Disclaimer: I don't own South Park (sighs)

We Used To Run From Butter

Will I ever be safe again? Will I always be afraid to go out at night, watching, waiting for something that's not there? Will I ever finally get caught? Yes. One day it will happen, and I will die. And nobody will know what happened, because they don't see it. They will wonder, "What happened to Wendy Testaburger? How did she die?" and nobody will know the answer. I will be erased from the Earth forever and for all eternity. Animals will eat my flesh, and my bones disintegrated, and nobody will know the horrible truth about butter. They will see eventually. But then it will be too late.

"Wendy? Wendy Testaburger?"

"Yes. I'm Wendy." I look up, and there is a psychiatrist, the third one this week.

"Jesus, you look horrible." She clicks her tongue.

"No shit. So would you. And you will be, soon."

"And what does that mean Wendy?"

I see where this is going.

"Never mind. What are you here to do? Ink blots? Or are you going to use that fucking flashlight of yours to look into my eyes? What is there in my eyes that could ever tell you what's wrong with me?"

"If your pupils look dilated, you could be sick." She calmly explained. I sat back in my chair.

"God dammit, I guess what they say about psychiatrists is true, huh?"

She squints, then asked me what they say about psychiatrists.

"They're heartless. Cold and unfeeling. All they want is money. Fucking green paper will be useless when you die. Useless."

The psychiatrist shuffles her papers, then turns her head as my mother walks into the room.

"Hello Mrs. Testaburger. I need to speak to you about some things." She obviously wants to up my medication.

The psychiatrist and my mother walk out of my room.

"Don't go far." I mutter to my mom.

"I won't, honey." Her eyes are glistening. She closes my door and I hear them go downstairs.

"What do you want with me." I ask the air. But I know that things other than air can hear me.

"I believe you." Kenny steps out of my closet.

"You finally saw them. You finally saw them!" I whispered.

He nods.

"It was horrible. All the blood and butter and, well, it was horrible." He looks at his hands. "I used to use butter on my toast."

"So did I. So did I."

"I mean, at first I didn't believe you. All of your stories about butter and how at night it comes out of it's container to kill people. But last night, Wendy, it." He stops.

I sigh.

"It killed my brother." He finally says.

"I heard. I'm sorry, Kenny."

"Cartman and Stan don't believe me. What should we do?"

"Let me think of something. I'll call you as soon as this psychiatrist leaves."

"Right." He climbs back out the window he came in minutes before.

"Soon we will all die. Nobodies safe." I mutter to myself.

As soon as the psychiatrist leaves, I go downstairs and turn on the news.

"Eric Cartman, 15, died today in his hometown South Park. Officials can't figure out the cause of death, but they believe it was cardio - vascular arrest. In other news, Peanuts: The Cure for Obesity?"

I scream. They finally got Cartman.

"That stupid fat fuck. That stupid fat fuck! Dammit!" I scream again, then lay down on the couch to get the only sleep I can during the day.