Kyle's POV

It's one game of musical fuck-chairs after another. I've had the cops at my door a few times, accusing me of turning tricks. That's not my kind of game. I like to fuck, but I don't care about money.

I spent my high school years being team-slut for the basketball team. Nothing has really changed since then except now I don't really leave the house.

Everyone kind of grew apart in high school. Those years are long gone. I'm twenty-six now. I should have my life together. I should be like Stanley Marsh, married to a nice girl living a white-picket-fence lifestyle. I should be the breadwinner of my parents' silent expectations. But no. Instead, I'm a shut-in who works at home and never leaves. I think everyone has forgotten about me apart from the people I fuck. Every night it's one adult sleepover after another. The pricks are always gone in the morning, thankfully. I sleep with a lot of eyesores. I don't want to wake up next to one.

I absentmindedly gather my thoughts as I see another e-mail pop up from my boss. I hate my job. I work for a big-wig phone company at home and while it pays well, it's so monotonous and dreary and there is absolutely no challenge in it.

I also hate the assholes I sleep with. Sometimes I go a long, long time without sex. Other times I can't go a day. Even when I do fuck, it can be alright, if at that. Sex is always better in a relationship... but the idea of a "relationship" is a fucking joke. I can't even begin to remotely like myself, let alone love myself. How the fuck can I ever care for someone else?

Actually, there's only one thing that feels really good physically to me... but it's pretty fucked up.

I stretch my arms out in front of me, hoping to feel more awake. At least, awake enough to get through the day. As I do that, I feel my most recent mark itch. I roll up my left sleeve and scratched it, forceful enough to take care of the itch but careful enough to not peel the scab.

It amazes me how none of the assholes I fuck have said anything about my scars. I mean, maybe they're thinking it, but they don't have the balls to say anything. Of course, fucking in a completely pitch-black room helps, too. But I swear to God, every time I feel that sting after slicing myself, it feels much better than any pounding I've received (or given). It feels like a spiritual, out-of-body experience. It's also the only thing that feels right for someone like me. It's cathartic. When you hurt your body, it works overtime to release endorphins. They calm you down. They relax you. It feels fucking good. Then your body works to heal you. I guess this is your body's way of saying, "I love you." Too bad I can never say it in return, or even express a sentiment remotely similar. I guess this is self-hatred. Bad things feel good and good things feel bad. I tend to avoid anything that might be good for me. I get scared and the potential of someone treating me right is enough to chase me off. Jesus Christ, I sound like a mess. I guess I am a mess. An emotionally stifled mess. This is how I let it out. It comes out with my blood.

I haven't done much dating. I don't know what kind of guy I'd fall for. Probably an asshole I feel like I'd go catatonic if someone told me they loved me. I wouldn't be able to handle hearing that kind of confession.

"I love you."

Actually, it's been a long time since I've heard these words from anyone. Even my parents.

You see, they are always preoccupied with Ike. Despite the fact that he's 21 and his IQ is – and always has been – off the charts, my parents very much baby him. I mean, they basically have to do everything for him.

I was in my senior year of high school the first time Ike smoked pot. It was around midnight on a Tuesday night when he came in late after mom and dad had fallen asleep. I was just dicking around on my laptop with the TV on in the family room, just putting off going to bed. I could smell the weed as soon as he stepped in the house.

"Ike...?" I asked, while he immediately trudged towards the stairs.

"What, Kyle?" he said defensively. I saw how blood-shot his eyes were.

"Have you been smoking?" I asked, concerned.

"Why, are you gonna fucking narc?!" he yelled.

"Shh, mom and dad are asleep!" I said in a loud whisper.

He stood there, waiting for an answer.

I sighed. "No, Ike. I'm not going to narc. Just go to bed."

At first, I didn't really think much of it. I mean, fuck, everyone tries weed at some point in their life, right? But I started to worry when his behavior really started changing. He was withdrawing from his friends, skipping school… and there was one time he went on a road trip out of state by himself and decided not to tell anyone. I still remember how much both my parents cried and the sleepless that we all had. I remember comforting my mom after she came back from the police station to fill out a missing person report.

I also remember the first time Ike tried to commit suicide.

"Hey Ike, mom and dad aren't back yet from synagogue, you wanna play some basket–"

He had borrowed a friend's gun (supposedly for "hunting reasons") and he was standing in the middle of his room at 1:15 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon holding the hunting rifle to his heart. I immediately ran up to him, fought for the rifle and pulled it upward as he pulled the trigger.

Ike shot a hole in his ceiling as I aggressively yanked the rifle from him and threw it across the room. "FUCK YOU, KYLE!" he screamed as he pushed me, tears streaming down his face. "YOU FUCKING RUINED IT!" He continued to scream while breaking out in loud sobs.

I wrapped my arms around his thin frame tightly as we both sunk to the floor, me crying silent tears and Ike's body wracking with each immense sob.

It wasn't long after that day that my parents found all his prescription drugs. He started walking around like a zombie, not thinking or feeling much of anything. It was unsettling to watch. I don't know if it was the drugs making him feel normal or if it was the drugs keeping him that way.

It's funny, in a sad way. I tried so damn hard to protect him when we were kids. I tried to be the older brother keeping the younger brother safe. I guess I didn't do a good job, because something happened to him and now he's completely fucked up. He spent time with an older crowd and I guess that's how he got all the drugs. I don't want to think about what he did to get them. Ike has never had a job. He didn't have much money, either. He still doesn't, yet I have a feeling he's still not sober.

I don't see him much now. I don't see much of anyone these days. I almost prefer it. If I don't see them, then I don't have to think about them. If I don't have to think about them, I can pretend things aren't as bad as they really are. I guess it's immature, but it's all I really can do.

Sometimes I think I should stop and go visit him, but I never do. I can't bring myself to leave my apartment.

I don't stay home all the time out of fear. Rather, I don't leave my apartment because I have no reason to. Besides getting groceries and running basic errands, I just don't see any logical reason to do it. Most of my childhood friends have married up or moved away. Sometimes I check up on Stan, Cartman, and Butters on Facebook, and they all seem to be doing well. Stan is married and has a family with Wendy, Cartman is a linguist for some big-wig German company and is working downtown in Denver, and Butters is an elementary school teacher, but in a nicer suburban town of Denver than South Park. Kenny is the only one who is still here, and he's working as a bartender. Actually, if I DO ever talk to anyone, it will be him. Kenny's tried to get me to hang out repeatedly, but I think lately he's just given up. I always come up with some lame excuse as to why I don't have "time".

The truth is I have more time than I need. So much time that it seems like I'm always "in my head", never concentrating on the task at hand. In fact, it takes me a minute to realize that I just got a text.

I never get texts. I pick up my phone and see that – speak of the devil – it's Kenny. I debate on ignoring him and just going about my day, but I'd probably feel guilty about it later on. He always makes an effort and I never do. So, I open the screen up and read what he has to say.

KENNY: Hey, dude. Have you heard the news?
ME: No.
KENNY: Guess who just croaked?

I frown at that and feel a knot in my stomach. Someone is dead?

ME: Who?
KENNY: Liane Cartman.
ME: How?

I feel kind of sad. When I was young, Liane was always nice to me. She was nice to most people. I think she was too nice and Cartman took advantage of it. I think a lot of people took advantage of it. She had a lot of issues. I guess that's common here in South Park. Shitty little whitebread towns like this are just cesspools of trash for the masses of fucked up people that live in them.

ME: Have you heard from Cartman?
KENNY: No, not yet.
ME: Shit, do you even have his number? I don't.
KENNY: No I don't either. I'm going to message him and see what I can find out.
ME: K. Lmk when you do.
KENNY: Kk.

I breath out heavily and start thinking about him... About Fatass. Last I heard, he climbed up the corporate ladder at he worked his way up, just starting out as a bilingual customer service representative. Just looking at his pictures on Facebook, he seems so happy, so driven. How the hell is he going to deal with losing the only person in his life that ever mattered to him? Who the hell knows? Maybe he won't care. Cartman is like that. He killed his own father, after all. He's not emotionally stable... but I guess I can't really talk because I'm not either. I swear, this town is cursed. Everyone running around here is so unbelievably fucked up.

I set my phone aside and start pacing. I don't want to think about that fat shit, but I can't help but feel bad for him now. I don't know how I'd feel if I lost a family member. It almost happened... Almost. I don't know what I would have done if Ike was successful. I don't know where'd I'd be right now. I know I'd be a hell of a lot more miserable than I already am and I guess that's saying quite a lot.

What will I say to him? "I'm sorry for your loss." That's so generic, so vague. And yet, I can't think of anything better to say to him. Will he be sad? Will he be upset? Knowing Cartman, he'll hide his emotions and act like it's not a big deal. Maybe he'll isolate himself like I have been doing recently, too. Actually, I really don't know Cartman. It has been years since I ran into him... At least 3 years. That's enough time for anyone to change. Maybe working in corporate America has made him more of an asshole, or maybe he actually matured and isn't the same, selfish kid that I knew growing up. Why am I pacing back and forth? Am I actually nervous to see him? I guess I would be if it were Stan or Butters, too. No... That's not true. The truth is, all these years Cartman and I have had a real connection. A weird and fucked-up connection, yes, but it's it has always been a strong connection regardless. In a lot of ways, he has always been smarter and more insightful than Stan, and- especially when I didn't want him to- He always knew what I was thinking or feeling. But I really don't want him to know what I'm thinking or feeling now.

When I first went to college, Ike was in and out of rehab and I was cutting myself every day. Cartman and I both went to South Park University. He graduated in four years, while I took my sweet time, took some semesters off, changed my major, etc. I finally graduated last year.

One day, we were both walking back to the parking deck together when finals had just ended in the beginning of May.

"'Sup, Jew?"

"Hey Fatass."

"What final did you just take?"

"Anthropology. You?"

"Ohh, Calc 2. Pretty sure I aced it," he said, in a cocky tone.

"Whatever," I replied, trying to hurry up and get to my car. I intentionally walked faster, to get ahead of him. I sighed a breath of relief when I found my car.

"Ay! Slow down, Kike!"

I dropped my backpack to the ground and turned around. "What, Cartman?" There was obvious irritation dripping in my tone.

The fatass walked closer, then he stopped about a foot away directly in front of me. "Why are you wearing a fucking sweater, Jew?"

I raised an eyebrow. "What the fuck...?"

"It's 75 degrees today and the sun is out. Come to think of it, I never see you wearing anything with short-sleeves anymore..."

My heart started beating fast and I fished for my keys in my pocket and then walked over to the driver's side. "I get cold a lot," I explained as I hurriedly threw my backpack in the back seat.

Fatass walked up and stood right in front of the back door of my car immediately after I shut it.
"What's really going on, Kahl?" he asked in a plain tone. "You're not the same Jew I used to know."

"I'm fine Cartman, really," I said. I half-assed a reassuring smile (and I could tell by Cartman's facial expression that he wasn't too convinced). "I got a lot of stuff to do… I'll see yah later," and then I got in the car and turned the ignition on.

I suppose it's bad to lie to your friends, but what the fuck was I supposed to say? I've been forced to keep too many family secrets and now I'm keeping my own secrets.

It's funny. Out of all the things I could have gotten addicted to… drugs, alcohol, gambling… I ended up getting addicted to cutting myself. In a way, it's even more fucked up than any other addiction. Maybe I'm addicted to sex, too. Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I feel like I need it, but it's not necessarily because I'm horny. Sometimes it's just so I know I'm here… if that makes any sense. It's like I need someone's hands on me to remind me that I'm a real person. Whether or not they're gentle doesn't matter. It's a sensation. It tells me that I'm alive and all that shit. I guess the blood is proof, too. I'm alive, but I'm not quite living. It's easier this way. I don't want to go outside. I don't want to meet people. I don't want to make new friends. I don't want to grow attached to anyone. All of that only leads to disappointment. I don't care how jaded I sound. People have done nothing but disappoint me. No exceptions. I doubt that will change. I don't know if I even want it to change.

Part of me is comfortable with the mundane and ugly life I have. Blood and fucking. I guess it's all I need.