look back up, and finally succeed in elevating myself up to my own full height. It's not quite a head shorter. I see what he's doing. He's just standing there, his back facing me, clenching his fists. My eyes rove down to his leg, where a noticeable blood trail can be seen making his way down his legs. His jeans are obscuring the view, but you can still see it. And I've been there before, so I get that he's in pain.

It's not the right thing to do, but kicking a man while he's down is nothing foreign to Cartman. Besides, Cartman's an exception to this rule. Because, well, he's Cartman.

But first – the logical parts. "How did you find me?" I snap, slapping his back. This action catches him off guard, and he is just barely able to keep his balance in check. "Well?"

"I know you," he snaps back, whirling around suddenly and catching me off guard with this reaction. I take a step backwards, a bit taken aback by his own glare. His narrowed brown eyes stare right at my blood-surrounded ones. "I know what you'd do. Where you'd go. It's obvious."

I look right back at him, and tilt my head in a sign of confusion. "Um…"

He takes a step forward, stomping on my foot in the process. I wince, and then turn my own gaze into a glare directed straight at him. "So, what else do you plan to do with me?" I demand, shoving my hands out and pushing him backwards. "'Cause I can fight. You don't have me in a vulnerable position this time. So what the fuck are you going to do now? Nothing? 'Cause, y'know, I was so sure that you had confessed your love to me not—"

Cartman punches me right in the nose upon that, and I feel it start to bleed. I hold one of my hands up to my nose, catching the rushing blood in it, and glare at him. He takes this opportunity to collect the knife again, and continues his speech. "Don't you dare fucking say that. After what you've done! Not even to begin with could I have…!"

"But you did! This couldn't possibly be because of that, could it?"

"I thought I… Fuck, Kyle. Just… Fuck! Do you not listen? I…" Cartman stumbles about in his words, most likely due to just how pissed off he must be due to my bringing up of the subject. "I said I never wanted that to happen, and it's gone now, anyway. I was right. It was just a temporary thing. And it was caused because there was something about seeing you in such a vulnerable state that—"

I raise my eyebrows at this. "So that's why you put me in one yourself before, huh? To create that again in hopes of loving me again? Or did you just attack me because that's what I did to you? I accidentally made you love me? So this is your revenge?"

"Don't trivialize things!" he snaps out with such force that I take a step back, just to be sure. "Drop the gay thing already! Just fucking drop it!" I swear, foam is gathering around his mouth. "That has nothing to do with this! This is… Fuck you, Kyle!" And he attacks me once again. Fortunately, I'm still the stronger of the two of us. Since one hand is keeping a hold on my nose, my other hand draws back into a fist, and I send it flying right into somewhere on his face. Cartman stops and switches emotion rather quickly, from anger to intense pain. Christ, it's not even like he's bleeding or anything. Just like old times.

"Then tell me what the fuck it was that I did!" I give him my verbal backlash. "If you don't want me trivializing things, stop making me guess! Tell me what the hell I did to deserve this from you! What justifies your actions? Or can you not tell me this because there is no justification, and you're just too scared to admit it? Because that will finally show you that you're wrong? For once in your life, you'll admit that you were in the wrong?"

Cartman rubs his sleeve across his eyes. "I'm not in the wrong!" he shouts back. "You know what you did!"

"I've done a lot of things!" I yell. "How the hell am I supposed to know which one it was that specifically pissed you off so much? I'm not a mind reader; I don't automatically know everything that you do!"

"You murdered my best friend!"

"You have no proof!" It disturbs me how easily I'm able to shoot back with just that. No heartbreaking, saddening reactions. Just an immediate claim for my innocence, of you can even call it that.

Should I be surprised that this was it? I mean, I did keep Kenny in my thoughts for quite a bit, but I didn't actually think it'd be applicable to this. And since when does Cartman even care about anybody other than himself that much, to go to such an extent of getting revenge for them? It's probably partially because this is me, after all, I guess, but really, well, still.

I'm trying to recall what happened back then, when Cartman first pulled this shit on me. He wasn't as violent or destructive back then as he came to be now, but we were younger, so that's to be expected. But what stopped him was Kenny stepping in. Kenny performed a self-sacrifice for my sake and was able to hit it off pretty well with Cartman.

And it's almost like with Kenny gone, Cartman's lost it all over again. … Just like when I lost Stan. Oh my god. I am not this similar to Cartman. No way. No freakin' way. It's… I don't want to admit that. Ever.

"Are you kidding me? Since when have you ever used a weapon before?" Oh, god, the parallels. "And then you randomly shoot me in the foot. Since when do you have a gun? Jews don't use guns!" He… just said that? What? "And then, Kenny doesn't show up the next day—"

"So?" I lash back right away. "He could just be taking a long time! That doesn't mean he's dead for good! And how the hell does that point to me, anyway?" I think I'm a bit too much on the defensive.

Cartman's getting visibly angrier as he gets to his point. "Who uses guns? Poor people! And that was definitely a poor person's gun, with crappy bullets and everything. Besides, the last time I heard from him was that day you and Stan attacked each other. So you were already violent."

"That still doesn't prove a damn thing, fatass."

"You're being overly defensive and nervous whenever I bring it up. He's your friend, too, so why haven't you shown any remorse? Don't try to deny it, Kyle. I know that you killed him, you know that you killed him." Cartman takes another step towards me, and we're so close now that our noses are touching. "I have never been this pissed at you in my life. You probably have that gun on you right now. Show me."

Well, at least he is right in one area: That we both know it, and that there's no sense in denying it. But hell, I can try, anyway. If I can just manage to weasel my way out of this…

"I don't have it," I state. And I'm telling the truth. Is this why I gave it to Stan?

I get glared at. "Of course you don't," Cartman snaps, rather sarcastically. He raises the knife up into the air, and points the tip directly at me. "Of course you don't have it. Which is why you aren't using it to defend yourself…!" He thrusts forward, and I leap backwards.

"I'm not playing around, Cartman!" I have to cry out, dodging the knife that should be my own. "I really don't have it with me! Stop this!"

"So you'd rather die than admit that I'm right?" Cartman snaps, and his eyes flare up even more. "You are disgusting! You're a sick, horrible person, and I should be doing so much more to you!" He lunges again. "Stop avoiding this! You know you deserve it, taking away my best friend's life for no reason!"

"So hurting me is going to fix things?" I demand, quizzically. I've decided to give up the charade now. There's no convincing him, anyway. And to prove my point, I turn my pockets inside out, hopefully showing him that I really am telling the truth when I say that I don't have the gun on me.

"Yes!" he snaps back, his gaze focused on me and me alone. He isn't even acknowledging the fact that I don't have a weapon on me at all. And I see no logic or reason anywhere present within his speech.

"How?"

He knows his answers right away. "You hurt me by killing Kenny, so I'm getting back at you by hurting you."

"And you really think Kenny would have wanted you hurting one of his other friends in revenge."

"What Kenny would have wanted doesn't matter!"

I'm… baffled. I'm so very, very baffled. So, Cartman's upset that I murdered Kenny. That's understandable, even if he doesn't know under what circumstances – even though said circumstances are weak and foolish. And yet, he's totally disregarding Kenny for his own personal satisfaction. He really is selfish and will look for any excuse. It makes me wonder if he's sincere in this case at all.

And this continues to draw me to parallels of what's been going on with me recently. Of course, Cartman doesn't know anything about that. But… well… still, it's a little… I can't quite describe it, but I really don't like it. And that puts me on the same level of hypocrisy as Cartman.

"So you don't really care about Kenny?" I venture the question.

The response I get makes me cringe slightly in worry. The rest of the cringing comes from just how loud Cartman's voice is. "Don't you ever fucking DARE say shit like that!" he shouts. "I… He was fucking…"

"What is it about him that you care so much about him, Cartman?"

"He actually cares about me!" Cartman throws the knife this time, and I quickly duck to avoid it as it embeds itself in a picture, hanging on the wall behind me. "When nobody else did—"

"Nobody else cared about you because you don't care about anyone else! Even now, as you claim to try to be getting back at me for another person, it's still all about you and only you! The only reason Kenny stepped in and decided to help you out is because he's a good person! He puts the lives of others above his own!" And… And that's why he let me kill him, I silently add. Because he was concerned for my own safety, and he knew that this wouldn't hurt him too much.

Or at least, he thought he knew. And I thought I knew, too. But he still hasn't come back yet, and I really have brought this all on myself. And through what? A gut feeling. That's what initially caused me to kill Kenny. A gut feeling. So what have I done now, giving Stan that gun…? That was a gut feeling, too. I… I can't think of anything. There are so many different possible outcomes and I have no idea what it's going to officially turn out like. Naturally, I'd really like to know, but I won't until it happens.

And by then, it could so very well easily be too late to do anything to protect any of us. Fuck, I wish I knew what was going to happen…

"So you're saying," Cartman interrupts my thinking, "that Kenny didn't care about me in the first place, and it was just his nature that drew him to me?"

"Pretty much." If this is breaking him down, then I'm revelling in it. After all the crap I've heard from him just now… And he's acting like he's the victim? God, I should be laying this on him even heavier, for Kenny's sake.

I side-step to avoid Cartman's swinging punch. "Take that back! He… I… He wouldn't do something like that! He's my best friend!"

I can't stop the words before they come out of my mouth. "You don't know what a best friend even IS!" I shout, placing a great deal of emphasis on the last word. "You don't even know what a friend in general is! God knows you've never acted like one yourself! And—"

"And you're perfect with Stan, right?"

"That's a true best friend."

Cartman stops shooting his mouth off and stops to think for a second. I watch him as he walks forwards and pulls the knife out from the picture, staring at the blood on the blade. This thing hasn't been cleaned. There's so much blood on it from so many, and most of it is mine. That's my knife…!

I make a grab for it, but Cartman simply raises it out of my reach. Fury overtaking me, I tackle Fatass down to the ground, clawing at him in desperation for that weapon. I don't know what's come over me, but I've got a feeling similar to the one I had when I gave Stan the gun.

But there's something else mixed in with it. It's more or less totally envy. That is mine, the knife is mine, not his. He should not have it. He does not have the right to it. It is mine.

I make grabs for it, but he's got a firm grasp on the handle, and I just can't get it. I'm so desperate that I'll just grab the blade. Fuck the consequences of bleeding palms and whatnot. Just as I'm about to, because I want—no, need, I'll actually die if I don't get it—so badly, Cartman kicks me off of his body and lifts himself off from the ground. He turns the blade around, observing the way the lighting in the room changes its reflection on it, depending on the angle.

"So you just came to the same realization that I did, huh, Kyle?"

"… What?" I demand, confused as to what he means, and angered that he still has it and I wasn't able to get it back. I make another move for it but he holds up a finger, signalling for me to stop. I don't know why I do, but I do.

"You took my best friend away from me…" So he's gone to totally ignoring what I just told him, now. Fuck the truth, right? The truth doesn't fit into his means, so he's going to pretend that it isn't like that. That Kenny actually did genuinely care about him, and not that it just wasn't in Kenny's nature to put others before himself. It's because of me that Kenny even did this, because he was worried for my safety those three years ago, so he stepped in and made Cartman feel like he had somebody, so that Cartman would leave me alone.

Because I had Stan. I had somebody to care about me, and I had somebody to reflect that exact degree of love right back to. A great sign of a perfect friendship; two people so close to each other that they can trust each other with absolutely anything and everything. Cartman didn't have that, so Kenny stepped in to make sure that he had that.

Wait a second…

He wouldn't…

"So what's to stop me from taking your best friend away from you?" And suddenly, what I did makes sense.