The transition from hospital to handcuffs was scarily fast. One moment I was looking up at my blood bag, the next I was looking into the bleary eyes of a judge and jurors. My father represented. When I told him everything, just as I have written everything here, he put his face in his hands and sighed.

At first, Clyde's father wanted me convicted for manslaughter. He and his lawyer accused me of kidnapping his son and stealing his car.

I saw Token on the other side of the room at one point, but couldn't speak to him.

Slideshows. One scene from multiple angles. I am not an expert in psychology (obviously), but I believe they wanted to see if I showed any remorse when they showed photos of Clyde's corpse.

The wounds on my body matched the timeline of my story.

"My son is not a fighter. He does not often stick up for himself. He wanted to make his friend happy. These may be his faults, but they are also his strengths. What has happened here, is the plaintiff's son took advantage of Kyle's kindness. He took what Kyle thought was friendship and turned it into a parasitic relationship."

This is what my father said to the jury. I told him before that I hated it. I told him to say something else. He told me, "If you want them to sympathize with you, you have to paint a picture. Sorry, Kyle, this is the narrative we have to go with."

It seemed the general opinion of me was still on the fence until a damning testimonial from Trent Boyett. When he walked in, face bruised to hell and torso wrapped tighter than a mummy, I thought I was fucked.

When I say damning, it was damning to Clyde.

"Clyde is the one who tried to kick my face in," he said. "I have no fucking doubt he'd threaten to kill this asshole too. I mean, look at his fucking face. You think he did that shit to himself? You're all fucking idiots if you do."

When it came to the verdict, I sat next to my father, hands folded on the table. The jurors, a box of strangers who would undoubtedly go home to their families, sit around the kitchen table with beef stew and bread and talk about this case, found me not guilty of involuntary manslaughter. However, there was still grand theft auto, resisting arrest, and destruction of property.

Did no one care that I lost my best friend? Did no one care about the things I saw? The sounds I heard? Every time they flashed those pictures I heard the thunder of bones breaking, metal crushing.

The judge reassured me that my time in Zebulon Pike Youth would have an emphasis on mental health rehabilitation and education. He said, in front of everyone, that he hoped I would take this time to figure out what kind of man I needed to be.

I could hear my mother weeping in the stands.

The first thing Cartman said to me when he was showing me around was "There's literally almost no privacy, so don't even bother trying to get a blowjob. They're fucking hawks over here."

"I'm not interested, thanks," I said, clutching my new, starchy blanket.

"I wasn't offering, you dumb fuck."

"Geeze, sorry."

"Don't say sorry to anyone in here. Sorry won't get you anywhere."

That paramedic said I was lucky to be alive. I didn't feel lucky at all. I wished I was dead.

Cartman told me he was in for burning down his ex-girlfriend's house. Lucky for him, there wasn't anyone inside it. I asked him if he intended to kill her and he said no, he just wanted her to have nothing to come back home to.

He was scheduled to be released before me and it scared the shit out of me. I hadn't made any other friends, really. Most of the other kids I met in there, upon release, knew they'd more than likely be back within a few months to a year. It's a cruel system. We promised each other we'd meet up again as soon as I was out.

I spent six months with a new roommate who liked to yell about pussy in his sleep. Eventually, I was able to turn it out. I would wake him up too sometimes with my nightmares. Even trade.

Most of my days consisted of self-isolation. I read, worked out, went to counseling. The doctor assigned to me never showed any reaction to the explanation of my feelings. He simply let me vent, took notes while I rambled away (which, by the way, took it took a long time to get to that point because I never wanted to speak). I finished "high school" with a 3.9 GPA.

They let me go the next summer with a record of good marks and letters of recommendation. They tried to get in touch with my parents to let them know I was being released a little early but received no answer. I panicked. Yes, I would be 18 by the time they let me go, but if there was no one to pick me up when I got out, what the fuck was I meant to do?

The faculty at the youth center finally came to me and told me I had been disowned, and my next steps needed to be planned carefully, as they were crucial to me not ending up back in there. They asked if I had other family members around. No. Friends? Doubt it.

My mantra was: I'm an adult, I can do this. I'm an adult…

But when I stepped back out into the street for the first time in over a year, I realized how much of a child I still was.

I sat on the sidewalk, knees tucked into my chest, sobbing with my plastic grocery bag of what little I owned: a paperback sci-fi book, my release papers, grades, the letters, loose change I scraped from a fountain, and Cartman's home phone number on a tiny scrap of paper. My clothes were donated and too short for me. My shoes had pink laces.

I walked for about 40 minutes to a brewery and asked a server if they had a payphone I could use, holding my hand over my scar. People on the street stared at me and I was getting self-conscious. One of the patrons asked me what decade I was living in. The server shook her head and offered for me to use a landline in the back office.

When she brought me back there, she gave me a glass of ice water and I'll never forget how after crying and walking all afternoon, how much this kindness meant to me and I wish there was a way I could let her know this now.

I dialed and got a voicemail greeting: "Hello, this is Liane's home. I can't get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I'll get back to you as soon as I'm able!"

Beep.

"Uh, hi. Your mom sounds nice. Sorry, this is Kyle Broflovski. I was, uh, Cartman's, uh, roommate at-"

Cartman picked up, "What the fuck?"

"Cartman?"

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Calling you… because I got released today. I'm at some brewery right now."

"Holy shit, dude, that's… why aren't you at home?"

I looked around the dim office. I was alone, but I could still hear all, all the chatting and music and alcohol on the other, far side of the building. The computer hummed. A puppy calendar fell off a corkboard.

"They disowned me. They're gone."

"What?"

"They're gone," I repeated, having to remind myself too. I was still in shock.

"Fuckers."

"I guess Clyde was right."

Silence. I stared at the calendar on the floor.

"Listen, Kahl. You're out now. Do yourself a favor and forget everything that asshole has ever said to you, capeesh?"

"I…"

"You're lucky you called just now. I'm not even allowed here. My mom isn't home so I snuck in to grab some stuff. Where are you at, specifically?"

"This placed called Cerberus Brewery. It's off of Colorado Avenue and 7th street."

"I'll be there in an hour. Don't go anywhere."

"So yeah, he came and picked me up, and from then on we lived in that car. He looked for apprenticeships. I've worked as a busboy, a roofer, a cashier. Now I'm here."

Craig still held on to my knees (which surprised me). He hadn't said a word the entire time, only listened intently, even when I stammered. He waited. I knew he felt sorry for me and I hated it. He couldn't help it, and maybe I'd feel sorry for me too, but I hated it.

"I don't know what to say."

"That's okay. I just wanted you to know."

He shifted and laid his head back, staring at me. "I'm sorry that all happened to you. It's a miracle, really. Despite everything, you grew into a beautiful person."

"Oh, I don't know about that."

"I've met a lot of incredible people, Kyle. You are easily the kindest, most incredible of all of them."

"You haven't known me that long."

"Does it matter?"

"I don't know." I was doing everything I could to not cry, but a few tears escaped. "I have a hard time accepting positive affirmations, but thank you. In my heart of hearts, I do believe you, but… it's just hard, you know?"

"I do. I understand. But I'm going to keep reminding you."

We sat for a few more minutes in silence. The neighbors were out, splashing in their pool, blasting country music.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he whispered. "I can't even begin to imagine how it feels to lose someone like that."

"Shitty," I said. "But when I remember Clyde, I try to only remember the good things. Everything he did in his last moments… I don't believe it was really him. I'll always remember the guy who just wanted to smoke and hang out. He just wanted to be happy."

He squeezed my thigh. More silence.

Then: "So wait, you really haven't heard from your family since?"

"Not a word."

"You never went back to your house?"

"Oh, I did. They moved. I have no clue where they are now."

"I can't believe they just left you."

"I can."

"It's fucking bullshit."

"Yeah, but I'm over it."

"No, it's fucked up to abandon your own child like that."

When I think about this conversation now, I can't help but wonder if Craig was projecting a little. But we all do that sometimes.

"Babe, I appreciate you getting mad for me, but honestly, it's been so long now that it doesn't bother me much. If I had gone back home, I wouldn't have the family that I have now. You and I may have never met."

"You don't know that. We still could have met."

"I'm only saying. This is why I think things happen in the order they happen."

He just smiled and shook his head. I could sense he was going to go on another life and philosophy rant, so I pulled him in and kissed him before he could start.

We were both a bit wine-drunk, so Craig stayed the night. He used my shower, my bed. He wore my clothes. He asked me about my lake rocks, my animal bones. We watched T.V. and cuddled. He asked me if I liked having my hair played with and I said I didn't know, no one has ever asked. We made out until our mouths and our hands were sore. In the early morning hours, he held onto my back, nuzzling his face into my spine. I rolled over and kissed his neck, holding him close until it was time to begin a new day of promises.