A/N: Hi everyone, hope today finds you well. I haven't updated in a while because I updated previous chapters of this work, including adding some scenes and changing dialogue. It's also why this chapter is so short. Thank you so much to everyone who has read/commented. It's very appreciated! Anyway, here we go:

I hate when the family's toothbrushes are leaning into each other like they're talking dirty

"Get in my bristles" "give me what they put in their mouths today"

I don't want to share

Get in my bristles

grab me by the mouth, put your thumb in it like you would

and gag me, split me

like the spine of a book and find nothing because

I've swallowed everything so you can't see

-found in Stan Marsh's history notebook

(date unknown)

...

They followed the police car in silence. Randy drove. Sharon stared out the window. Kyle sat in the back and picked at the cloth seat. There was still a heart-shaped stain from Kenny spilling a raspberry smoothie when they were in the seventh grade. Everything was simpler then. All of us were so different. Kyle pulled his phone out and stared at the screen. His fingers twitched. He wanted to tell Kenny what was happening.

They couldn't be sure yet if it actually would be Stan that the police found. He wanted to hold on to the idea that it could be a mistake. It could be some other boy, but not Stan. Not his Stan.

Sheila had begged Kyle not to go with the Marsh's. She pulled at his arm on his way out the door like he had been drafted and was off to war. Leaving his mother like that hurt him but he knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't go. The radio was on but at a very low volume. Mostly static noises were heard. And it was on seek mode. Music, commercial, static, commercial, music, static, static, static… no one bothered to stop it or shut it off. It reminded Kyle of his own brain.

Sharon's cell rang. "Hey Shelley, can we call you back in a little while?" Shelly had been instructed to stay put in case Stan ran away to her apartment in Indiana. Kyle could barely make out what she was saying on the other end, even though she was speaking quite loudly. Sharon's sighs and forlorn responses told Kyle that Shelley wasn't giving good new anyway. Sharon hung up. She didn't tell Shelley where they were going. It was probably for the best until they had the truth. Kyle put his phone away.

When they pulled up to the Coroner's, no one moved to get out of the station wagon. Kyle's stomach was in knots as he stared out at the building. It looked like it could be someone's house. Not a place for the dead.

Randy put an arm around the back of Sharon's seat and looked over at his wife, "whatever we see in there today, regardless if it's Stan's body or not, we have to remember that bodies and spirits are different. We have to try and get this over with." Kyle was feeling excluded until Randy glanced at him. He pulled the door handle.

…

"Before we do the actual visual part of the identification process, I need to ask you folks some questions about Stanley, okay?" A young man, who couldn't be more than 30, sat with them in a brown and red office. He had a notepad in front of him and was using a blue pen that had bite marks all over it. "Can you describe some of Stanley's physical attributes that would distinguish him from others?" Kyle couldn't believe what he was hearing. That someone could speak about Stan so professionally, so clinically. A subject on the dissection table. "Any birthmarks? Scars? Tattoos?"

"He has a paw print tattoo on his left wrist," volunteered Shannon.

"Yeah, I remember when he came home with that," said Randy. He turned to Kyle, "and you were the one that took him to get it."

Kyle couldn't think of a response that Stan would want him to say. The truth was that he wanted Kyle to give him the tattoo since it went so well the first time, but Kyle refused. He couldn't bring himself to burn Stan with a needle where his scars had made a home. So they went to an expo and had it done by an artist that was chipper and openly told Stan about pain therapy- one of the facets of this kind of therapy was tattooing instead of self-harming. Stan left very happy that day. Randy and Sharon were not happy about the small and harmless ink. They still didn't know about the whale tattoos on both of their thighs.

"Can you folks tell me anything else, please?"

"There's scarring on both of his arms," Kyle quietly replied. If the roles were reversed, I'd be too easy to identify. Kidney transplant scar, check. Raccoon attack scars, check. Fish hook scar on the back of my head, check. He wished it was him lying on a cold table in the next room instead of Stan. "There's a brown birthmark on his stomach, right above the belly button." I've kissed that spot so many times…

"His wisdom teeth are removed," Randy said.

"Okay," the coroner scribbled in his notepad, "Kyle, is it?" Kyle nodded. "You said Stanley has scarring. Do you know if they are from self-harm?"

Kyle swallowed. His chest tightened. "They are."

Randy and Sharon quickly turned their heads to Kyle. It was the first time they were hearing about this. Stan kept his outer damage well-hidden.

"Kyle, I need you to answer me honestly for these next two questions. It's important for this particular case." Kyle's heart pounded. "Over the course of your relationship, how often would Stanley self-harm?"

"It-It depended on how stressed he was. Every week was different. But if I have to give…" He glanced uneasily at Randy and Sharon, "If I have to give a numerical answer, it would have to be maybe two to three times a month. He stopped around this time last year though. We gave each other an ultimatum. I would quit smoking cigarettes if he stopped cutting. We found alternatives. I chewed gum, mostly. And he wore rubber bands on his arm. He snapped them when he had the urge. It worked. Both of us would slip up sometimes, Mostly me."

"And did Stanley ever talk about taking his own life?"

Kyle inhaled sharply. The question burrowed into his throat and flexed its claws, brought them down with a sickening slash.

"All the time."

…

None of them were ready. No one ever is.

He pulled the sheet back with dry, powdery hands.

Glazed over blue eyes. Shaggy black hair. Thin lips. He was on display, the hard reality in a showcase. There was no denying it was Stan.

My Stan…

Sharon doubled over and almost fell to the floor before Randy caught her. Kyle stared into his glassy eyes. His mouth turned down in distress. The purple bruises and ripe lesions from where they said they cut the rope from his neck. He couldn't take it.

His body turned to the exit and ran. He ran past the other employees, the red walls, the somber and reflective art pieces, the pain. Kyle pushed open the front door and stumbled onto the front lawn, landing on his knees. He bent down, grabbed onto the grass, dug his fingers into the soil, and screamed.