The Funnel Of Love

My head is spinning around and around.

Kyle lay in bed, the familiar warmth of his blankets surrounding him, but the comfort was fleeting. His thoughts, relentless and dark, refused to quiet. His mind was consumed by Cartman—his laugh, his smug attitude, his insufferable confidence. Cartman was the one who knew too much. Cartman was the obstacle standing between him and Stan. And Kyle couldn’t stand the thought of him.

The scar on his arm burned, itching beneath his sleeve as if it had a life of its own, demanding attention. It was a mark of possession. A claim. But Cartman—Cartman had to go. He knew things. He was a loose thread in the tightly woven fabric of Kyle’s plans.

No matter how hard Kyle tried, his thoughts kept circling back to Cartman. The way he had seen Kyle’s notes, the way Cartman didn’t hesitate to get under his skin with every comment. Cartman had to die. There was no other way. No other choice.

With a frustrated sigh, Kyle shoved the blankets off his body, his legs shaking slightly as he swung them over the side of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his breath. He couldn’t sleep like this—not when his mind was so full of rage, of obsession, of the thought of Cartman’s face bleeding.

He knew what he had to do. He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t let Cartman live another day with the knowledge he had.

The house was quiet, the only sound was the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as Kyle slowly stood up. He glanced at the clock—past midnight, the perfect time. His parents would be asleep, Ike would be in his room doing whatever it was Ike did, and no one would be awake to question him. It was his moment, his chance to finally do what needed to be done.

He grabbed the knife from under his bed, the cold steel cold against his palm. It felt right in his hand, the weight of it comforting. His heart beat faster with each step he took as he crept down the hallway, carefully avoiding the loose floorboard that always creaked in the middle of the hall.

He made his way to the front door, glancing over his shoulder one last time to make sure no one was stirring. The house was silent. Kyle didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his jacket and slipped out into the night, the cool air biting at his skin as he stepped onto the porch.

Cartman’s house wasn’t far. Kyle knew the way by heart, having walked past it countless times, his blood boiling every time he saw Cartman laughing or strutting around like he owned the world. Tonight, Kyle wasn’t going to let him keep it. Tonight, Kyle would own it.

The knife felt heavier now as he gripped it tighter, his mind racing with the image of Cartman’s face. He could already see the blood, already hear the sickening sound of Cartman’s protests as Kyle silenced him for good. He was in control now. He could feel it in his bones.

As he crept through the dark streets, Kyle’s breath came in shallow bursts, the adrenaline fueling him, pushing him forward. He felt alive in a way he hadn’t before, a dangerous kind of alive that made his heart race and his body shake with anticipation. Cartman’s house was just up ahead. He could see the soft glow of a light coming from one of the windows. Kyle’s footsteps quickened, matching the erratic pace of his heartbeat.

He stood there for a moment, just a few feet from Cartman’s front door, and stared at it. His hand tightened around the knife’s handle, the blade gleaming in the dim light. His thoughts were scattered, a mix of rage and obsession as he imagined what it would feel like. What it would sound like.

And then, without another thought, Kyle moved forward, slipping through the shadows like a ghost, his body a tight coil of tension ready to spring. He reached the front porch, crouching low to the ground, his breath coming in shaky bursts. He raised the knife, feeling the rush of power surging through him. This was it. This was the moment. He would be free of Cartman’s taunting, free of his smirk. He would finally have Stan, and no one would stand in his way.