"We should kiss.
Not because you passed my way by chance
but because you stopped
and I haven't been the same since."
-Courtney Peppernell, PILLOW THOUGHTS
January 14, 2017
4:43 pm- Kyle: Hi Kenny!
4:47 pm- Kyle: I know it's been awhile… how are you?
5:30 pm- Kyle: We miss you being around. I miss our friendship. I hope we can hang out soon.
He laid the phone on his chest and flipped through the T.V. channels. After a long day of helping his mom with cleaning and shopping, Kyle Broflovski was sprawled on the living room couch in a baseball tee and gray sweatpants. A weather advisory was nestled in the corner of the screen. Ike was in the recliner next to him with the latest issue of Popular Mechanics, occasionally licking the tip of his finger as he turned the pages. His nose scrunched up when Kyle flopped onto the couch.
"Your feet smell," he said, fake gagging.
"Your face smells… Well, it's about to," Kyle reached forward and whipped off one of his dirtied socks and chucked it at Ike's face.
Ike spasmed, shrieking, "Gondor calls for aid!"
"Shut the fuck up!" Gerald had called from somewhere upstairs.
The weather woman gestured with her arms, the image of Colorado swathed in blue. A snowstorm was coming later that night; an anticipated beastly one. Sheila and Kyle spent the day making sure they wouldn't have to leave the house for anything, stocking up on food and toiletries- evening making sure they had enough blankets, candles, charged batteries for flashlights in the case the power went out. Ike even set up the extra generator, if that were to happen.
The phone went off with a text, sending a vibration through his rib cage.
5:54 pm- Stan: What Disney character do you see me as?
5:54 pm- Kyle: Ummmm lemme think…
5:55 pm- Stan: And don't you dare try to be funny and say fucking Shrek
5:55 pm- Kyle: Shrek
5:55 pm- Kyle: Oops lol
5:56 pm- Stan: GOD DAMN IT
5:57 pm- Kyle: No no no no you're Wall-E
5:58 pm- Stan: Lol wait really?
5:59 pm- Kyle: Yesh
6:01 pm- Stan: Does that mean you're Eve? Owo
6:02 pm- Kyle: No lol
6:02 pm- Kyle: I'm all that trash that got left behind on Earth
6:03 pm- Stan: -_-
6:04 pm- Kyle: Lol
6:11 pm- Stan: Btw I'm outside
6:12 pm- Kyle: Waitwahtwhy
6:13 pm- Stan: If you're trash, then I gotta pick you up and take you out
6:14 pm- Kyle: You stole that joke from the tumblrs
6: 14 pm- Stan: I AM tumblr
"I need my stinky sock back," Kyle said to Ike, snatching his Lion King blanket off the arm of the couch. He patted his pockets to make sure he had what he needed, the usual cluster of things he always took with him. "Tell Ma I'll be right back."
…
Kyle appeared outside, the chilly winter air biting his face; clad in untied boots, an orange jacket, and the blanket wrapped around his head like E.T. in the bike basket, squinting in the darkness, the only source of visibility being the dim porch light and headlights in the driveway. No matter how many times he blinked, the image before him stayed the same.
Sitting in a tiny, aqua-colored escort with rusted doors and a cracked windshield was Stan, beaming with pride. He grunted, struggling to roll down the window as Kyle got closer, inaudibly reminding himself to fix the stickiness later. Kyle leaned down, staring daggers at his boyfriend of four years:
"The fuck is this?"
"My car."
"The fuck it is."
Stan frowned, "You don't like it?"
"Does the heat even work?"
"Yeah, dude," Stan turned a knob, and the drone of hot air hummed.
"What about the air conditioning?"
"Um," Stan scratched at his earlobe, not looking at Kyle, "what about it?"
"Does the fucking A/C work, Stan?"
"Well, no. I have to fix it. But it'll be awhile before I even need it. I can just drive with the windows down if I have to."
"It gets hotter every summer…"
"Maybe we just need to train our bodies to acclimate, then."
Kyle rolled his eyes and straightened up, "You should've told me you were going to buy a whole ass car-"
"-as opposed to a half ass car?"
Kyle sighed heavily, "I could've come with you."
Shoulders tensed, chin squarely up, squinting through Kyle's sour expression, Stan retorted, "Maybe I just wanted to do something by myself for once."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Stan looked forward, hands on the steering wheel. Admittedly, he felt wrong, brandishing acidity at the person he loved the most. But he had been thinking it for awhile. "It's cold. Get in."
For a moment, Kyle had the urge to turned around, rush back into the house, lock the door, leave Stan out in the driveway, ignore all of his texts and calls, make him feel a few days of pain in return for being a dick. A braid of hurt and indignation pulled in his chest.
But he pushed the animosity down and walked to the passenger side, opening and closing the door behind him gently, afraid it would break off.
(its fine its fine he didnt mean it)
Stan cleared his throat, "Uh, so the guy I bought this from left some cassette tapes-"
"-how much?"
"We've got some Mariah Carey, Selena, Whitney Houston, Gloria Estefan-"
"-how much was the car, Stan?"
"500. Not bad for a fixer-upper," he replied, not looking up at Kyle, transfixed in the tapes, "Ooh, No Doubt."
"$500?! Stan, that's insane! I wouldn't have even paid 100 for this shit!"
"I'm thinking some good old Alanis Morissette."
Kyle gave up and slouched into the seat, tightening the blanket around himself. Stan popped in the cassette and backed out of the driveway. Fuzzily, "All I Really Want" poured from the speakers.
"Put your seatbelt on," Stan commanded when the alert dinged from his dashboard. "Having a blanket on isn't going to protect you from getting launched through the fucking windshield."
Kyle let out a little groan and obliged. "Well, you'd probably be better off if I did."
"Don't. Don't start with that again. You know I wouldn't be 'better off'."
They drove in silence for a few minutes, the wind blowing through naked tree branches, creating wavering shadows under street lights. Kyle was about to speak up, find some way to attack him, but before he could open his mouth, he felt Stan take his hand, interlacing their fingers and resting them on center console.
"This is nice," Stan gave Kyle's hand a soft squeeze, "I get to take you out instead of you having to lug me everywhere."
Instead of spitting out something like 'you asshole' or another comment about the car, Kyle bit his lip. Thoughtfully, he stared at the side of Stan's face, a constant against the passing winter scenery outside of the glass. He squeezed back.
"I don't mind though," his voice took on a newer, gentle tone, "But where are you even taking me? From the looks of it, you're about to leave me in a ditch somewhere."
"I mean, I can if you really want me to."
Kyle laughed, "Murder me, daddy."
"Jesus Christ. Okay, Fifty Shades of Broflovski, I think you're the one spending too much time on 'the tumblrs'."
"Nope, just playing Animal Crossing."
"Oh, God."
"I have to. If I don't check in, Kyleville gets overgrown with weeds."
"...Kyleville?"
"That's what I call my village, don't hate."
The track faded to "Hand in My Pocket." Snowflakes began flurrying past them.
"We really can't be out that long. It's too dangerous," Kyle said, digging into his pockets for a lighter.
"I know. You're not smoking in here, by the way. I don't care if you roll the window down."
Kyle froze. The jurisdiction from Stan was sharp, almost sounding parental.
"Stan, I hate to ask but… are you taking your meds?"
Stan had started taking medication with the help of a discreet clinic, and Kyle was usually the one to pick it up for him. He still had bad days, the nurse practitioner said it would be six months before real improvement, but overall, he glowed a little more, especially when he remembered to take the take the little white pill.
Stan's fingers loosened. His arm drooped, his face downcast. "Yeah, I am."
"Okay. I'm sorry, it's just that you forget sometimes and I-"
"Yeah, I know," Stan roughly shook off Kyle's hand and turned up the music. The static made Kyle wince but he didn't want to complain, not now.
(and i worry about you a lot)
They pulled into a CVS parking lot just as the wind started blowing stronger.
"Why?" Kyle asked, gesturing with his hand, his face illuminated by the blaring red letters of the drug store.
"I just need to get a few things. You can stay here."
Stan turned to leave. Kyle grabbed his elbow, "Wait."
"What?"
"Can we just sit here a second?"
"Sure, I guess," he turned down Alanis.
Kyle continued holding on to his arm, "Why did you kiss me at my Bar Mitzvah?"
"Because I wanted to?"
"Why'd you want to?"
Stan softened, the whites of his eyes florid, "Because I love you."
"Do you still?"
"Kyle… what kind of question is that? Of course I still love you. I've never stopped."
"Then why are you acting like this? You're… you're treating me like shit."
Stan said nothing, his lips pursed. He pulled on the door handle and leaned out, "I think you're overreacting," leaving Kyle in the dark.
He watched as Stan disappeared behind the sliding glass door, into the fluorescent light. How many times has he heard that: You and your mother overreact to everything- stop being so fucking emo. With a dejected sigh, he stepped out as well and lit up. Shadowy figures walked by him, sometimes glaring him and his smoking mouth. Now and then he glanced up, hoping to see Stan on his way back, so they could just go home and sleep this off, but he was taking a while. Their town's CVS usually only had one cashier working anyway, of course it would take some time.
More snowflakes were falling, melting into his hair and freezing his scalp. He tapped ashes out into the air, leaning against the escort.
The past few months had been strenuous for both of them. They were trying so hard to help Stan stay alive, but sometimes, he wouldn't let Kyle help. He would push him away, yell at him for being too invasive, curse him.
(i wish he would just put down the scissors and let me in)
He looked up at the dark sky, blotted with gray clouds, a few stars, Venus. Harsher gusts of snow cut at his face; he opened his mouth and let the flakes dissolve on his tongue.
(patience forgiveness patience forgiveness patience forgiveness)
the more i think them the less they mean
love is patient love is kind
fuck im the worst)
…
June 10, 2017
Kyle is throwing up in the shower. The dirt and worms come out. Maggots crawl out of his nose. They wiggle around his curled toes, gripping the tub for balance. He's bent over, watching earth tumble from his mouth. Blood blood blood he sees. On his pruney fingers. Thin, leaking out like a bloodied steak. He pushes the worms through the drain, separating them, jamming their bodies through black circles, trying to make them fit. His chest is a map of jagged purple lines, pulsing lightning to match his heart.
What's left of it.
…
Bodies swaying with the road, saying nothing, feeling everything. Clouds of dirt billowed up from behind the tires, driving past fields of fields, growing whatever; Kyle wasn't sure anymore. His head still throbbed. He could swear he was still licking dirt from his teeth.
Sparky wiggled in his lap, spreading more dog hair- he had borrowed Randy's suit; a little too loose and a little too short, it was used to seeing dog hair. Nothing he was wearing was his own. After the shower, he had to take Stan's underwear, his socks, his shoes, his deodorant- an orange scent. Kyle gave the pup a scratch behind the ears. He wished, for a moment, that he could be an animal, unaware of complex emotional pain, not understanding anything. But he looked into Sparky's dopey brown eyes and remembered that animals, maybe even more so that humans, understood death and understood pain without making it complex; just feeling.
Then he wished he was a plant, any plant, rooted and unknowing. But grass knows when it's cut, dandelions get their heads popped off, roses have their thorns sliced, but cacti, he thought, cacti live in the desert alone. Anything that does happen, happens around them and not to them.
He ran his fingers over the heart-shaped stain on the seat between him and Shelley. She hadn't talked much since coming back to the state.
I'm a cactus, he mused, as they pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home. Kenny's truck was already there. As soon as the blonde stepped out, also in a suit too big for him, Sparky sat up and wagged his tail.
All of them filed out of the truck like zombies. Sparky sniffed at Kenny's ankles, his pink leash swaying. Randy and Sharon came around the front of the vehicle, Kenny gestured to them with a sky-blue envelope: A sympathy card.
"Um, this is for you guys. My folks are coming later," he said. Sharon quietly took it from his shaking hands.
"Thanks, buddy," Randy clapped a hand on Kenny's shoulder, "Who did your hair?"
"Oh," he ran a hand over his braids, "Karen, of course."
"You look like Legolas," Shelley peered around the trunk.
"Remember when you kids would play Lord of the Rings all the time," Sharon spoke, her voice trembling a touch, "It seems just like yesterday…" She looked at Kyle, "It seems just like yesterday you were knocking on the front door with a spatula and a scarf tied around your hat, looking for Stanley."
"I remember," Kyle said, looking down at his shoes, "I remember everything."
Kenny glanced at him.
(not everything kyle)
They all shifted a little. Sharon pulled Kyle into a hug, kissed him on the temple, before disappearing with Randy and Shelley.
As they walked away, Kenny took a small step toward Kyle, "Hey-"
"-I wish I was a cactus."
Kenny paused, his mouth slightly open, studying the boy that was looking off to the side, numb.
"Same."
"Are you saying 'same', just to say it?" asked Kyle, still not looking at his friend.
"No, I mean, I get it. To just stand still. No one can touch you. I get it."
Kyle finally looked at him with tired, gray-green eyes.
"And," Kenny added, "as a cactus, you get to get to be some design on a Forever 21 shirt."
Taken off guard, Kyle suddenly laughed. The sound was foreign to him at this point, "Dude, what?"
"I had to take Karen and her friends to the mall the other day and I kinda followed them around, I mean, I did my own thing, but I watched them from a distance because whenever there's a group of pre-teen girls, there's bound to be a group of pre-teen boys, and boys are…" Kenny raised his hands and rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, I know. We were boys once," Kyle half-smiled, then added quietly: "You're gonna be a good dad someday."
Kenny, somewhat taken aback, shook his head, "I have to actually find someone that wants to have a kid with me, then we'll see."
"Yeah, that first step is kinda important."
Sparky paced around them, sniffing the air.
"I don't wanna intrude," Kenny started slowly, "But I can't help but noticed that bruise." He pointed at Kyle's hairline, where the skin was violet.
"Ugh," Kyle pulled at his curls, trying to bring them down over his forehead, "I got into a fight with my dad this morning."
"Are you serious? Dude, that's fucked up."
Kyle remembered when he was so little, he would get excited when his father's lawyer commercials would fill the T.V. screen, his figure replacing the "I" in the middle of two giant white letters: "W" and "N."
"Well, he's an asshole," Kyle stated flatly. Silence rested between them for a minute before Kyle turned to walk inside. Sparky leaned into Kyle's legs and whined, pushing his full weight, blocking him.
"I think he knows," Kenny picked the dog up and cradled him, "It's okay, boy."
They walked toward the red-brick building, the sound of birds and grasshoppers echoing through the empty lot.
Kenny cleared his throat, "You know, if somehow you ever get stranded in a desert, you can stab a cactus. Water will come out."
"...I know."
…
Kyle hadn't been to a funeral in several years, not since Chef, and before that, his grandmother, but he remembered how these things went: people come in, act nice to you, say nice things, say nice things about the person in the box, leave, and move on.
The woman who greeted them in the vestibule stood completely straight, her hands behind her back, eyes aglow under dark eyebrows. As she spoke, and she spoke quickly, Kenny noticed her tongue was split in two like a snake's. She led them to Stan's room. Randy whispered something about never seeing her before, and they've been dealing with a different funeral director for the whole week.
They approached the casket with hesitant, light footsteps. Kyle and Kenny stayed behind while Randy, Sharon, and Shelley got closer. Kyle watched as their shoulders slumped, taking it all in.
"He looks good," Randy finally declared, he turned around and ushered the boys forward, "Come look, come see."
They parted, letting the boys come forward.
Good wasn't the adjective Kyle would have used. It didn't look like Stan anymore. He was doll-like, waxy, with blushing cheeks and slicked back hair, not smiling. The night before, Kyle had looked up the embalming process. He knew Stan was dried out now, filled with chemicals, his jaw wired shut. Someone had to style his hair, put that makeup on him so he wouldn't look so pale. Fixed him up with that damn too skinny tie. The clothes that Stan had died in- the decrepit Adidas, the khaki shorts, the holey tee shirt, were all tied up in a bag and stored in an evidence locker.
Kenny leaned into Kyle. "You know it's not actually him. It's just his body." He wondered if saying it actually mattered. Or he just needed to remind himself.
Kyle leaned down and stroked Stan's cheek, like he was tucking him into bed.
A few guests showed up; the family went to them, leaving Kenny, Kyle, a still-leashed Sparky. And Stan.
"Babe…" he said softly. He wanted to climb in, run his hands through his hair again, rest his head on his chest, close the lid over them, and stay that way forever. Cry for him forever. "I love you." Stan didn't say it back.
Kenny watched Kyle crouch over like a wounded animal, stare at the face of his once best friend. He swallowed, looked down at the floor, and his eyes blurred.
He felt Kyle hug him.
"It's okay, Kenny. It's okay."
"No, I know, I just…" He wiped away tears with the palm of his hand.
"It's okay," Kyle gave Kenny's shoulders a squeeze. He looked down at Stan, with his blank face and painted lips- remembering how his face looked when he said he didn't know if he could marry him. Maybe he was waxy then too. Maybe they both were. "The last thing I said to him was 'don't leave me like this'... I never thought it would be a precursor to-"
"-don't." Kenny said before Kyle could completely unravel and vomit the entire past, "It doesn't matter anymore. Just say what you need to say now. I can go, if you want."
"No, you can stay. I need you to stay, please."
Kenny just nodded. People came in, dressed in suits and floral dresses and sat in chairs, lined the walls, signed the guest book, pushing the ink too deep into the pages. Their hushed whispers grated Kenny's brain.
"Why couldn't you just stay and talk to me, Stan? Why did you ignore all of my calls and texts? God, why?" His voice broke on the last 'why,' "It was supposed to be you and me forever, not you leave me behind before I get a chance to… just… why."
"You know he didn't want to leave you," Kenny said softly.
"But he did."
"Kyle… I-"
"Hey, fellas!" a familiar voice resounded by them. Butters appeared, Father Maxi behind him, clutching a Bible. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"You're fine" Kyle said. He shook his hand, "Thanks for coming."
"Of course," he put a hand on Kyle's arm, "How ya doin'?"
Kyle shrugged, "As good as I can be, I guess… You wanna see him?"
"I do."
They moved aside. Butters held Stan's hand, took a deep breath, "Hey buddy. I know you fought hard. You had to fight hard every day. But we wish you were still here."
Kyle handed Kenny the leash for Sparky, "I need to sit down. I just can't. I can't do this..." He turned away.
"Son?" Father Maxi reached out, touched his shoulder blade.
Kyle paused, murmured into his shoulder, "Yeah?"
"I'm sorry for your loss. If you ever need any counseling, don't hesitate to call me. It doesn't have to be faith-based. We can always just talk man-to-man." There were wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, hair completely grayed now. Crooked glasses. But the same kindness was still there.
"Thank you, Father," Kyle said, as sincerely as he could. He couldn't picture him ever sitting down, spilling his guts to this man, but he appreciated the offer. He left, sat down in one of the rows of chairs.
Maxi turned to Kenny, "You keep an eye on him. I'm worried."
"Worried about what?"
Maxi leaned in close, a sudden gleam of seriousness in his eyes, "Situations like this have a contagion factor. I'm afraid that Kyle might… copy… him."
"Ky…" he glanced at his friend, sitting with his face in his hands. For a second, he saw an image he didn't want to see: Kyle in the casket. His heart tightened. "He would never."
"Just look out for him."
"I plan to."
Father Maxi nodded, took off to talk to the Marsh family. Butters was still watching Stan. "Did Sparky see him yet?"
"Well, no," replied Kenny, looking down at the dog, who was standing at attention.
"You should let him see Stan."
"Yeah, okay."
He picked Sparky up and leaned him toward Stan's face. He tenderly sniffed the air at first. Kenny expected him to start whining once the realization kicked in. Instead, the fur on his back stiffened like a mohawk. He growled, saliva dripping between his teeth. The growl became louder, and people looked up. Butters back away.
"Um, um…"
Sparky barked and trembled, wrestling with Kenny's arms. He nearly dropped the dog, and as soon as his paws hit the carpet, he stopped.
(something the fuck is wrong)
He looked around for the funeral director, that snake woman, but she was gone.
Kyle came running up, "What the fuck was that?"
"I don't know, dude. I don't know."
…
The thing that angered Kyle the most was everyone's complacency with the circumstances, everything from their vague appeasement at the impressionistic art on the walls, to the flowers that people weren't supposed to send, to the picture board- which Kyle admitted turned out beautiful, however, no one dared to spend more than a few seconds around Stan. It's uncomfortable to see the waxy body of a friend in a box. The unfair expectation to make everyone else feel comfortable had been given to him, but he just couldn't do it. Randy and Sharon were better at it. They just extended their parental instincts to everyone there.
The politeness killed Kyle, but he understood that that's just how it is. How funerals always go. Hell, he's been that person before. He just went with it. Became a cactus.
Kenny sensed all of this, but he couldn't blame Kyle for feeling that way didn't try to put it in perspective for him like how he would with Karen. It was an uncomfortable, polite mess, but it would be over with soon. Kenny also noticed that Gerald hadn't shown up, just Sheila and Ike. That seemed to be okay with Kyle. He embraced his brother like he was never going to see him again.
The only person who seemed to be openly disturbed by it was Wendy Testaburger, who had been standing at the back of the room by herself, tightly clutching her purse strap for the last five minutes.
...
This was a different Wendy than the one picked up from the airport. The Wendy from two days ago had a much more deeply intelligent and cultured vibe about her that was intimidating. Eyebrows arched, watching Kyle's every move, every facial twitch, as he drove. She seemed to want to counsel him, speaking softly and slowly to him as they drove on the freeway.
"Are you sure that this is okay? You're comfortable with me being here?" she had asked.
"Of course. You were… important to Stan. You should be here."
She stared at him for a long time. He tried not to let it bother him but soon he became self-conscious and tried to focus on the traffic.
"I'm sorry," she said, finally looking ahead at the road.
"Huh?"
"If I've ever said or done anything to hurt you. I'm sorry."
"You haven't, Wendy," he noticed how pale, purple, and blotchy his hand looked on the black steering wheel. A vein he never saw before was pulsating in his knuckles. "To be honest, the only slightly distressing thing you said to me was that my Human Kite costume wasn't as good as the elf one."
Wendy smiled and shook her head, "I just didn't like it because it covered most of your face."
"That was the goal," Kyle laughed, "And less wind resistance. But really, you've never bothered me. I kind of just saw you as friendly competition."
"For Stan?"
"O-Oh, no. For grades."
"Oh."
"Yeah, no, I didn't realize I liked Stan until after you left, so… yeah," Kyle shrugged as if to say do with that what you will.
"So… if you don't mind my asking, when did it actually happen?"
Kyle sighed, relaxing a little, "he kissed me at my Bar Mitzvah."
"That's really cute," she said.
"And then he hid in the bathroom the rest of the night. I had to keep sneaking challah and hummus for him under the stall door. It was romantic and kind of gross at the same time."
She glanced at the gold band on his finger, "You look so different from when we were kids."
"So do you."
"I mean, you have facial hair and everything. Anytime that I ever thought of you or Stan, or anyone else that I knew here, you're 10. As I got older, I still thought of you as 10."
Kyle threw on a blinker, merged into the left lane to exit. He caught his own eyes in the rearview mirror as he said: "And now Stan's going to be 18 forever."
…
Now she was standing, away from everyone, rigid and pale. Kyle approached her, trying his best to act calm, not be awkward.
"Hi, Wendy."
"Hey, Kyle," she mechanically lifted herself on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.
"Do you want me to hang up your cardigan or anything?"
"No, I'm fine. Is there something I can do for you?"
"No. Just you being here is enough."
With think pink lips, she smiled sadly. Kyle reached out and took her hand, "We found a picture of you and Stan. It's on the board."
He led her up the large, white square, pasted with several photos, most of Stan and his family, and of Stan, Kyle, and Kenny, but there was one of just Stan and Wendy, holding hands during a field trip to Denver.
"This turned out really nice," she said.
"Yeah… Kenny did it," said Kyle. Wendy looked over her shoulder and nodded at Kenny who waved back. Butters waved too, sitting next to him.
She silently put a hand on the board, gazing at the Polaroid of herself and Stan.
"Okay," she said, more to herself than to Kyle, "Okay, okay, okay…"
"Wendy?"
"I'm going to look at him now," again to herself. She slowly turned to the casket.
"I'm here, Wendy," Kyle followed her as she loomed over Stan, carefully studying his face.
The sound, unmistakable, Kyle had heard it before, the panic, the air became jagged. She was hyperventilating, lungs crashing. Then it came: the scream.
…
Kyle sat with Wendy for a long time out in the lobby, her sobbing into his shoulder. He had an arm around her, staring down at the marble floor, then up at the fish tank that hummed in the wall. Soft jazz filtered through the speakers. Elevator music for the dead.
"I'm so sorry," Wendy sniffled. She buried her face into his neck. Feeling her tears soak his shirt made him flinch, but he didn't want to be rude and push her away.
"Don't be sorry."
"I lost control."
"You're only human, Wendy."
Microphone feedback pierced the air. Soft clicking of high heels echoed from the floor. They looked up to see Bebe wringing her hands, staring. "Are you okay, Wendy?"
"I'm fine, thanks," Wendy wiped her eyes with her fingertips.
"I brought some extra mascara with me, if you want… Not that you need to fix it. I'm just saying, if you wanted to."
"Okay," she said quietly, slowly rising off the bench and out of Kyle's arms.
Bebe turned to Kyle, "I can take care of her. You should go back. I think Father Maxi is about to start."
…
Kenny is screaming in the bathroom. He covers his face to muffle it but he can feel the vibrations in his hands, the sound hit him back. He kicks at a urinal.
It's all too much.
It's all too much.
It's all too much.
…
"God our Father,
Your power brings us to birth,
Your providence guides our lives,
and by Your command we return to dust."
Kenny slid into the empty seat next to Kyle, who was staring longingly at Stan.
"Lord, those who die still live in Your presence,
their lives change but do not end.
I pray in hope for the family, and their friends,
and for all the dead known to You alone.
In company with Christ,
Who died and now lives,
may they rejoice in Your Kingdom,
where all our tears are wiped away,
and we are united again as one family.
Amen."
The room murmured a soft amen in return.
After, Sharon came up to speak:
"...No one ever anticipates having to bury their own child. It should have been the other way around. My Stanley was a good boy. He didn't deserve to have his life taken from him like this."
Kyle could barely stand to hear her.
"But I am so thrilled to see so many of you here, all of his friends, our family…"
Then, a few other kids from school, including Clyde: "One time Stan threw those TNT popper things at me when I was on the toilet at school."
Token: "I remember when Stan brought in a skunk from recess because he thought its leg was broken."
Kyle went up. It was expected of him, but once again, he had nothing prepared. He couldn't bring himself to sit at the kitchen table or his desk and actually write about his dead boyfriend in a school notebook and an old pencil. He felt like he was in a movie, watching from another spot in the room as this lanky, tall, pale, shattered man found his way up to the front of the room, looked at his boyfriend's body once more. Kyle looked out and saw his mother and Ike watching him. Sheila had her hand over her heart.
"H-Hi," he moved into the microphone, "I've known Stan, quite literally, my whole life. Every great childhood memory that I have- Stan is there. He was such a presence, just in the way that he could bring joy into any atmosphere, light up every room, just by being himself. I loved him so much. He was so…" he paused. The people in the room started blurring, a lump formed in his throat, but he pushed, "He was so special to me. And this is hard, because when you find someone like that… it's…"
(youre overreacting)
"I am so sorry." Kyle backed away. He couldn't finish. His hand went over his mouth, and the tears came. Kenny rushed up. He put an arm around Kyle, pulling him in tight.
"All of my good memories have Stan in them, too," he said, leaning into the mic. "Um, I wasn't planning on saying anything today, but…" he looked at Kyle, who had his head down, eyebrows furrowed, eyes wet. He gave his arm a gentle squeeze, "That's just how it is sometimes. We always end up doing things we never thought we'd be doing."
Kyle glanced up at him and saw that his eyes were red and raw.
Kenny continued: "Um, actually, there was this one time that Stan joked that he wanted us to sing "Closing Time" by Semisonic at his funeral- do you remember that?"
Kyle nodded apprehensively, "yeah."
"I'm not going to punish everyone by actually singing it," there was some polite laughter, "but there is a lyric that goes every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end, and Father-" he looked at Maxi. "In your prayer, towards the end, you said 'their lives change but do not end.' From listening to everyone speak today, we know that each of us has a memory of Stan, several memories. Little pieces of him that we all hold. And I really think that because of that, he's still here in a way."
He looked at Kyle again. "Stan never left you, Kyle. And he never will," he put a hand over Kyle's heart, "he's still right here."
Kyle, sniffling, did the same, and they stared at each other for a moment before Kyle threw his arms around Kenny's shoulders.
Then Wendy rose, hand-in-hand with Bebe, walked up, and did the same, both of them cradling the boys. Then Butters. Then Heidi. Then Token. Then Clyde. Then Tweek. Then Craig. Then Jimmy. Then Timmy. Then Red. A huddle 17 and 18-year-olds, grief-stricken, holding each other still, like cacti in a hot, hot desert.
…
The sound of engines faded out as everyone drove out into the roads, with their botched mufflers, muddy tires, and bumper stickers that said things like "My Child is An Honor Student." Sheila had a few of those on her car too.
Burning breached his lungs, leaning on Kenny's truck, watching the smoke blow out of his nostrils and into the empty sky; the lot feeling too open but constricting at the same time. It was early afternoon and hot as hell. Kyle thought about Stan's car, sitting empty in the driveway with a broken A/C. In a couple days he would have to accompany Stan's family for the burial, but days were worlds away, and he pushed it out of his mind.
Kenny was digging through his truck, tossing various receipts and bottles into the back, until he found the shrink-wrapped bag with a small brown jacket and red collar.
"You don't have to clean anything out. It's fine," Kyle tapped out ashes, watching them sprinkle onto the concrete.
"No, it's okay," he tucked the coat under his arm carefully so Kyle wouldn't see, "I have to pee. I'll be right back."
"Okay- well, wait."
"What?"
"I just wanted to say thank you," Kyle turned to him slightly, "Thank you for finding words for me when I couldn't. Stan would've loved what you said."
Kenny smiled, "Anytime, Broflovski."
…
River Funeral Home was darker now, only sunlight glowed through the tall windows of the lobby. The air conditioner hummed. Kenny wanted to go back. Go back to when they were boys and summer meant fireworks, barbeques, swimming, the smell of sunscreen, and on some days- boredom. He would give anything to be bored again.
Entering the room again, void of people walking around, chattering, weeping, carved a new sense of loss from him. At the front, Stan's casket was still open, like he was expecting Kenny to come back, opening the front door of his new home in the underworld: Come in dude! We're just in here playing cards with Elvis and Teddy Roosevelt and Emily Dickinson- I'm so happy you could stop by. Could you tell Kyle to stop being sad? He's probably better off without me anyway.
With a heavy sigh, he walked up. Despite the waxy shell, Stan looked peaceful, like he had lived 1,000 lives and was ready to rest. Kenny knew the feeling. At the same, he could see why Sparky hadn't recognized him. He placed a hand on the edge, feeling the smooth, polished oak.
"Hey, dude."
(anytime broflovski)
"I know the last time we talked was very brief. I know that it's my fault we all grew apart. I know how hard you tried to get the band back together… God, I wish you knew that I knew… I never wanted this to happen, never wanted anything bad to happen to you. I just… cut you guys off because I was scared you'd find out about…" He thought of Kyle standing outside, leaning against the truck. He remembered the times he wished it was Kyle in his backseat instead of whoever else ended up back there, "I was just trying to guard my heart, I guess."
Kenny tore open the plastic and pulled out the jacket.
"You put this on me when I fell out of the tree… You just wanted me to have a coat."
He gently laid it over Stan's chest like he had done for Kenny so many years before. There were some rips, bits of thinned fabric from several cycles in the dryer, evenings of splashing in puddles and falling in warm mud.
"I'm sure I'll see you on the other side. Sometime soon."
With his hands in his pockets, he stayed for a little while, just staring.
…
"Are you sure you should be drinking with your head like that?" Kenny asked, pulling a box of PBR from a small fridge in the garage, then closed the door with his foot.
Kyle stood holding a tray of kneaded balls of hamburger, his tie loosened, suit jacket off, "It's not like I have a concussion… again. My head is so hard now."
"You had a hard head even before then," Kenny grinned. "You're pretty fucking resilient."
They started walking back outside into the dry, June heat.
"Regardless though, I don't like beer."
"Oh, what do you like?"
"Anything hard."
"Hard like your head?"
"You got it."
Nearby, the chatter of people, all friends from school, it was like Kenny never dropped out, was around the corner. Out of the confines of the funeral home, people seemed able to fluidly talk about Stan, light-hearted and lovingly. Even Kyle was able to crack a joke or two, though he admitted quietly to Kenny that he was feeling a "little loopy" from the stress and lack of sleep.
"I wish Stan could see how many people came," Kyle said, watching Kenny light the grill, "I wish he could know how many people will miss him."
Pressing the spatula into the beef, Kenny listened for the satisfying hiss. "I have a bottle of vodka with your name on it."
…
dopamine
serotonin
oxytocin
The teacher has just asked them to describe love. Take a few minutes to write and then share with the class. More Shakespeare, The Tempest. The teacher was unconventional, experimental, assigning them a sonnet a week (mostly the gay ones, Kyle noticed) and starting with the later plays and working backward, sometimes sideways. Everyone around him continued writing and he sat with his three words, hands folded in his lap.
Is that really all you wrote, Kyle?
"I can't think of what else to say."
I've read your essays before. I know you have more to say.
…
To take the bones of your mind and lay them out on an Armenian rug, clean them with a toothpick so that there's not a speck of dirt left.
What a waste.
I want your dirt.
-somewhere in one of Stan's notebooks, or in a folder. It doesn't matter. It's in Kyle's room now.
…
Kenny barged into his bedroom, a sloppy Kyle draped over his shoulders, breathing heavily- the combination of alcohol, grief, and heat had overcome him.
Sprawled out on navy blue bed sheets like a sea star, Kyle groaned; pulled the tie over his head and unbuttoned his shirt so that his scar peeked out. Kyle had never laid on just a mattress on the floor before, but he liked it. He liked being closer to the ground. A small trash can was pulled up next to him.
"Just in case," Kenny grinned. "You can sleep it off in here if you want. I'll go sleep on the couch."
Kyle's eyes widened, "No, please don't leave me."
His Cheshire cat smile faded into concern, "I'd just be right in the other room, Kyle. You won't be alone. If I stayed here, where would I even sleep?"
"With me."
"It's… kind of a small bed."
"So?"
"You take up most of the bed."
"I'll move."
Kyle crept closer to the trash can, trying to shrink himself to the side.
"I guess that works," Kenny shrugged. He searched his closet for a new shirt, his current one soaked in grease, sweat, death, some alcohol, not nearly as much as he wanted, but enough. Pulling the shirt over his head, he got a whiff of it all.
"Whoa," he heard Kyle say quietly behind him. He didn't realize he was being watched.
"What?"
"Your tattoo is so cool."
On Kenny's right shoulder blade were yellow, pink, and red snapdragons, bunched together like how they would be in someone's garden. He forgot that he never told Kyle, never told anyone really, except for Karen. It was mostly for her anyway. Snapdragons were her favorite flowers after Kenny showed her some. He demonstrated how, when laterally squeezing them, they looked like dragons opening their mouths.
"Thanks," Kenny reached for a shirt on the closet floor, sniffed it to make sure it was decently clean, "I love snapdragons."
A pause, and Kyle said: "I love daisies."
Kenny smiled to himself before turning to face Kyle.
(good to know)
"So, what, you wanna get a tattoo now, Broflovski?"
Slyly, proudly, Kyle looked at him with half-lidded eyes.
"I have one already."
"You do? Where? I've never seen it."
"It's an orca."
"That doesn't surprise me at all. Where though?"
Kyle started undoing his belt buckle.
"What the fuck, dude, leave your pants on!" Kenny covered his eyes, his cheeks flushed.
"It's okay, Ken, it's on my leg. Well, my thigh."
Kenny peeked out to see that Kyle wasn't lying. His pant leg was pulled down some, boxers pulled up just slightly. The small orca was definitely there.
"Damn," he said, sliding next to Kyle on the mattress. "Who did that for you? It looks like stick and poke."
Kyle pulled his pants back up, "I did."
"Seriously? You just fucking sat there and stabbed yourself?"
"Yup."
"What are you?"
"Honestly, I don't know."
They laid side-by-side, staring up at the off-white, bumpy ceiling before Kenny reached over and turned off the lamp, leaving them in the complete dark.
"I'm getting another one soon," Kenny rested his hands on his stomach, "You can come with me, if you want."
"What are you getting?"
"I actually don't know yet."
(probably daisies)
…
He dreamed again that he was in the dark place, the sounds of wet grass soaked under his socks.
(no shoes why)
He had to know he was dreaming but it all felt too real. He could feel the wetness of the socks, feel the bark of the trees he touched on his fingertips. Bugs crawling through his hair, the chirping of crickets and hoo's of owls.
Wanting a glass jar just to fill it with the scent of the forest, it smelled so pure
(look me in the eyes and say it say it tell me
im not suicidal)
unencumbered by the stench of death and anxiety. It just was.
The sound of twigs snapping in the distance reminded him how cruel the darkness was- and all the things that happened within it, now a part of it, his face like a mask on a dummy, eyeless and mouthless. So thinly stretched.
The snapping came closer and the outline of someone familiar took form.
Slender shoulders he loved to kiss, the legs, torso, long arms, neck, the head with shaggy black hair. He reached out and was suddenly there, holding his face in his hands and running his fingers through that hair, but he couldn't make out the details of his face.
(stan)
They kissed with cold, stiff lips.
(stan come home please im begging you please please)
( )
(stan?)
( )
(answer me!)
His hands moved down to shake his shoulders and then he felt the tug and heard the distinguished sound that only the tightening of a rope could make. Yanked away from him and into the branches up above his head, Kyle only caught a glimpse of the bottom of Stan's foot, twitching.
(NO!)
Kyle's throat was breaking, his screams loud enough to wake up Kenny, wake up the whole neighborhood. Rolling over, all he could see was Kyle's mouth popped open, eyes wide, arms frozen at his side, completely paralyzed. Kenny tried to shake him awake- and immediately retracted. The skin was blazing hot.
Kyle wasn't fully awake. Still in the forest, screaming for Stan, until a force took him as well, strung him up, tightened around his neck. Like a mirror of his own body he saw Stan's limp, swaying in the wind. Windchimes.
In real life, he was choking himself- his hands an iron grip around his neck. Kenny, despite the burning, trying desperately to pry them off. Fingers went deeper, furrowed in the skin under a purple-growing face and watering eyes. The more he pulled, the tighter the grip.
"Kyle! Wake up!"
(please dont this i love you)
"What's going on?" Karen opened the door in polka dot pajamas, her face turning completely white as soon as the image of Kyle strangling himself and her brother crouched over him, yelling, shaking him.
"Karen, OUT!" he bellowed, sending the poor girl backward. "Kyle, please! STOP!"
Every moment of the day before flashed, buzzed in his blood, and all the times he had watched Kyle, listening to him laugh or cry or gripe about whatever was pissing him off that week and he wanted. He wanted more. It couldn't end like this.
(PLEASE KY COME BACK)
From the hallway, Karen bolted with a plastic cup full of ice cold water. She threw it all over Kyle's face.
Immediately, the tightness ceased. Kyle was awake, gasping deeply, his entire body contracting with the forceful intake of oxygen, rolling over onto his elbow and coughing harshly. Kenny held Kyle's wet, cold face in his hands. Karen thought Kyle looked like a startled baby, eyes wide and confused, sputtering, barely able to talk. Even though it was dark, the only light coming from the moon in the window, Karen could see her brother crying.
"Oh my God," he said in a tone she had never heard before. Sincere, vulnerable, "I thought you were going to leave me."
…
A gargoyle on the crest of a building, he watched Kyle vigilantly throughout the night. He slept deeply for seven hours, lost between dreams and nightmares. Once, on a wing of emotion, he ran a hand over Kyle's hair. He felt obsessive, creepy- but he couldn't help himself.
Kyle woke up to Kenny's eyes glued to him, and the loudness of lawn mowers and weed whackers sawing the air. The sounds of summer.
"How are you feeling?" Kenny asked.
The flood of reality was still seeping into him- Stan, his dad, Cartman trying to attack him. Nothing particularly in order, and the glimpses repeated themselves like all these moments and people were put on plastic cards and some kid was flipping them over and over again on the living room floor.
He swallowed. Dryness. "I'm okay. I think."
"You really fucking scared me last night, Broflovski."
"I know, I'm sorry," Kyle sat up stretched, propped himself on his arms, "I should have warned you about the sleep paralysis… and the nightmares. But the sleep paralysis is so rare for me. I just don't bother talking about it."
"How often do you have the nightmares?"
"Almost every night."
"Did they start after…"
"They started long before Stan went missing. He was trying to help me get rid of them."
"I see," Kenny leaped off the mattress. He bent down and patted Kyle's leg. "You probably want coffee." He didn't want Kyle to feel like he had to talk anymore. Words were straining him hoarse.
"Please."
"What about waffles?"
"No, you don't have to make me any food. You gave me too much yesterday."
"It's not that hard for me to slap a gluten disc into a toaster."
Kyle rotated, legs stretched across the floor, he hugged himself, neck still splotchy and green-yellow-violet. Kenny stared at him, his heart tightening again. "Do you always strangle yourself during sleep paralysis?"
"No… that's the thing. Sleep paralysis doesn't usually mean movement. You're just frozen and rigid, like, being dead at the bottom of a lake or something. I don't know. I'm kinda scared… Kenny?"
"Yeah?"
"The funeral's over."
"Yeah, it is."
"Are people just going to expect me to get over it now?"
"Of course not. Everyone wants you to feel better, but it's going to take time."
"A hundred years, Kenny."
"What?"
"A hundred years is all it will take. And then no one will know who Stan is. Millions and millions of years are going to pass, the Earth will keep spinning, dogs will keep barking, time will never, ever stop, but I'll be stuck here forever, in this moment, blaming myself for everything."
"Kyle…"
"How am I supposed to keep living my life? Everything I do now, I'm going to picture Stan with me. But he won't be there." he looked up at Kenny with bloodshot eyes. "What do I do now?"
"Just, one day at a time, Kyle."
"It should have been me in that casket."
A chill went through Kenny like cruel, icy lightning, "No." He looked around his room, the stained carpet and walls, until he found an old, brown leather wallet, and pulled out a card. He leaned down before Kyle, pressing it into his hand. It was a tarot card, infamous for telling people's fortunes by witches and circus carnivores; wrinkly and torn, but the drawing was clear: a young man in a green tunic, arms wide open, the sun beaming behind him and small dog dancing at his boots: The Fool.
"What is this?"
"This is my favorite tarot card. I want you to have it."
"I didn't know you were into that stuff."
"I dabble for fun," Kenny explained, "I don't believe that any of us have real attachments to the universe. We're just a part of it. That's kinda what this card is about. We see a fool, but it's really someone who just has faith in the future, knowing that it's okay if he's inexperienced or even a bit naive. We're always changing- things change, and we just can't predict what will happen.
I know that you'll keep Stan with you, always. There won't be a day that goes by that I won't think of him. But I hope… I really hope that as you heal, you look at things with fresh eyes and an open heart.
I've noticed that you… I can see that you're starting to close off, and it's okay if you want to be alone sometimes or you don't want to speak, but please, don't completely check out on us."
Kenny hugged him, held him there for a few minutes, Kyle squeezed him: "Thank you, Kenny. I love you."
"I… love you too."
In the doorway, Karen watched. She started listening in as soon as Kenny turned his back. Kyle hadn't noticed her either, the two of them were in their own bubble, their own osmosis of intimacy.
Their parents and oldest brother were all waiting at the front door in their Sunday best, Karen fidgeting in her dress and stockings, was told to ask Kenny if he was coming to church. But it was apparent her brother was very busy. She left without saying anything.
…
Kyle was washing his hands in the McCormick bathroom when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The first instinct was to punch it out, but he restrained.
Wendy hadn't sounded impressed by his facial hair, and he could see why, with its thinness and patchiness. What was she doing now? Was she at the Marsh's, sleeping in Stan's bed? Going through his stuff? Their stuff? For the first time, he felt jealous.
His lips were chapped and the whites of eyes were yellow, red-rimmed, his hair scraggly, chaotic. The bruise was blossoming into a darker crescent.
"Why am I so fucking ugly?" he asked his reflection, hands on his cheeks, feeling so incredibly old.
…
Out in the kitchen, his introverted friend was brewing coffee and toasting waffles. Kyle went back into the bedroom to find his phone. Sure enough, there was a text from Sheila, sent several hours ago.
8:38 am- Maternal Unit: You did a wonderful job yesterday, Kyle. I am so proud of you for your strength. It's going to be hard for awhile, but I promise things will get better. Please come home soon so we can sit down and talk like a family again. Your father is sorry. I love you.
"If he was really sorry, he'd tell me himself," Kyle muttered, threw the phone on the mattress with a thump.
Something else thumped at the same time. Something in Kenny's closet. He opened it gently, worried it may have been a toy or some other collectible. Instead, it was a box that had fallen off the top shelf, small books spilled out. He en down and picked one up: Dangers of the Occult.
He thumbed through the weighty pages with narrow suspicion. Why would Kenny care about the occult?
The other books were in the same vernacular vein: The Witches' Handbook ('if your ear itches, someone is talking about you') he instinctively scratched his ear, Daughters of the Moon, Cleansing Rituals- this one had Kenny's handwriting all up in the margins, and was stained by what looked like black tea leaves.
The spines touched his fingertips with the prickling sensation of poison, but it took a backseat to his burning curiosity.
Another one: The Satanic Bible. Strangely enough, it was a paperback edition, just black with a glowing pink pentagram on the cover. Blinking hard, he opened to the very first page, and the phrase that jumped out to him was "the Christian church thrives on hypocrisy, and that man's carnal nature will [come] out!"
Then the last page, a few others stole his attention: "Open the gates of Hell!... Add and diminish until the stars be numbered… Open the mysteries of your creation, and make us partakers of the UNDEFILED WISDOM."
Kyle snapped it shut. In all his years of practicing the Torah, he had never come across something as straightforward and intimidating as that. He dug through the box some more, sickly fascinated by Kenny's secret "research project."
Cloth. He felt cloth. It looked like
(no way)
Kenny's old Mysterion suit that he used when they were just kids, pretending to be superheroes. But it was bigger now, adult-sized.
And it was ripped- a hole in the chest Kyle could fit his fist through.
"What the fuck…"
A glare caught him, reeled him in. At the bottom of the box, next to a silver dagger, was a picture of himself, Stan, and Kenny. He couldn't remember where they were, but they looked very young. Kyle was in the middle, an arm around both of them, smiling.
In the space between him and Stan, he noticed tiny white veins, like the picture had been folded back several times. To recreate it, he folded it too. Stan completely disappeared from the frame. With a frantic heartbeat, he flipped the picture over. In Kenny's handwriting, in blurred, black ink, it said: "Photographs serve memory how memory sees fit."
Kenny's footsteps were rapidly approaching, but Kyle couldn't unfreeze, shove everything back into the box, and pretend he saw none of it. Instead, he yanked the dagger out, and by the time Kenny entered the room, ready to announce they could eat in the kitchen, he had it pointed at him.
"What the fuck did you do?!" he screamed.
Kenny raised his arms, eyes darting between Kyle's wild expression and the glinting blade almost touching his chest, "I haven't done anything."
"Why do you have all this Satanic shit in your closet? Why do you still have your Mysterion suit? Why does it have a fucking hole the size of my goddamn fist? And I'm pretty I saw blood stains too… And why, why," he held up the manipulated photo, "Why is the picture like this? What did you have against Stan?"
"Nothing!
(everything)
I swear!"
"Did you kill him?"
"Kyle, no!"
"Did you kill him and curse me?"
"What?!" he stepped forward, but Kyle didn't move the dagger, "You should put that down."
"I can't. I won't. You might hurt me."
Kenny lowered his arms, stared at the seething Kyle. "I would never, ever, hurt you. I'd do anything for you." That second sentence slipped out of him, he would've thought twice before saying that in any other situation, but it was possible he could get stabbed any moment.
(fine let em stab me)
"Then explain to me, now. What the fuck is all this? Are you in a cult or something?"
Kenny slowly shook his head, "I promise, I'm not. I'm just… still trying to find out where I come from."
"What!"
"If I tell you what's really going on, you have to try not to freak out, um, even more than you are right now."
"Try me."
Kenny closed his eyes for a moment. This was not how he wanted Kyle to find out. Ideally, Kyle would never have to find out at all. But sometimes secrets just can't live. They fester and find their way out during the ugliest of times. With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked at Kyle's tired, dehydrated, lovely face: "I can't die."
The dagger lowered slightly. Kyle's mouth twitched, "you've told us this before."
"I did, but-"
"-it's bullshit. What fuck is wrong with you? You're not some character in a comic book, you're a real person."
"Kyle, I don't want to scare you, but, I've met you before, and you're the most fucking stubborn and pragmatic person in the world. You're not giving me a choice now. I have to do this."
"What the-"
The handle was cool compared to the hotness of the room. Kenny breathed steadily, hyper-focused on Kyle's eyes as he pulled, the blade plunging into his chest. Blood pumped out onto their hands, and they staggered to their knees, falling like unstrung puppets. He pulled it out, felt that familiar metallic taste in his mouth, and threw it across the room. Kyle looked as if all the breath was sucked out of him.
Between raspy breaths, holding the wound, Kenny spoke, his voice rough and austere: "I've been this way as long as I can remember. I've been burned, decapitated, had my guts ripped out, drowned, poisoned, everything," he left out 'strangled' on purpose, "I've tried to tell you before, and you guys always forget-"
"-Kenny this is fucking insane."
"Believe me, I know. But it's the truth. Look."
Gently, he took Kyle's hands off, wiped away as much excess blood as he could, lifted his shirt. The wound was gone. There wasn't even a scar.
"What… what the fuck is this?" Kyle fell back, slowly pushing himself away, "What are you?"
"I'm still Kenny. I told you, I've always been this way," he crawled to Kyle, who was backed up against the wall now. "Please don't be scared of me."
"This isn't real. This isn't real."
"Kyle, this is real. I'm real," he pulled Kyle into a shaky hug, "If you think about it, it makes sense. This isn't the craziest thing to happen around here."
"I just don't understand," Kyle pushed him away, "Okay, maybe you do have some… immortality… traits. But it doesn't explain the picture. Why is Stan folded out like that? And the weird caption on the back?"
Kenny nervously rubbed his palms on his pants, "Kyle, you're smart. I know you have to know at this point. It's not that hard to figure out."
Knots were forming in Kyle's stomach, nausea, "No..."
"Fuck, you're really gonna make me say it, aren't you?"
Dizziness overtook him. "Oh God, no. Not here," Kyle whimpered, his forehead sweating.
"What?"
Kyle's mouth popped open and he retched. Clumps of dirt and trickles of blood streamed down his chin.
(im just like stan now)
Worms danced in his lamp.
…
January 14, 2017
Stan moves through the wind like a black fish, he is blood and music and light, frost on the window, the wing of a crow that will never come back. A heartbeat, ink, wet lips. He crawls back into the car and kisses his angry boyfriend, tasting every part of his mouth like he's never tasted anything as sweet as this before.
(whatever it takes)
He reaches and clamps his hand around the box of Marlboro and tosses it out the window, reverses, sliding on ice, barreling out of the parking lot. In Kyle's lap are patches he has to wear on his arm like birth control.
"I don't want you to suffer anymore. I mean, I don't want you to get sick one day and then your lungs be in some textbook for med students who never even knew you."
For now, they can stop fighting- they can go home and make pasta, watch the dog chase his tail, bang their knees on the coffee table, watch 90s sitcoms until the power goes out, light spiced candles left from Christmas and then make love on the couch, kiss each other where it hurts until the flame takes its last hot breath.
Please Don't Leave by Trevor Something
watch?v=ER9Q5bZy-Xg