Kyle lied on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His eyes moved across the different posters taped up there. One of them was for Strawberry Migraine- they had been signing things at the merch table after the show. The memory of Stan holding his hand so tightly… it wasn't that long ago, but so much had happened since then.

He reached for his phone- he didn't hear any notification sound- but he couldn't stop checking it:

Hey Stan… I am so sorry about today. I know that you put your heart on the line today. I was wrong to react the way that I did. I've never second-guessed wanting to be with you forever. I'm just scared. You know that I let my anxiety get the best of me sometimes…

Please call me soon. I want to work this out. I love you. So much.

Kyle reread that last message he had sent hours ago over and over before sighing heavily. He had used "me" and "I" too much.
Of course, there was no response from Stan, it didn't even look like the message had been opened yet. Kyle opened up the Facebook app and went to Stan's page. It still said "In a Relationship with Kyle Broflovski," but it didn't mean anything. Stan could still break up with Kyle if he wanted to.
Soft music played downstairs. Kyle's parents always played music they cooked together. The tears came flowing even harder at the realization that he would never know what that was like. Instead, he saw himself dying alone.

He checked his phone for what felt like the 156th time. Still no response.
Gerald knocked on the door, "Kyle, we need to talk. You've been in your room for too long."
"Please, don't." Kyle's voice was barely a decibel above a croak. Gerald came in any way. Kyle groaned.
"What's going on with you today?" He sat down at Kyle's computer desk. Kyle was now sitting cross-legged on his bed, zoned in on his phone. Gerald sighed, "can you put your phone down, please? I'm not trying to direct this conversation to the top of your head."
Reluctantly, Kyle placed his phone face-down on the nightstand, an old habit from when he and Stan first started dating and didn't want his parents to know yet. Stan loved to send filthy messages sometimes. "Stan and I had a fight today. It was... pretty intense."
"You guys have fought before, it'll be alright."

"I don't think so…"

"Kyle, your mother and I have argued a lot over the years, and sometimes, I would feel like there was no way we could see through it… but it's going to pass. If you're as good of friends as you always say you are, it'll be okay. You have to believe that."
Kyle looked down at his folded hands. They were so pale that they almost looked dead. There were splotches of violet on his fingers. His skin was clammy all over.
"Dad… I don't know for sure, but I feel like we broke up."
"Oh. Why?"
"I don't know. Something about it just felt… final. I can't really explain."
"Well, just give him some space. There's not much you can do logically if you're all worked up like this."
"I was thinking about going over there actually-"
"NO, that will make you look like a psycho. Just give him space. Things may not be as bad as you think," Gerald started to rise, "Come down and have dinner with us. It'll be good for you to get away from the phone, you can trust me on that. But think about what I said… don't jump to conclusions just yet."
Kyle did think over what his father had said. But the more he thought about it, the heavier his heart became, and the overwhelming feeling of dread fanned out in his belly and up through his spine.

April 30, 2017

12:57 am

Colorado Juvenile Detention Center

Colorado's delinquent department was supposed to be a place of meditation, education, and discipline. Most kids were out in a few months, maybe a year.

Eric Cartman was the exception.

His behavioral patterns had grown worse over the years, forcing him to stay confined in those concrete walls. He didn't know it yet, but as soon as he turned 18, he was going to be transferred to a high-security federal prison. It was clear to the staff, as well as Cartman's lawyer, that someone deeply steeped in treachery as he could not be molded into a reformed citizen. He could snap at any moment, and his mood always turned violent.

Chakwas was on the night shift, and he always paid more attention to Cartman than the rest of the guards. Cartman would have to be as quiet as possible.

His cell was very minimal. People can tell a lot about someone by what they keep in their personal space. He didn't want anyone to know anything about him. The other inmates didn't even know why Cartman was there. He was fine with it. After being sentenced, Cartman had learned to thrive in isolation.

He spent most of his time in the library, reading and writing. He read every book in there except for one fly away book- a small handbook on Demonology. Cartman wasn't unfamiliar with the occult and suspected that reading it would be like reading the back of a shampoo bottle. Just something to do.

But he never knew there were so many of the monstrous beings, having roots in so many different cultures. He didn't want to make anyone suspicious by checking it out multiple times, so he read it over and over, taking notes and drawing sketches.

Now he was ready to play.

Everything was embedded in the fluff of his mattress: a small plastic straw, cardboard, a flattened milk carton, a mini-flashlight (stolen off the belt of a rookie guard), and a razor.

A Ouija board would be the easiest way to do it. He chided himself for being predictable, but there was no other choice. Deal with the cards you've been dealt.

With the flashlight pointed across the floor, he folded the milk carton into the shape of a planchette. Tore the unnecessary edges off. Then he reached for the razor. It hovered over the soft underbelly of his arm, hesitant. No other choice. He pushed the razor into his skin and with an uncomfortable grunt, brought it down. The blood was darker than he expected, not like how Kyle's was. He used the straw as a quill and started the alphabet: "A… B… C…"

Footsteps approached. It was Chakwas. Cartman clicked off the flashlight and quickly pushed his supplies underneath his bed and climbed in, securing his bleeding arm underneath him. He stared at the wall. Chakwas's dim flashlight swayed around in the halls outside, then disappeared.

"Fuck," Cartman whispered to himself. The blood was drying already. He tumbled quietly back down to the floor and began working again. This was going to take awhile. But it would be worth it. Later:

"8… 9… 0..."

Then "Yes." "No." "Goodbye."

He looked down at his gruesome handiwork.

Now all that was left to do was use it, and see what he could make happen.

April 30, 2017

2:03 am

Stan Marsh walked along the road with his hands in his jean pockets. He had gone home, fed Sparky, had a silent dinner with his parents, went to his room, thought about texting Kyle, decided against it, laid in bed and cried, tried to sleep, turned on The Office to have some background noise, cried because of Jim and Pam, tried to sleep again, failed, and now here he was, walking alone downtown with heavy eyes and a heavier heart. He knew Kyle had been texting him. He just couldn't think of how to respond or if he even wanted to read the messages in the first place. Eventually, he would have to say something. He said he would.

A pair of headlights bobbed along the road towards him. Stan made out the shape of a Jeep, but it wasn't Kyle's Jeep. It slowed down and stopped by Stan. Jimmy Valmer leaned out of the passenger-side window.

"Hey, b-b-b-bitch. Want a r-r-ride?"

"Not if I have to do what I did last time," replied Stan. He looked over at Token in the driver's seat, to Heidi, Bebe, Clyde all crowded in the back, looking concerned. "I hate Monopoly," he added.

"Where are you going, Stan?" Token leaned over Jimmy's lap, "Do you need a ride?"

"Not going anywhere. Just needed a walk."

Clyde asked, "Where's Kyle?"

"Oh. Probably sleeping… he wouldn't want to be out this late anyway."

Heidi locked on to Stan's welling eyes. "What's wrong, Stan?"

"It's nothing."

"You're crying…" Heidi and Bebe both exited the car and hugged him. They reeked of weed.

"What happened?" Bebe was rubbing his arm, "Did you guys break up?"

"I… I don't know. It felt like it. But I don't know."

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" offered Token. "We can talk about it over a bowl. You look like you could use it."

"And you know Token gets the best shit," chimed Clyde.

"T-t-t-there's always r-r-room for you, S-Stan."

"I appreciate it, but I just need some air. I'll go home and sleep it off after this."

They all nodded, hummed their goodbyes, and left Stan once more. He breathed a sigh of relief and headed towards Stark's. He didn't want to go back there but he didn't know where else to go.

Stan decided he'd just try to enjoy the walk, despite the circumstances. It was quiet, which is rare for a place like South Park. All of the day-to-day distractions make it hard to focus.

The entrance to Stark's Pond became visible over the horizon. He crossed the street and entered the dark woods.

Admittedly, the trees wigged him out a little. Their twisted figures and bent limbs took on more intimidating forms in the dark. They seemed to be whispering. A cloud of whispers wafting around him, pushing him in deeper. A wind chime softly echoed. Sometimes people hung them up even though they weren't supposed to. He followed the sound to a small circular clearing, looked around.

He replayed in front of him what had happened several hours before. He saw ghostly versions of himself and Kyle, yelling at each other. He shook his head. The vision went away.

Maybe we should wait, he thought, I did overreact…

He knew he put Kyle in a position that was unfair. He had a point when he said they've never talked seriously about marriage before. Maybe it was all too much at once.

Stan thought about the Strawberry Migraine concert. The way he held his hand, how he put his head on his shoulder… how he wanted to pin Kyle down right there on the floor.

The whispers swelled again. A bitter chill slithered up his spine. Stan winced. He wanted to leave, but his feet wouldn't move. They seemed almost cemented down. He twisted himself, tried to at least fall back. Failed. He really couldn't move.

His right boot began sinking into the earth. Then his left one started sinking too.

"What the fuck!" Stan moved his hips side to side, trying to thrust himself out. "No!" The dirt was climbing up to him. It was at his knees now. "Fuck! Help! Someone help me!" He screamed. He wiggled frantically. It made its way up to his chest. He raised his arms and tried to find something to grab on to. He sunk faster.

It was up to his neck now.

"Help!" Came Stan's strangled cry. It covered his chin. "Kyle!"

The lips of the earth pulled his head down, letting his white fingertips jut out above the surface before swallowing them too.

…

Kyle woke up, breathing heavily. He immediately checked his phone. No messages, still. He went to the bathroom and cleared the cold sweat away from his face. His lips were pale. His eyes puffy.

He had dreamt about being in the dark again, but he was following Stan's voice. The sound of Stan's weeping carried over to Kyle, but he couldn't call out to him. It was an endless loop of looking and listening, not being able to speak. When Stan did finally appear before him, he was a mangled corpse, opened and dissected; and the knife was in Kyle's hand.

He crawled back into bed and pulled the comforter up to his chin. He wished Stan was there.

For good measure, he checked his phone again. Still nothing. He opened up his texts and started thumbing away:

Stan… I hope you're okay.

He backspaced.

Stan… please be alright. Please, please be okay.

I miss you so much.

It was 3:06 am.

He put the phone down and reached into his nightstand drawer. He pulled out the engagement band and slide it on to his ring finger. It fit perfectly, of course.

Kyle Broflovski, 17 years old. Distraught. Anxious. Still in love.

He turned over and closed his eyes, clutching his hand to his heart.