A/N: Wheww I'm on a roll here with this story. Hopefully this will be finished within the next two chapters. Thanks for your comments and reviews, it's very encouraging I guess LOL.


My walk is long.

You're not supposed to leave the scene of the crime.

I pass Kenny's house. I pass Stan's house. I pass Cartman's house. I pass my own, backtrack, and enter. My younger brother greets my by the door.

Tell someone right away if you can.

I ghost by him without a reply.

I run the water for a shower, standing naked in the centre of my bathroom as it heats, misting over the mirror. My reflection is a grainy blur. I pick a leaf out of my hair and step under the water flow; I don't look at what I know are going to be bloodstained boxers and jeans.

You're not supposed to clean yourself up.

I kneel in the shower. I'm at my limit for standing. Adrenaline is what took me stiffly home. I curl my fingers against the slip mat at the bottom of the tub, taking a shaky breath. The pain in my lower back is a constant. It strains my head, my body.

You're not supposed to clean yourself up, so that they can check for DNA - check for evidence.

I don't need evidence. I have my evidence. I don't need DNA - I know who did this to me.

I know the person who did this to me.

I know him.

He's been my classmate since pre-K.

I trusted him.

I stand with effort. I lean into the corner of the shower, pressing my face into the ninety degree angle where tile meets tile, and I don't move there for a long time. My mom knocks through the door for supper. The water's starting to run cold. I turn it off, and return to my place in the middle of the bathroom.

I still feel filthy.

I skip dinner, skip my homework, skip watching television with my brother at nine, skip asking my dad how his day at work was, skip calling Stan. I skip heading to Kenny's to hang out and I skip every evening activity I consider normal except showering. When the water heats up, I do it again.

And again.

And again.

I do my laundry twice. I ignore all my phone calls.

Go to the hospital right away.

I ignore my family.

Tell the police everything that happened.

I ignore my friends. I fall asleep in the bathroom against the wall by the sink with a book in my hand and the door locked, because the bathroom has no windows.

He watches me sleep.


Go away.

"KYLE! Open up! Come on, stop playing camp out! I have to pee!"

I latch the door and Ike jogs in sporting socks and boxers. A sick feeling rises in my stomach and I stare at the wall, while he stares at me. I know he's waiting for me to leave, but I don't want to go to my bedroom.

He knows what radio station I play in bed, because he watches me sleep.

"Kyle...? Are... are you okay?"

I raise my eyes to Ike's, having completely forgotten my earlier tangent. I nod and step into the hall. I feel agoraphobic. There's dry nerves in my mouth. I want to tell him - I want to tell someone. Anyone. But my lips are sealed; I can't bring myself to speak about it. I'm trying extremely hard to forget it generally.

Ike's head peeks around the corner of the door and he looks up at me and takes my hand, which I shirk away instinctively. He takes it a second time with his grip tighter and starts to lead me away down the hall to the stairs. We travel down them and he guides me to the kitchen. I don't sit with him at the table, and he gives me a funny look.

"Kyle, what the hell happened to you? Are you doing drugs? You can tell me, I promise I won't tell mom."

Not even his childish humor puts a smile on his face. He looks frightened, and I can't blame him. I'd be frightened too, seeing someone act like this. I'd know something was wrong right away, as Ike does.

I sit slowly; there's a shock and ache through my body and I take my mind off of the pain by digging my nails into my knees instead, which is more tolerable. Clenching my teeth, Ike stands in order to get me a glass of water.

"Did you take your insulin?"

I stare up at him and shake my head. He sets it infront of me, and I shakily get to it. He watches me, but I try not to pay attention to it.

"... So are you going to tell me what happened or not?"

"It's nothing. I got into a fight."

"A fight."


"With who?"

I bite my lip; it's still red and puffy from Craig's teeth. A wave of nausea hits me and I lean over the table, setting my insulin pen down and trying to regain my composure. I can feel the burn of his worried stare.

"Um... I'm not sure. Some freshman."

"You're a terrible liar, you know."

I don't meet his gaze.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Ike's shoulders slump and he returns to his place on the opposite side of the table. "Is it embarrassing?"

I sink my face into my palms, staring between the slivers of vision between my fingers at the table. Humiliating. Try humiliating.

"Yeah," I say, a crackle to my voice. Ike's confusion is almost as good as an aroma. I shake my head. "Stop asking about it, okay? I'm serious. I'm fine."

I don't feel bad about his disheartened expression. I know he's trying to help, but it's none of his business; it's no one's business. I put on a mask of relaxation. I lift my arms. "Come here. It's cool."

He's easily reassured, and crosses around the table, lacing his arms around me. I take a sharp breath over his shoulder, trying hard not to recoil from him. I know I'm hugging my little brother, but I can feel those hands on me. I can feel nails marring my skin under my clothing, and the rawness of my own book bag's strap on my wrists. I feel the dirt and sticks and leaves and stones pressing into my back through my t-shirt and feel that mouth over mine. I hold my brother; I hold my breath, and he lets go.

My smile doesn't waver as he jogs up the stairs with a goodnight following him, and I stare back down at my medicine and my glass of water. I do what I need to with both.

The inside of my stomach scrapes from its starvation, and I raid the refrigerator, pulling out no more than an apple to satisfy the cramp of my insides. My legs are weak and my head is tired. I enter the livingroom and click on the television, laying on my side and trying to get comfortable. Everything is comfortable now. Comfortable, but boring.


My half lidded eyes dance with my half-awake dreams as the telemarketers throw their midnight pitches, and my mouth hangs open a bit. I feel all this but I don't really think about it as sleep creeps its tendrils around me temptingly.

"You're so pretty Kyle, like... it's unbelievable. You're really beautiful. Like, when you were sleeping, honestly... I could watch you forever."

His hands glide over my ass and I know what's going to happen. It all makes sense and I start to sob.

"Since... since we're here, I guess I should tell you..."

He trifles through my things, sitting on my back. There is gray space in my memory.

"I do smell your hair every day. And - and only knew you liked that radio station b-because I know you play it while you sleep sometimes."

More grey space.

"I watch you all the time, because... well, I really like you, and I've liked you since forever. You're collected and shit and - and you're the kind of person I've wanted, because, well, I like things boring..."


I sit up, wide awake, at full attention. I watch Ellen Degeneres as she dances on stage during her rerun without actually seeing her, and dampen my lips as I slide my hand over my stomach, moving downward.

"I really, really - I just want you to know that I don't want to hurt you. I'm not a freak. I mean - I mean, I am but... really. I don't want to hurt you. So please just try to be calm..."

This is so wrong. Grey space.

"I swear. I'm not going to hurt you."

Grey space, grey space, grey space.

"I love you. I love you."

I feel the white fluid from my own body stick between my fingers, staring at the silhouette of my hand against the screen of the TV, and begin to cry.