The Funnel Of Love

As I go deep into the funnel of love

Kyle barely managed to fall asleep, his mind a storm of fragmented thoughts, each one sharper than the last. His body ached from the tension, his muscles tight from the adrenaline of the night before. He hadn't even realized how much the act of killing had drained him, not physically-no, that came later-but emotionally. The exhaustion didn't come in waves; it hit him all at once, like a crushing weight that was both suffocating and numbing.

He tossed and turned, sweat sticking to his skin, tangled in the sheets. The knife, the blood, the frantic panic that had consumed him-all of it replayed over and over again. Cartman's body on the floor, the blood pooling around him, his screams echoing in Kyle's ears. They were muted now, like a distant memory, but Kyle couldn't escape it. He couldn't forget it. Every time he closed his eyes, Cartman's face was there-frozen in that expression of betrayal and shock. It was enough to make him want to claw at his own skin, to scream, to somehow make it go away.

But it didn't go away.

Kyle's head throbbed with the remnants of sleeplessness, a dull, pulsing ache that wouldn't subside. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand, barely 3 hours of sleep since he'd gotten back home. His heart started to race again, the frantic pace making the air feel thick and heavy, as though the room was closing in on him. He hadn't really rested. His mind was still too consumed, too overwhelmed to allow any peace.

His thoughts felt like they were splintering, each one a jagged edge that dug into his chest. Part of him felt relief-the sickening kind of relief that only came after something so final, so absolute. Cartman was gone. The one person who knew too much, who could have connected the dots, was silenced. It was done. And yet, even in the quiet aftermath, there was no real peace. Just the deep, gnawing emptiness that followed in the wake of something irreversible.

Kyle rubbed his eyes, but it didn't help. He still saw Cartman's bloodied body, still heard his screams bouncing off the walls of his mind. It was all so real. So terrifyingly real. He had done that. He had ended a life. He had taken a life-and now he couldn't escape it.

Every minute that passed felt like a drumbeat in his head. His thoughts spiraled. What would happen if anyone found out? What if someone already suspected? The fear crept in slowly, like a spider weaving its web inside his brain. The need to control, to stay in the shadows, to keep Stan close-it was all consuming now. He couldn't stop it. The obsession had taken root, and it had woven itself so deeply into his mind that it was almost impossible to separate himself from it.

It was almost like an addiction-Stan was his fix, the thing that quieted his mind. But even then, the thought of losing him, of someone else coming between them, made the pressure inside him build until it was unbearable. He'd killed Cartman. But would that be enough to protect what was his? Would it ever be enough?

Kyle rolled over, trying to ignore the overwhelming guilt trying to claw its way to the surface. He'd always prided himself on being a decent person, on doing the right thing. But now, after what he'd done-was he still that person? Or had he already crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed?

The weight of it was crushing him. Every breath felt too shallow, too weak, as if he couldn't quite get enough air. His chest tightened, the panic creeping back in. What if someone noticed? What if they knew? What if they found out what he'd done, and everything he had worked to keep in the dark came crashing down?

Kyle squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the thoughts. But they were there, unrelenting. They wouldn't stop. And the more he tried to push them away, the louder they became.

He tried to push himself out of bed, to get moving, but his body felt like lead. Every movement was sluggish, as though the exhaustion was a physical force weighing him down. His stomach churned, and he suddenly felt nauseous at the thought of what he had done, the blood, the knife. He had to move. He had to do something. But nothing would make the feeling go away.