It felt wrong saying goodbye like this. To just hold his cold, white hand and give it a squeeze didn't feel like enough. I mean, it was warm just days ago. I'd rather like to think of it as hours, because if you say three days it can sound like forever, but he was warm 72 hours ago. Blood pulsating through his body like it always had, and as I always thought it would. It was a strong heart, considering what he kept putting it through. I don't think that mine would've been able to cope. But then it stopped. I catch myself thinking about the exact moment it stopped way to often. Was he aware of what was coming? Did he understand that it was the end? It was so sudden and unexpected. I remember my grandmother telling me about how grandpa took it when he had the heart attack that also lead to his grave. They were getting ready to go to their favorite restaurant, all dressed up. She'd asked him to help with her necklace, and he had just fallen back, gripping his chest. He was still conscious when she reached him on the floor,

"What is happening?" he asked.

He was never to speak again. He didn't know death was coming, cause can we really imagine the end when we´re at the ledge? I hope I can't. I feel like staying unaware is a blessing of a sort. Awareness brings pain.

There hasn't been a murder reported in South Park since I think the early 90's, and not to diminish anything but it was a sort of justified case- at least according to me. If I told my parents that I thought the murderess was kind of in the right I don't think they'd be able to look me in the eye again. Not that I make much eye contact with them anyways.. But if your husband beats you and your children on a daily basis and you're a regular at the hospital, eventually you're either going to die or snap. And boy, did she snap. The family couldn't even identify him just by looking at his face cause it was so messed up. They had to check his foot, containing a type of neon sign you see at a shitty motel, but instead of "Vacant Rooms" it said "White Pride", and was hold up by some sort of motorcycle-gang caricature of a bear with an eyepatch. The town mourned him, cause this town sucks. It wouldn't surprise me if the stamp "Sundown-town" is still on the table during Town Hall-meetings. The wife claimed self defense, but landed herself lifetime in prison. At least she got the kids out of that horrible house. If she'd been released maybe they'd try to pin Kennys murder on her. Claim that she was some sort of man eater that went after.. No. Kenny wasn't a racist. They wouldn't pin her for this. He was just a kid. And why the fuck did they pick him? I have a hard time putting myself behind the eyes of a killer but if I WANTED to murder someone in cold blood I'd have gone with one of the oldies. People would be sad of course but not as sad as when an 18-year old boy dies. And this gruesome? No. It's not fair.

His mom told me that the cops had asked for the family to keep a closed casket, but she had refused. I understand her, I mean if I raised a boy for eighteen long fucking years, woke him up each day and wiped his ass(hopefully not in the latter years), made sure he ate those vegetables and loved the hell out of him and then someone decided to do this.. I'd also want the world to know. I'd want them to see. I'd want them to understand the pain and anger that I felt. But I don't feel like people understand anyways. They're keeping their distance.

"How are you, Tweekie?" she asked, clearly trying to fight off tears. I wasn't crying. Should I be? I think I'm sad. Maybe angry? No. I honestly don't know. These last few days has been nothing but a haze, a dream that's slithering through my gripped fingers and out into reality. It's becoming reality.

"I'm... fine." Once again that awkwardness that I loathe comes out. I can't find my body and mind being connected at all times. Of course she doesn't want to hear that I'm fine and I shouldn't be for christs sake, my best fucking friend got murdered. Not just murdered, he was slaughtered. "Or, uh, I'm getting by, y'know." I keep my eyes fixated on the floor.

"That's good hun. He'd be glad to see the turn up, I'm sure." She starts to sob. Oh, God let me not be in this situation. I can't console his mother, I don't even know if I'm here right now, everything feels surreal and out of place. "Even though a lot of people left that final year.. I just know.." Tears was starting to drip on to the floor at this point. She didn't try to wipe them off, guess there wasn't much point to it. They'd just be replaced with new ones in a matter of seconds.

"I just know how much people loved him. Even though it was rough for him that last year."

She's right. People did love Kenny. At least they loved who he was before he found meth. I loved him after too, but I must admit that it became more difficult.

"He was loved, Carol. He is." I tried to smile but God knows what it looked like. Crooked, forceful and completely apprehensive I can imagine. She didn't smile back.

It's about now I discover that I'm still squeezing Kennys lifeless hand. I let go quicker of that hand than if I'd gotten an electric chock. This was a horrible goodbye. I'm still facing the floor, cause there aren't much other pleasant choices to choose from. I could look his devastated mom in the eye and feel the guilt of not going out with him that night. If we'd have been two, maybe the monster wouldn't have gotten him. Maybe it'd be scared cause it'd be outnumbered. Or maybe It would've gotten both of us. Maybe today would have been a double funeral. I wonder if people would show up for me. I wonder if they'd cry like Kennys mom was crying for him now. But I don' think so. People "like" me more than they ever liked Kenny, but it's that is because my family is "more respected" in this community, and that seem to be all that people care about. Appearances. I swear, police would've been all over this case if someone like Clyde got murdered this way. Now they're calling it "A drug deal gone wrong", the leading theory being that Kenny didn't have enough money for his meth dealer and had to suffer the consequences. Another one for the books, right? They didn't even look twice at it. He was poor and an addict, so there isn't much more to the story. It made the headlines cause of the gruesomeness of the crime, not cause of the person. It feels incredibly disrespectful towards his entire family, but they couldn't care less about that either. His mom mentioned that the journalists hadn't even asked them for an interview, but had gone straight to the closest neighbours for a statement. Newspapers don't care for poor people, or the relatives of the victims. They want to find people who heard the screams, who saw the crime scene. That can give the gory details. I'm truly happy I never saw it. I've seen photos that's been edited enough for the common eye to be seen in an article. I read every single bit of what they said. It felt like an obligation somehow, cause I'm his friend. I have to know his suffering, otherwise I'm simply turning my head away from all that's left of him. And I can see him now. They patched him up as well as they could, I guess, but it's still not a sight for the sore eye.

His eye sockets are completely empty. Not that they left the lids open, they're closed. And I probably wouldn't think about the fact that they were sogging in a little, showing that they're not there, if I hadn't read in the article that both his eyes were found in his rectum. They've had to stitch up his right cheek so that the entire thing isn't just hanging from his face. The killer cut him from the right side of his mouth all the way to the ear and then ripped the flesh. Ripped. Right off his face. I get sick thinking of it. Doctors say he was still alive during, and I can't imagine the pain and panic he must've felt. I pray that the eyes were plucked out after death.

They shaved his head when they examined the headwounds. It wasn't much compared to the rest, but just a few strikes with what they think is a baton. They still haven't found the murder weapon, but ruled the cause of death as blunt force trauma to the head. I honestly think he would've laughed if I told him about his murder. The obscenities was like taken out of a Stephen King-book. He wouldn't have believed that I was telling the truth, that it was all some made up fiction, cause "who is sick enough to do shit like that". I can still hear his voice laughing. It's like his voice has taken over my own thinking. A voice that won't be heard loud again. Maybe it's good that he stays in my head, that way he's always with me.

The guy who found him was out for a morning jog when he noticed his jogging shoes leaving a red footprint after them. He'd looked down and found a thick, gooey stream of blood coming from up the hill. I wonder why he didn't call the cops right away, I believe I would've. But maybe people don't always expect the worse. Maybe he thought it was a deer that had been hit by a car.

He found Kennys body positioned on top of a stone. His stomach split open in the middle, exposing his guts and intestines. The small intestine had been pulled out of him and wrapped around the rock diagonally and vertically, like a birthday present. The end of his intestines meeting the start of them. His head had been tilted to the left, leaving the right side of his face literally hanging. Both of his arms had been cut off below the elbow and positioned into holes in the ground to look like the dead was coming for him. His fingers were reaching for the skin hanging down from his right cheek, the newspaper had said. The middle toes had been cut off and placed inside his mouth where some of his teeth were missing. I don't know if they had put them in the holes the meth left him or if the killer created new ones. The left side of his face had been pulled up into a smile, with a needle stuck in to it to keep him smiling for the person who'd find him. I'm just glad it wasn't me.

I pull myself away from the casket, leaving Kennys mother alone with her family. She's still crying as if she'd never done anything else. McCormick's father nod at me and I spastically nod back. I think it looked more like a twitch. Even if I probably was the closest friend Kenny had, I never told him that I considered him my best friend to his face. And now I never will be able to. I hope his family knows the love and appreciation I felt for him. The shame of not being able to stay in this place slowly tingles down my spine as I turn around to walk out of the chapel. The memorial ceremony hadn't been touching at all. There just wasn't anything personal to say from the priests side, just "Oh, to loose such a young soul"-gibberish. Caren had asked if I wanted to speak but I know how horrendous that would've been considering that my stutter starts coming back during pressure. I've worked on it for as long as I can remember, in my mind even before learning to properly speak. Most if the time talking flies by easily nowadays. It's when I don't have the time to speak slowly that the stutters come back, ironically making me take even longer to get the words out. I hate being put on the spot for anything. If I don't have the time to prepare myself and take my time my tongue won't cooperate. And the last thing I'd want to do at a funeral in front of people who barely knew Kenny anymore is to dishonor him by not being able to get his name out. Fucktard. Did he have to die? I'd love to tell him that Bebe showed up to his funeral after all those years of him trying to put in all sorts of moves on her. My favorite time would be right after last years graduation, when the two of us had been ridiculously drunk. He'd gotten one of those typical Kenny-ideas that were way over the top and out there. We were going to put up a play, a play showing Kennys undying love for Bebe. I got to play the part of Kenny, weirdly enough. We'd gone into his little sisters room and gotten one of her blonde and curly wigs that we'd put on him together with an attempt at eyeliner that more or less looked like his dad had his ways with him. I think we practiced for a good two hours and went through an entire bottle of gin before we were on our way over to Bebes. When her mom opened the door at 2 o'clock in the morning to two drunkos yelling out "Bebe... com duwnstaaaaairs... we got a show for uuuu.." she had slammed it as quick as the liquor had ran down our throats earlier. Bebe never got to see the show.

As I was exiting the chapel I decided to look at the people that actually had shown. Caren mentioned that a lot of people were here and I guess she was right. Outside I could see at least half of the people we graduated with last year, if not more. A few of the parents and grownups had come to pay their respect as well, including Mr. Garrison that unfortunately was making his way over to me.

"Hey, Tweek. I was chocked to hear what happened.. insane that someone could do something like this."

He didn't sound sorry, I have to say. But did he ever? With the sarcastic way he held himself I don't think I've ever been able to take a word that man says seriously.

"Yeah.." I started, but he interrupted.

"Now I know that the newspapers said it was a drug related crime 'n all but what do YOU think Tweek?" He looked at me as if I was sitting on some serious gossip, not as if he was asking the victim of a murder's friend if he thought someone he knew had done it. "I just read in New York Times that when murders are as brutal as this, the victim usually knows their killer." Oh God can he shut up? Why is he telling me this, I really don't want to think more of this than what I already put myself through. "And y'know... it was so gruesome... the eyes and all, I mean it MUST'VE been a crime of passion.." Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up. "And I know you were close n all.. Not that YOU would have anything to do with it but y'know.. It was the work of a man.. What I'm getting at is.."

"W-WHAT."

I must've shouted cause half of the crowd started facing me and Mr. Garrison's direction. Whispering. Staring. I hate crowds.

"Tweek, no need to raise your voice.. I was just asking if he was gay."

And that's enough. That's more than enough. How does one say such things to someone that's in the pain I'm in. I feel my fist tighten, ready to punch out as many teeth from Mr. Garrison as Kenny had been missing. The audacity of this disgusting piece of what he'd like to consider human has the guts to ask me if my slaughtered best friend was gay. Because that's what matters in this situation. That's why he was killed, abso- fucking lutely. I will slaughter him myself. I will bring doom upon his world, his face will know the taste of dirt befor-

I feel a warm hand embrace my clenched fist. It strokes it gently with it's thumb and my grip loosens. Maybe Mr. Garrison shouldn't know how being buried alive feels like today. Maybe I overreacted. I turn around to see who interrupted my fantasy of killing my former teacher and frown my face in confusion as I do.

"Maybe you should leave Tweek alone. It's Kennys funeral, Mr. Garrison, you could pick a better time to terrorize his loved ones." Craigs voice is firm but calm. I don't remember the last time I heard him speak, it must have been at least a year before graduation. Craig always was the silent type, not making much fuzz of anything. It can be nice sometimes, but the last time I tried to speak with him he was silent for the entirety of the conversation, and when people don't say shit I start rambling nonsense. I can't stand being purposely uncomfortable, since I feel like I already am uncomfortable enough just being myself. If I'm uncomfortable with the person I am, how would I handle a situation where it's affecting another person? Simple answer is that I don't. I start rambling and as time passes make both myself and the other person more uncomfortable. Neat spiral, huh? But by just looking at Craig I wouldn't assume he's confident. He dresses the same he always has, just removed that dumb hat. The dark blue hoodie he has on covers his physique, and the only thing I can guess is that he isn't fat. He's just tall. Just Craig. But when someone is comfortable enough in the uncomfortable situation they've created by not speaking, I always assume that they're comfortable with themselves. How the hell else do they stay silent? I've found myself envying Craig Tucker at multiple occasions just on the pure fact that he doesn't care. He doesn't care what the teachers think of him, his parents, his mutuals, God. That's why I feel tense right now, him interfering with Mr. Garrison, it feels odd. Or maybe it's the first time I'm seeing him empathic. Maybe that's why he's so appreciated around town. I never hear anything bad about him, except that he's a silent type. He has a lot of friends, a steady job and seem to be doing alright by himself. Maybe I'm the asshole for assuming shit all the time.

"Uh-uh, sorry Tweek. Didn't mean to step on any toes or whatever." Mr. Garrison didn't look sorry at all, but he turned around and got out of my face.

And before I had time to thank him, so did Craig.