To Young Mr. Stanley Marsh
September 19, 1878
Mr. Marsh, I can gather that my sudden curiosity about you and your affairs seems surprising and out of place. If it's of any consolation, I share your bewilderment; I had not intended to write to you soon either. But there is a matter of the utmost delicacy that compels me to slip into your mail, begging to be read and understood as the concerned mother that I am.
First of all, lest you think I have no interest in you, I would like to congratulate you on your recent engagement. Your mother, a dear friend of mine as you well know, told me over tea that you will be marrying young Wendy Testaburger in a year. She is most delighted. Not even my concerns about the long wait for the ceremony could pierce her immaculate state of mind. She is constantly smiling. I am sure that this same joy, so characteristic of us women, is also reflected in your future wife. I even have a bold sense that you share this feeling. I can vividly imagine it. I hope you are very happy together, and that you can share the fortune of the future with the new members who are to come into your humble family.
Now, the reason I decided to write to you, young Marsh, is because of a worry that keeps me awake at night. As you know, my son, and your good friend since you shared Mongolian spots, Kyle Broflovski, went to study medicine on the West Coast three years ago, and he hasn't returned since. At first, he used to write to us almost every day, which filled my husband, his brother, and me with joy. But we haven't heard from him in five months, and that fills me with anguish. Just thinking about the circumstances he must be in to not even be able to write a letter announcing his existence makes my face turn pale. Oh, good heavens, just thinking about it! Gerald thinks I'm overreacting. Do you think I am, Stanley? Do you think I'm crazy? Don't answer that. I don't want your correspondence. Just come to the house, and simply confirming that you will see him will suffice. Please, Stanley. I need to know what has become of my boy.
One or two drops have dampened the paper. What a mess! I hope you can forgive my humiliating display and empathize with my agonizing grief.
I will await your reply.
Sincerely, S. Broflovski.
To Mrs. Sheila Broflovski.
September 21, 1878
First and foremost, I would like to apologize for not being able to visit you at your home. Between my mother and Wendy with the wedding arrangements… and my father with Mr. Testaburger's business… It has been a busy few days for me. But now I can sit down and write you a letter to, at the very least, let you know that I will accept your request. Kyle has always been a good friend of mine, and since his departure, I have done nothing but worry about his well-being. If this is how we friends feel, I can only imagine how you, his mother, must feel! Oh, I can't even imagine it. I don't think I could willingly bring that level of distress upon myself.
I discussed things with Wendy's family and mine, and they've all agreed to let me go find Kyle and bring him home. Give him a break. The poor boy is surely so absorbed in his studies that he doesn't even remember who we are, or what we mean to him! Can you imagine? Oh, but wouldn't that be a tragedy? Forgetting… doubting… mistrusting. Truly heartbreaking coming from someone so dear to all of us around him.
I've packed my things and I'm leaving for New York today. I'll keep your family in my thoughts.
S. Marsh
To young Mr. Stanley Marsh
September 30, 1878
Oh, young Stan, you have no idea how happy I am! I can't even find the will to write anything other than my expression of joy.
Take good care, young man, and remember to take only what you need. I hope you are safe and sound and ready to return our hugs here at home. This family will be mentioning you in their daily prayers. We trust that you will be able to bring my son home safely.
Sincerely, S. Broflovski.
Stan no longer knew where to go. Where to walk or where to look. It seemed as if that was the only thing that existed in the world. As if the limits of the earth rested on the forest and the beach.
He didn't find Kyle at university.
He asked hundreds of people. His classmates, his professors, people in town… until he reached a small island off the coast of New Jersey. At the edge of the world. Where there seemed to be only a dock, a house, and a lighthouse on the other side of the beach. Stanley had paid a boatman, and he hurriedly asked him to take him to that island as soon as he saw Kyle, from his place on the boat, fall face-first onto the sand after tripping on the beach.
The boatman left him on the shore, and Stanley ran to confirm his hunch. Kyle's hair was bleached, his cheeks hollowed, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He smelled of vomit, bourbon, and the sea. Stan's first impulse was to take him to the boat and go home, but the boatman had already left. He shouldn't have paid him so soon.
Seeing Kyle's face was… an otherworldly experience. His eyes remained closed, and his breath escaped his lips and nostrils in small puffs, but holding him in his arms sent a tingle through Stan's skin. He hadn't seen his friend for three years, and Kyle had lost the last vestiges of adolescence. He was taller, more serious, and a small, unkempt beard framed his chin. That first day, Stan dragged him across the sand toward his house and tried to wake him with water in a bowl. He prepared some food for him using the fish he kept salted in a wooden box and a cup of rosemary tea. Stan waited all day for Kyle to wake up. He barely rested. But Kyle didn't open his eyes.
He was still breathing, so he couldn't be dead. Perhaps it was just the exhaustion. Stan knew nothing about what his dear friend was going through.
Friend… A rather inappropriate way to describe their relationship. Acquaintances, perhaps. People who had once been something.
Stan had spent the first two days of his arrival exploring his surroundings with meticulous scrutiny. First, the interior of the house. It looked as though it had been built about a hundred years ago, and the wood was badly damaged by time and damp. There was a layer of green paint on the porch that crumbled into depressing, unpleasant shades of copper brown over the weathered wood. The interior wasn't painted. There was a small kitchen, a bedroom, and several closets. One had a shelf with damp newspapers—courtesy of his friend, he assumed—a few articles of clothing, and some odds and ends he must have brought with him from college: a rusty scalpel, a thick surgical needle, and a roll of gauze stained with blood and dirt. The house smelled strongly of mildew. Dampness, like everything else, confinement, dirty clothes, and decay. And alcohol. Lots of alcohol. He'd seen an unparalleled number of bourbon bottles in one of the closets. Too much alcohol.
Stan had been a heavy drinker in the past. Kyle wasn't the biggest fan of the habit. Apparently, over time, he'd changed his mind. And Stan was afraid of falling back into it.
It didn't matter how many times he paced the house. How many letters he'd written to his mother or his fiancée just to keep his sanity intact. How many walks he'd taken along the beach. How many times he'd stared at the lighthouse whose light, at night, seemed to avoid the house almost intentionally—Stanley walked toward the hill on which it stood, wondering if the wickie could help him. There was no one there but seaweed, barnacles, and sand crabs. And he didn't understand who operated the light at night or why it avoided the house in particular.
It didn't matter how many times he circled the shed, swarming with flies and bugs, courtesy of the nauseating smell that surrounded it, and he couldn't open the door…
He had no reason to be there. He was the last person who should be looking after Kyle Broflovski.
So, with his fingers buried in the sand, letting the water wash over them and the strong coastal breeze stir his hair, Stanley sat down to reflect on his relationship with Kyle.
They had been good friends in the past, that much was clear to anyone who knew them. Inseparable, really. An extension of each other. Wherever Stan was, Kyle would be right there. And if Kyle wasn't around, he'd be the first one questioned. Like in that case.
They drifted apart when Kyle moved to New York to start medical school. There was a fight before he left. A nasty fight that ended their friendship. Three years later, Stan realized he'd been truly stupid. It was his fault, after all. A childish impulse. But he was hurt by his friend's departure. And there was a touch of envy in him, since he didn't have the same opportunities.
Both he and Kyle came from working-class families. Kyle worked incredibly hard to get into college with the help of a teacher who was eager to see his mind work beyond the confines of high school. Stan saw himself working on his father's farm in a few years, were it not for the opportunity that arose to marry Wendy Testaburger and her merchant family. It was sudden, really, and more due to Wendy's will than his own, however unorthodox it might have been. In any case, Stanley couldn't imagine himself marrying any other woman. And his family was happy, so he would be too. Everyone was happy for the two of them and to see the people they would become.
But that didn't stop Stanley from dreaming. From letting his mind wander and getting lost in the sin of longing. Controlled and repressed greed. His heart was full of things he desperately wanted, but he would never allow himself the luxury of trying to attain them. Perhaps he once possessed the ferocity to even try, but over the years that burning fire of ambition faded, and he concluded that he had no choice but to be content with his life, since he only had one, and that was it: a wife, a baby, and a lavender farm.
Kyle's character was more vehement in his ambitions. He knew what he was capable of and decided to make a change; not to settle as Stan had. That's why he went to university on the other side of the country. That's why he left them all in Colorado and lacked the decency to even ask about Stan in the letters he wrote exclusively to his parents. That's why Stan hated him. That's why he hated Stan. That's why they should never have met again.
A lump had formed in his throat amidst the sand and salt water of the shore. A seagull landed beside him, squawking loudly. Stan sighed and lay back beside her, watching her fly through the air, clumsy as she moved.
There had been a time when they were always on the same page. Of course, Stan remembered it well. On a similar beach, though warmer and scorching; with tall palm trees and Spanish architecture. The thirty-first state of the country, accepted shortly before they were both born. Things like that were what old Randy used to say on the train from Park County to Los Angeles. It was a year after the Civil War, and both families were happy for the safe return of both Randy and Gerald after their service in the Union Army. They were back home in April of '65 both in one piece. Kyle and Stan thought about big things during that trip. About wars and soldiers and generals and territories. They played at being conquistadors arriving in America on the shores of the Pacific and—for a brief moment, during their week of endless joy—vowed that they would be great, important, and powerful generals when they grew up. Later, they were thrilled by the idea of becoming pirates; Conquering the seven seas together aboard imposing ships. And, after that, the possibility arose of becoming the most feared cowboys of the Old West. The fire of excitement died down after that trip, but everything seemed so possible in those days. When it was just the two of them and their dreams against the world.
Stan remembered it all so clearly. The blazing sun on his skin. The swaying palm fronds. The Mexicans who rented them two rooms for that week and their funky accents. The smell of the sea. The beach sand covering Kyle's freckles as they played on the beach. The sun was so bright that all they could see was each other. Kyle, Stan and Stan, Kyle. When the limits of the earth lay at the tips of their small fingers.
Kyle woke up suddenly one morning. And when he heard Stan's voice, he couldn't believe it.
Stanley had expected his disbelief, given how long it had been since they'd seen each other, finding him in the middle of nowhere, on a desolate island. Anyone would find it surprising, to say the least. But his old friend's reaction bordered on the grotesque. He let out a strange yell and refused to speak to him at times. Stan was confused and, certainly, hurt by his reaction. He took the offensive at first.
"I know we haven't seen each other in years, but, man, I'm not doing so badly," he complained, frowning. In his hands was a tray with tea and salt-fried fish. "Here. You have to eat something."
"You're…"
Kyle's voice came out of his throat in breathless gasps. He cleared his voice without taking his eyes off Stan; piercing and wide from his head at the edge of the bed, pressed against the wall. Stan tilted his head and tried to approach him.
"No!" Kyle shrieked. "No, no! No, no, no, no, no!"
He wrapped himself up in all the sheets on his bed, making the wood creak beneath his weight. Stan was furious and left the food and tea on the nightstand. He'd been left with a complete lunatic. Years apart had driven him completely mad.
To Miss Wendy Testaburger
October 9, 1878
I will find a way to send you all these letters someday during my stay here.
The truth is, my dear, my companion here is most peculiar. He no longer runs away from me or shouts in my presence, but he tends to become agitated and look at me with doubt. He never seeks conversation, only stares at me from afar with eyes full of a hundred undecipherable things. How I wish I knew what goes through his mind when he looks at me. To dissect his behavior at its root.
The good thing is that he has been eating and drinking the tea I make for him. Spices are scarce here; luckily, I brought some with me on my journey: spearmint and chamomile. He has regained his color, and that is good. It is progress toward something. Perhaps one day I will be able to speak to him, and then we will begin to plan a way out of here.
I love you, my dear. I think of you every day. I long for you to appear among the waves like a beautiful mermaid.
Yours,
S. Marsh.
"Who sent you here?"
They were at the beach, bathing, when Kyle asked that question. It was the first time he'd said anything to him in all the time Stan was there. Kyle sought his company, but silently; to sit beside him while he wrote, or ate, or drank, or gazed silently at the horizon. The traces of doubt and fear had vanished from his eyes. Only something else remained. Something Stanley couldn't decipher.
He'd been writing in a small journal about his daily life on that strange island. A personal log. That had been his personal cleaning day; as was Kyle's, he supposed. Unfortunately, he didn't have any soap. Maybe he could figure out how to make some if he found the way to.
Stan looked at Kyle as he scrubbed the dead skin and sand off his arms.
"Your mother sent me a letter, worried about you," he explained. "You haven't written to your parents in three months… And, well, I understand. Isn't there any mail here?"
"No," Kyle said. "There's no one."
"What about the lighthouse? Who operates it?"
Kyle tensed at the question and looked away. He stopped his bath and slung over to the house.
Stan frowned and snorted. If that's how he was going to act, so be it. Who did he think he was?
“You’re getting married,” Kyle said. It wasn’t a question or an accusation, just a casual observation. The kind of thing that broke the silence between them.
Stan put his pen down on his journal and looked at his companion. Between what had happened the day before on the beach and that question, it would be two days of Kyle talking to him. That was good. They could clear things up and get off that island as soon as possible.
“That’s right,” he confirmed. “How do you know?”
Suddenly, shyness seemed to take hold of Kyle. He looked down at his feet, and Stan immediately understood why, letting out an indignant gasp.
“You read my journal?”
He stammered. “Enough…”
“Oh, screw you, Kyle? Are you serious?!”
“I was curious! Really?!” he shouted. May God forgive me for the sin of being curious!
“And it didn’t occur to you to ask me? To try and talk to me? You’ve been silent the whole time I got here!”
Kyle shook his head several times, looking everywhere but at Stan. How could he do that to him? Now he’d have to find a way to hide his diary and letters. And how the hell was he going to do that? This damn house was tiny! There wasn’t a place to hide anything, not even a grain of salt behind a crumb.
“So, you and Wendy…” he said suddenly. “That makes sense. You always… you looked at each other. You know. Damn it.”
Stanley inhaled deeply. “How did you end up here?”
The question didn’t sit well with Kyle, who shifted nervously in his seat. Stan considered the possibility that he wouldn’t get an answer to the question at all and that he’d have to wait another week to hear his voice.
But it wasn’t like that, not this time. Kyle said, “There’s a project I need to complete, and I had to get away from all human civilization to finish it.” He explained. As if it were that simple.
Stan let out a humorless snort. “That’s it? Just like that? For God’s sake, Kyle. Have you lost your mind?”
“Maybe, I don’t know,” he stammered. “Damn it, Stan, how did you get here? How did you find me?”
“I asked everyone around New York if they knew anything about you. My inquiries led me to New Jersey, so I ended up there. I found… someone… who had sold you some things and said you’d be on an island off the coast of the state. I paid a boatman to take me to Long Beach Island, but you weren’t there. Then I paid him a little more to take me to the more remote islands, and luckily I found you on this one, the smallest one.”
Kyle shook his head. "Damn Cartman and his loose tongue. Damn it. Damn it."
He kept muttering curses under his breath. Stan could only watch him; the way he fidgeted with his hands and the faces he pulled. How he looked around and swung his feet. He seemed nervous and manic all the time. Like he was out of it. It was strange. Stan found it fascinating and intriguing. Stan had always found Kyle fascinating.
When they were younger, in their teens, Kyle neglected his passion for physical activity in favor of his studies and his burning desire to pursue a career. His father was a public defender, so he supported the idea. Everyone assumed Kyle would follow in his footsteps in the legal world, and it surprised them all when he decided to go to medical school. Stan wasn't surprised. He knew Kyle. He knew quite a bit about his passion for studying people from the inside out. Stan was his best patient, after all. He was always sick; If it wasn't a fever, it was his mind and heart. And Kyle seemed to want to understand them. He looked at him as if he wanted to dissect him from head to toe and inspect every organ. Every nerve. Every tendon and every bone and every blood vessel and artery and cartilage and skin.
He channeled that fascination into something that would bring greater prosperity to his family. A great opportunity that few of his kind had.
Why leave so abruptly?
"What's that project about, Ky?" he asked in a whisper.
Kyle stopped moving and looked up, his eyes wide as if he had accused him aloud of a crime he was one hundred percent guilty of. He remained like that for a few seconds, staring at Stan in astonishment. However, he left again with hurried steps.
Stanley sighed. He had to find a quick and practical way to hide his notebooks.
It was early morning when he heard the sound. A song, hummed by a sweet, melodic voice from outside. The sound woke him. The house was dark and empty. The only light was from the lighthouse, circling the island and the coastal waters—almost intentionally avoiding the house. That old house that seemed to be falling apart.
He didn't see Kyle on the beach, but the light from the shed must belong to him. He considered approaching—however, the melody grew louder. More erratic. More bizarre.
It came from the water. From the dark, timeless Atlantic Ocean. Majestic, terrifying, deadly. Stanley, nevertheless, approached; drawn by that melody that seemed to distort more and more. The moon's reflection and the lighthouse's beam settled on the water, turning it into a starry sky that twinkled in white flashes across the dark expanse of the ocean. A parallel of the heavens. Like another world. Like another reality.
That's how it felt to live on that island. Another reality. Another planet Earth.
What was happening? Why couldn't he explain it? Why did he have to?
It would have been easier to just say no.
But Kyle was… he was his best friend. And as much as his abandonment hurt, he couldn't just leave him like that…
He crouched down on the sand. He inhaled deeply and submerged his face in the water as deeply as he could, feeling the knees of his pants get wet.
The melody stopped. There was a short, deathly silence, followed by a sound. A high-pitched, animalistic sound—almost like a dolphin's. It came from far away. Deeper. It was a sound he had never heard before.
He submerged his head further, risking getting his shirt collar wet. He could barely breathe, but he needed to discover the source of that constantly repeating noise.
It was a shadow in the distance. A female figure swaying through the ocean with a long, elegant tail. Stan couldn't see her face—he could barely make out the figure by the shadows cast by the lighthouse beam on the water. But there was no denying it. Whatever it was, it had to be a mermaid.
Stan hastily pulled his head out of the water and let the cold drops run down his face as he felt reality slipping away.
The noise stopped.
He'd been inside for a while, drying off, stunned. Kyle came in shortly after. His face was weary and breathless; his clothes were stained with dark dirt. He barely noticed Stan until he saw the candle in the center of the table.
He stared at him, frowning.
"What are you doing up?"
"Where were you?"
Kyle cleared his throat. "You can't answer a question with another question."
"Watch me."
There was a grimace on his face that seemed to be trying to mimic a smile. That, along with his unsteady gait, told Stan he was drunk again.
"It's my project. I told you... I'm working on a project. For college. And that's why I'm here. Covered in dirt and animal blood. Surveying and... that. And that..."
Stan nodded. "I saw a mermaid.”
All traces of amusement vanished from Kyle's face almost immediately. In its place, a frown replaced it.
"Where?"
"On the beach," he stammered.
"And what did you see? Did you see her face?"
The questions were relentless. Anxiety throbbed within Stan, who had considered the possibility that he might have imagined the encounter with the mermaid. But if Kyle was questioning him with such determination… had he seen the same thing?
"I didn't see much. Just her silhouette in the light," he replied.
Stan thought Kyle would ask more questions, but he seemed too tired to do anything. He just stood there, staring blankly.
"Good night.”
To Miss Wendy Testaburger
November 10, 1878
My dearest, my beloved, I don't know how I should even begin this letter.
I have searched every corner, every nook and cranny, every grain of sand… for a way, a means… of getting home… But there isn't one. There are no boats here. Not even boats pass by here. That ferryman was right. Cursed be the day I let him get away with it.
I have kept myself sane by doing chores around the house. I found some cans of paint near the lighthouse and decided to use them to paint the house. I have also been experimenting with cooking and making tea. I use various spices that are around the kitchen, or some that I find outside. Anything to keep me busy.
Kyle is drunk half the time and hungover the other half. He has an endless supply of bourbon in a closet that seems to never run out. Most of the time he's either asleep or working on that project of his that he won't tell me about. We hardly ever talk. I don't know why I came to this place. I don't know why I agreed to this…
Ah, Wendy. I hope that by the time you read this letter my mind will be free of all anguish and my heart as clean as fresh snow. Just reading what I write makes me depressed. But I can't help it. The isolation is driving me mad. Have I told you I've seen mermaids? Mermaids! And if I don't see them, I hear them… They swim at night… illuminated by the stars, the moon, and the lighthouse that never seems to want to shine its light on us.
I long to be able to give you everything I write here. I hope to be there to hold your hand when the pain overwhelms you.
Yours,
S. Marsh
The diaries in the closet smelled of damp and mildew. Years of neglect and abandonment. Stan opened one. The first page read:
This diary belongs to:
Ibrahim Ainsworth
Lighthouse Keeper's Log. 1840–
So, that house belonged to the old wickies. It wasn't hard to guess. Stan opened it on the first day.
I don't understand why a lighthouse is needed on such a small, desolate island—much less why, of all people, they sent me to this place. Donaldson was sent to supervise the lighthouse on Long Beach Island. At least the coast is surrounded by far more people than his odious colleague.
Lots of seagulls and filth. When was the last time this house was cleaned? My colleague, an old man named Roger Falkner who is deaf in one ear and walks with a limp, says he doesn't know. The lighthouse had stood on this island for as long as he could remember, and if the dirt bothered me so much, it was my responsibility to keep the house clean.
My duties were clear. I would do no more than what was ordered in the manual.
The following days were uneventful. Daily reports. The tasks he performed. The birds he saw. The animals that appeared. His odious coworker. How annoying it was to have to pick up feces.
Stanley found it all incredibly boring and far too monotonous to satisfy his curiosity about such a peculiar place. Therefore, he decided to open one of the back pages.
For that entry, he neglected the cursive and, instead, decided to print write… with shaky letters and ink smudges.
I saw her again tonight. I swear I saw her. She was sitting on the shore and had the longest, reddest hair I've ever seen. Her skin was pale, but oh. Oh. Oh. OOOOHHhhHhHhh!!!!!!!!!!
Those eyes! Those lips! That nose! I jerk off all the time fantasizing about touching her. About squeezing her breasts and hearing the squeaks coming from her mouth. About ramming my cock all the way down her throat and feeling all her bones break under the weight of my thrusts. Making a hole in her tail and penetrating it. Making her mine. My toy. Mine. Making a hole shaped like my dick in her so no one but me can fuck her. Opening her up and opening her up every day until there's nothing left that can be touched by anyone except me. My hot, wet mound of flesh filled with my sweat and my semen and my piss. Mine. Mine. Mine and no one else's.
Who said mermaids are unfuckable because they don't have a pussy? Make one! Gouge out her eyes and fuck her sockets! Oh, what a dream! I can't stop myself from touching myself. Just thinking about it makes me come.
That disgusting old man is probably fucking her, and that's why she won't let me touch her. But it's as easy as grabbing her and forcing her to suck my dick.
Who does she think she is? That's all she's good for anyway.
Stan closed the journal and swore he would never open it again.
While Kyle slept face down on the sofa, Stan sat on the floor and watched him.
He had freckles adorning the bridge of his nose and a pair of glasses that had slipped from his ears to the floor with the urgency of his actions. Red hair, long eyelashes, and green eyes hidden behind sleepy eyelids. His limbs were long. His arms and legs… almost as long as Stan's. He looked so relaxed in his sleep. Like a different person. A mirage of the Kyle Stan remembered.
Which Kyle did Stan remember?
Stan closed his eyes and let himself evoke the last time they spoke, back in Colorado.
"Are you leaving?"
Kyle was in his room packing his suitcase when Stan suddenly walked in. The look on his face indicated that he'd hoped to break the news, but it was too late.
So, he sighed. "Yeah, I was planning to tell you."
"Your mom told me as soon as I got here..."
"I figured as much."
"So why are you leaving?" Stan was trying to keep his voice steady.
But it was hard. It was hard to maintain any kind of composure when Kyle was packing his bags, going off to who-knows-where to do who-knows-what. To forget about Colorado. About South Park. About Stan.
Would he forget about Stan?
Kyle chuckled.
"Well, sooner or later I was going to go to college, wasn't I?"
Stan frowned. "Not necessarily. I think your dad has enough money and connections to support you..."
Kyle made a face of disbelief. Stan clicked his tongue.
"Okay, maybe not that, but… He could find you a place to study in Colorado. Why are you leaving so far away?"
"The best institutions in the country are in New York. You know that perfectly well."
"And why are you going without me?"
He said the last part in a whisper. It was inevitable. It really was.
He and Kyle were the best of friends. Wherever Stan was, Kyle would be there. If one went to the ends of the earth, where there was nothing but lava beneath their feet and endless suffering, the other would jump into the gutter for him. There was an understanding between them that transcended the boundaries of any human connection.
Their hearts beat in a synchronicity that many decades-long marriages would envy.
Their souls were made of a material that couldn't survive without the other.
Stan saw it clearly. Kyle did too. They both knew it.
And it terrified them alike.
Kyle let out a laugh. “Are you coming to study surgical medicine with me? Go ahead.”
Stan frowned. “Do you think you’re the only one smart or passionate enough to want a career in something?”
Kyle was looking at him with half-open eyes.
“What are you passionate about, Stan? You’ve never shown any interest in anything worthwhile.”
“Sure I have. Music.”
He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. The second option was sports, but that would have made Kyle laugh in a more unpleasant way than he had after Stan’s answer.
“Music? You’ll be going to one of the best universities on the continent… for music?”
Stan clicked his tongue. He was getting fed up. The smug look on his friend’s face while he continued folding his clothes as if nothing was wrong wasn’t helping.
“At least it’s a more honest reason than going to the other side of the country to escape my responsibilities at home.”
That finally got a reaction out of Kyle. He stopped abruptly while packing his suitcase and looked at Stan with piercing eyes.
Stan licked his lips. There.
“Or are you going to tell me that's not true? Are you going to tell me that all this isn’t just a way to run away from questions about marriage, and girlfriends, and grandchildren and nephews? Are you saying you’re not running away from the obligation to marry a rich girl and impregnate her with her father’s heirs?”
Kyle closed his eyes, but still said nothing. He gripped the edge of the suitcase tightly. As if he wanted to break it. Or as if he were searching for some stability.
Stan could see the anger simmering inside him. He knew it was dangerous. But if Kyle screamed, he screamed louder. If Kyle hit, he hit harder. And so on until there was nothing left of either of them.
“You’re running away…” he began, “…from the obligation to marry a…”
“Stanley, shut the hell up!” Kyle yelled.
“Then deny it! Say it isn’t true, damn it!” Stan spat back.
“I’m not going to indulge your load of nonsense!”
“Ah, you can’t deny it! Because it’s true! Because you don’t want it!”
“Shut up, I told you!” Kyle glared at him, a pair of socks clutched in one hand. “Shut up!”
Stan let out a hearty laugh.
"It's so typical of you to ignore your feelings and run away from everything when things get complicated. Anything rather than face your problems."
"And you?" Kyle challenged sharply. "It's so typical of you to think everyone is like you and that everyone feels what you feel."
"Me?"
"Yes, you! You made up a story in your head and you want me to be a part of it! Well, let me tell you, no, Stan. I'll be the reasonable adult between us and end this once and for all!"
Stan was fuming. He desperately wanted to end it all in that room, and then himself. To put an end to all this madness once and for all and leave them both in ashes.
“Your solution to everything has always been to avoid problems!” Stan continued with unstoppable determination. “When things start getting real and scary, that’s when you don’t want anything to do with anyone!”
“You’re right, Stan, I don’t want anything to do with you!”
Stanley let out a guttural laugh, a reflex from his subconscious to loosen the knot that had formed in his chest and throat. The fire was dissipating, and his hands were trembling. Everything was trembling. It didn't feel real.
"You don't mean that. You're scared."
Kyle shook his head. "What is there to be scared of?"
There was a silent pause in which the only thing they exchanged was glances. Blue and green and green and blue. It wasn't the first time their eyes had met with such intensity. It wasn't the first time their skin had tingled before the other’s presence
There was never a first time between them. They knew each other so intimately that they simply responded to one another naturally. It had always been this way. That was the order of things.
But one can only have so much understanding and affection until things start to get complicated.
And they both knew it perfectly well.
Stan inhaled deeply.
"You tell me, Kyle," he said, "what is there to be scared of?"
But Kyle didn't answer. He gave Stan one last look before returning to his work and turning his back on him.
"Go. Go away, please,” he begged. “And don’t come back here. I don't want to see you again, ever.”
Stan stared at Kyle, stunned, unable to move. Perhaps, if he stayed still, he could pretend that nothing that had just happened was real. He could pretend it was a dream. A moment eternally suspended in time before the world as he knew it changed completely.
Less than a week ago, they had both been laughing and talking. Doing silly things in the fields around Stan's farm, like playing hide-and-seek in the cornfield or tipping over the neighbors' cows. The Kyle of that time was lighthearted and cheerful. He would smile, his face would flush, his freckles would sing, and the strands of hair that framed his face would look like flames beneath the sunsets that illuminated everything around Stan as only Kyle could. In contrast, the Kyle who looked at him then looked cold and lifeless. Like the night. The only thing burning was the anger inside his chest.
"Didn't you hear me?! Get out!" he yelled, throwing a pair of wrapped socks at Stan. "Get out!" Kyle kept to throw things from his suitcase. T-shirts, pencils, underwear… "I told you to leave, damn it! Get out, you big bastard! Get out! Get out!"
And Stan ran from that place as Kyle's unrecognizable voice filled the silence of the empty house.
Stan had thought about that conversation that same night before he fell asleep—and the days that followed—and the months that followed. The intensity. The anger that throbbed beneath his muscles. How close they had come to crossing the blurry line between friendship and desire.
He was afraid too. He didn’t want to confront it either. Sometimes, he was grateful Kyle left. That way, things would be simpler. But it hurt Stan deeply that he could never count on Kyle again. And he would trade fifty years with Wendy for one hour of conversation with Kyle. For his laughter and his sarcastic remarks and an understanding so deep and intimate that they could create universes with the energy that formed between them.
But none of it was right. None of the fire they ignited was benign.
Then, they extinguished it. One with a stomp, the other with a blow.
After complaining of a hangover that morning, Kyle poured himself some bourbon that afternoon. The sun was sinking below the horizon, signaling that darkness would soon fall and the lighthouse would once again illuminate the waters at night. Stan had been cleaning the last few days. Repainting the walls and sweeping the inside of the house. Fishing, cooking, and tidying up. All to keep his mind off the things happening around him that he couldn't understand. Like the siren songs he heard at night, which he refused to heed. Or the fact that the lighthouse still didn't shine its light on the small house.
Or that Kyle would come and go at irregular, unpredictable times, always drunk or hungover. Stan refrained from asking exactly what he was doing in the shed, given all the sounds and the foul smells emanating from that tiny place. What was starting to worry him, though, was Kyle's relationship with alcohol. He was afraid he'd fall into a coma again.
"Since when do you drink?" Stan asked, holding a broom and sweeping the floor.
Kyle took a long swig from his glass of bourbon and set it down on the table, wrinkling his nose.
"I couldn't finish this project if I didn't."
"I thought you hated it when I did."
Kyle shrugged. "I guess I needed to be in a situation that would teach me to like it."
Stan cleared his throat. "I'd like you to give up that nasty habit."
He immediately felt a hot flush of embarrassment spread across his cheeks at his words choice. It made him sound childish and foolish. And Kyle's laughter confirmed it.
"Who do you think you are, my mother? Kyle finished his glass of bourbon and shook his head, then said in a raspy voice, "Sooner or later you'll be drinking too. You'll see."
“I doubt it.”
“Do what you want, then.”
“What if you let me help you with your project?” Stan suggested. “That way you wouldn’t have to resort to drinking to relieve your stress.”
“No,” Kyle shouted firmly.
There was something strange in his eyes. Like fear and anxiety. Stan wanted to know what was going on behind them. What was going through his head to make him react like this?
What was he doing in the shed? Why did it smell bad? Why was he so loud? Why did the lighthouse beam illuminate the entire island except for the house? Why the sirens? Why was there no way to communicate with anyone in the outside world?
Stan wanted to know. He wanted to be able to talk to Kyle, to have real conversations, not the few words they exchanged now and then. Years ago, they talked so much that they searched for any tiny thing to keep their exchange alive. Anything. The weather, the people, the sky, the clouds, the countryside… Everything. It was so natural that Stan didn't have to think twice before he opened his mouth to let out whatever was going through his mind at that moment. When Stan was drunk he would say things he didn't remember saying, and Kyle didn't judge him for it. He didn't humiliate him or make fun of him. He was a silent protector.
And then, on that deserted island that threatened to drive him mad every second, they couldn't even look at each other without thinking twice. And it hurt Stan. When had they drifted so far apart?
Stan saw her that morning.
She was a mermaid. Her face was pale, her hair long and black, and she had scales on the sides of her neck and under her ribs. Her eyes were closed, and her pulse had stopped. She was dead.
A tender feeling, like empathy, came over him. He washed the sand from her face with seawater and combed her hair with his fingers, making sure it was free of any knots before braiding it. It saddened him that she was so alone. That she had died such a tragic death. She deserved a proper burial. That's why Stan went to pick flowers in the surrounding woods.
He ran into Kyle at the edge of the woods. Kyle had a suture needle in his hand, and his clothes were stained with blood. Stan didn't ask. It probably had something to do with his project. Some animal experimentation, or something.
But Kyle frowned when he saw him picking dandelions and yarrow.
"What are you doing? Are you decorating the house now?"
Stan ignored the mockery in Kyle’s voice. He was drunk, that was for sure. "I found… something…"
After a minute of silence while Stan arranged his humble bouquet, Kyle asked wearily, "And what is this something?"
Should I tell him? Stan inhaled deeply.
"A corpse. I found the corpse of a mermaid."
Kyle had an expression of determination and seriousness on his face that almost made him look sober.
"Where?" he asked.
"Near the lighthouse. On the shore."
Kyle looked down at his feet. He paced back and forth.
"God… God! And what did she look like? Tell me!"
"She had… uh… long, black hair and… she was pale."
"Pale? What was her skin like?"
"…White?"
"The texture! Texture!"
"Oh, I don't know. Like a woman's? Soft. Yes, soft. Without blemishes or anything." He stammered.
"Soft?"
"Yes. Her eyes are closed and…"
"Eyes! Eyes! God! Is she still there?!”
But before Stan could finish his sentence, Kyle was running toward the beach. Stan ran after him, flowers in hand, stunned.
The events that followed were a blur in his mind.
Kyle picked up the corpse and carried it to the shed. Stan followed. Open and filling the air with a putrid smell, the shed was littered with dirt and blood. Human and animal parts were scattered in every corner. Kyle exclaimed with glee as he examined the mermaid's body.
Stan couldn't believe it. Was that what his old friend was up to? Before he could even say a word, Kyle chopped off the mermaid's head with an axe, and Stanley fainted.
When he opened his eyes, there was a princess. A servant. A child. A boy. A man. Kyle. Kyle. Kyle.
He had a pair of tender green eyes and shone like fire. He shone because he was fire. And the flames that consumed him danced in happy tongues of red and orange and yellow. In a light both eternal and ephemeral. In everything and nothing. And he smiled. He smiled.
Stan reached out to touch him, and as soon as he came near, the fire stopped. It stopped, and his body fell into pieces of cold coal. Cold, cold, cold. It was so cold. Everything was so dark.
The smell of decay filled his senses. And suddenly he was surrounded by the organs of dead fish. Tails of fish and seals and dolphins and mermaids. Legs and arms and heads and women's breasts scattered on the floor in a bath of blood. His hands were covered in it. And there was nothing he could do. What could he do?
I could take all this meat and build myself a house.
I could eat it.
I could fuck it.
When Stan woke up, the first thing he did was vomit beside the bed.
Kyle immediately ran to the kitchen and brought him a glass of purified water that Stan had boiled a few days earlier. Stan inhaled and exhaled sharply, his lungs contracting in his chest as if he'd spent hours underwater. His limbs trembled. His whole body trembled. He felt light and his head ached.
He drank the water while Kyle rubbed his back. Kyle looked cleaner and more sober than he had been hours before. It was night. A half-melted candle rested on the dresser, clearly revealing the worried expression on his friend's face. Stan hated that. Just days before, he'd barely turned to look at him. And now he was acting like this just when his dirty secret was exposed?
Stan could see it. The raw, cut, and rotting meat scattered around the shed. The surgical tools. The eyes. The limbs everywhere. The blood. The filth. The bones…
He thought he was going to throw up again. But he didn't.
"I made dinner," Kyle whispered. "Lobster soup. I found some vegetables lying around."
Stan looked up at him, dumbfounded.
"Dinner?" he blurted out. "Kyle, what the hell did I see?"
Kyle inhaled deeply.
"A year ago," he began, "I did something. I was… I don't know. I don't know what I expected from medical school, but I didn't find it. I wanted… something. I wanted more than what they were offering. I didn't want to be just any doctor, I wanted to be the doctor. I wanted to blow the minds of all those stupid professors who didn't believe in me or in the words of the philosophers, physicists, chemists, and doctors who came before us. Cornelius Agrippa… Albertus Magnus… men whose achievements stemmed from the same source as mine: dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction with the limits of life and the need to always seek something more.”
"Like what? Something like what?"
"I wanted to… cure death."
He said the last part almost like a croak. He was nervous. He still had the nerve to be nervous!
"Death can't be cured, Kyle. It's not a disease, for starters. Everything the sun touches must perish one day. It's nature.”
Kyle shook his head. “No, Stan. You don’t understand. I found a way. For months, I gathered different parts to make my great experiment. My magnum opus. I went into cemeteries and charnel houses. I rummaged through butcher shops. I harvested animal organs. All to create him.”
Stan swallowed hard. “Create what?”
There was a crazed gleam in Kyle’s eyes. He looked almost unrecognizable to him.
“My Adam,” he said. “I sculpted a man from dead remains and brought him to life through electricity. And it worked. Stan, it worked. He’s alive.”
“Holy crap, Ky…”
It was too much to hear. He felt like he might throw up again. He could hardly believe what he was hearing.
Kyle noticed the change in his expression and stood up. Stan barely had time to process the sound of his footsteps walking toward the kitchen when he returned with a bottle of bourbon and a glass.
Stan looked at the bottle. Then to Kyle.
He saw him shrug.
"It's not good to take pills dry."
Stan rolled his eyes and poured himself a glass.
The liquid was strong and sweet, sending a pleasant tingle under his skin. It had been so long since he'd had a drink. And he'd need it if he wanted to hear Kyle continue his story.
When he'd finished his glass, he poured himself another.
"Okay, go on."
Kyle nodded. "I was terrified by its appearance, and the... monster ran away. I thought I'd gotten rid of it completely. I switched to psychology, and I liked it better. I didn't have to argue with my professors, and I enjoyed what I was learning more. I wrote to my parents regularly, even though I never had the money to organize a trip and see them in person. There were things that troubled me, but I always kept my mind off them. I thought about…"
He paused. He cleared his throat. Stan was watching him intently.
“I thought about writing to you…” he admitted. “Many times. But shame and guilt consumed me. The fight we had… The things I said… It was all unforgivable. And I thought it would be best if we… separated.”
His heart began to pound in his chest. He considered the same thing. And he came to the same conclusion. It would be best if they stayed apart.
Yet, how many times had he waited for a letter from Kyle? How many sleepless nights had he spent thinking about him? How many times had he replayed their last conversation and how much he wished he could travel back in time and fix their relationship?
He thought about going to New York and confronting him. But there were always obligations at home that he had to attend to.
“And it was driving me crazy,” he confessed suddenly. “The isolation. The loneliness. They were driving me crazy. I know it now, Stan. All that dissatisfaction stemmed from not being able to be with you. Not being able to talk to you. Not being able to sleep next to you. The limit of life I truly longed to overcome was the one that prevented me from being by your side.”
“Ky…”
Kyle squeezed his eyes shut and cleared the lump from his throat.
“A few months ago, that thing came back,” he continued. “To make a long story short, it asked me to make it a… mate… God…”
He paused to process his words, his face twisted in disgust.
Stan took a swig of his second glass of bourbon.
“So… you’re doing the same thing… again?”
Kyle nodded slowly.
“God, Ky…”
“I’m going crazy,” he said, his voice trembling. “I came all the way here to be as far away as possible, so I could carry out this dirty project without interruption. I’ve been searching for… parts… my whole trip. I found a hip and a leg. I heard there were mermaids on the shores of this beach. The journals of the lighthouse keepers who worked here before said the same thing. Mermaids. Beautiful, ethereal specimens that captivate men with their lovely song. I searched for them obsessively. I knew they would be perfect for my project, but…”
“But…?”
Kyle closed his eyes. “…They were nothing like they were described. Their hair was made of seaweed, and their faces were covered in barnacles. Goose barnacles, sea snails, and clams. Parasites and corals. All these months I’ve tried to peel back the faces, arms, and breasts of all those creatures, but they have no faces. They have nothing. They’re strange…” he explained. “But you found a normal one! A face and arms and an abdomen! Ah, Stan, I’ll finally be free!”
“Free? Weren’t you free to refuse to do such a thing?”
Kyle shook his head. “Never.”
“Why?”
“Because that thing threatened to kill us all. My parents, my brother, you, your family…”
Stan felt a sudden, unpleasant emptiness in his stomach. He poured himself another glass of liquor and drank.
“Why don’t we try that soup you made?”
An hour and a half later, the two were drunker than skunks. After stuffing themselves with lobster bisque, they started talking and laughing. There was a certain comfort similar to what they had years ago, or at least that's how Stan felt. Since Kyle had opened up to him emotionally, the emotional divide between them was nonexistent. They were back to their old selves. Stan and Kyle. Kyle and Stan. Together against the world.
They started laughing and laughing and laughing. Talking nonsense. Shouting and howling. They started playing with chairs and sheets in a divine, alcohol-induced frenzy. Nothing made sense then. Nothing mattered.
Stan reflected on the weeks of his stay and compared them to that moment. Wasn't this what he'd been looking for? Maybe so. Maybe this was what he wanted. For the world around him and his obligations to dissolve in a joyful cloud of ecstasy and frenzy.
They were sweating and out of breath, sprawled on the sofa, waving their second shared bottle of bourbon in the air, when Kyle started teaching Stan a sea shanty.
"When I was just a little lad or so me mammy told me," Kyle mumbled. "Away, haul away! We'll haul away, Joe!"
Stan tried to repeat it between laughs and drawn-out melodies.
"That if I did not kiss the girls, me lips would grow all moldy. Away, haul away! We'll haul away, Joe!"
Stan repeated the line, and they both burst out laughing.
Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies!
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain!
For we have received orders
To sail to Old England
And never to see you fine ladies again
They sang and sang and drank and drank and danced and danced. Their voices became unintelligible in the jumble of babble that poured from their mouths. They jumped, stamped their feet, and ran around the house with their hands and arms intertwined.
Stan drank and drank and drank. He had bathed in alcohol and saliva.
He felt alive for the first time in a long time. Euphoric. Unrestrained.
When the adrenaline and excitement had subsided, Kyle rested his head on Stan's shoulder, his arms wrapped around his back. Stan did the same, one arm draped over his friend's shoulders and the other stroking the hand resting on his abdomen. They did it unconsciously. Like second nature. Instinct. As if they had always been destined to end up like that.
And so it was, wasn't it? Who was Stan without Kyle? Who was Kyle without Stan? They had only been apart for a few years and they were already lost. Disoriented. Kyle obsessing over morbid projects and Stan sacrificing his freedom for his father's business. Mr. Testaburger was a wealthy man, and his business as a merchant would bring unlimited prosperity to the Marsh farm, which was on the verge of bankruptcy. Stan loved Wendy, but he wasn't in love with her. And it took him a month of mental deterioration to realize that.
"Swing low, sweet chariot… Coming for to carry me home…" Kyle sang softly and tenderly, snuggling up to Stan. "Swing low, sweet chariot… Coming for to carry me home…"
Stan closed his eyes and let Kyle's voice lull him. He felt light. As if his mind were filled with cotton.
"I appreciate you making dinner today," he admitted suddenly, his mouth forming the words before his mind could.
"You're welcome."
"Where did you get those lobsters from?"
"I caught them."
"Oh yeah? Because all I catch is small fish and crabs."
Kyle chuckled. "You have to… fish really… deep."
"I see."
"Yeah."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"I hope so. At least so we can stop eating that gross fish."
Stan frowned and looked at Kyle, who had a smug smile on his face.
"Don't you like my fish?"
Kyle snorted.
"Who would like your stupid salted fish?"
The shock and pain inside Stan were so sharp that he felt lucidity return to him for a moment before he moved a little away from Kyle and the world began to spin.
"You don't mean that, you're drunk!"
"What?" Kyle yelled.
"What?"
"What?!"
"What?!"
"What?!"
"What?!"
"What?!"
"What?!"
"What?!"
"What?!"
"What!!!!"
"What!!!"
Stan felt like a flame was igniting inside him, sparking with the alcohol coursing through his veins. He abruptly stood up from the couch and pointed a finger at Kyle.
"You never like anything!"
Kyle stood up and looked him straight in the eye.
"As if you have a lot to offer me!"
"You're never happy with anything! You dislike everything! That's why you ended up here, alone! You don't even like being alone!"
"Go fuck yourself, Stan!"
"So what are you going to do to me, huh?! I'm telling you the truth!"
"And you?! You don't even have a fucking spine! Why are you going to marry Wendy, huh?! Tell me!"
The alcohol clouding his mind made it feel physical. Like a slap in the face.
"Kyle," he spat.
"No!" his friend shrieked, his eyes wild. "Tell me!"
Stan didn't answer right away. Words were hard to process in that moment. His skin tingled. His knees itched.
His silence only enraged Kyle, who shoved him hard in the chest.
"Tell me!"
Stan cleared his throat, trying to untangle the lump that had formed there, but to no avail.
"Because I love her," he stammered.
Kyle let out a loud, unpleasant laugh.
“No, Stan. You don’t love Wendy,” Kyle accused. “You love being led around, because you can’t do a damn thing on your own. Always following Mommy and Daddy’s suggestions because you don’t know what the hell to do with your life, and you want me to be just like you.”
Kyle moved dangerously close to his face, his expression accusatory. Stan could see it all, a lump forming in his throat. Every freckle and auburn hair.
“Isn’t that why you’re here? Because you were given orders and you obeyed them like the dog you are?”
Stan blinked back the small tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.
“You’re being rude.”
“You don’t deserve my kindness.”
Kyle's voice cracked. He, too, was on the verge of tears. His brow furrowed, his nose wrinkled.
Stan narrowed his eyes and straightened his posture.
"And you? Do you really think you know what you want? Do you really think you know where you stand?" he spat sarcastically.
Kyle's eyes widened, and he backed away as Stan cornered him.
"You always wanted to be contrary. Ignoring your responsibilities at home. And where did that get you? Huh? Tell me, Kyle, where are you?"
"Go fuck yourself, Stan," he spat, his voice trembling and full of disdain. He could no longer hold back the tears.
The backs of Kyle's knees hit the sofa, and Stan pushed him, cornering him and impaling his wrists.
Fury and adrenaline surged through him. If Kyle wanted to hurt him, then he would hurt him too. If Kyle wanted to scream, Stan would scream louder. And they would both destroy themselves together. They would both end up as ashes on that island abandoned by God.
"You're alone, trapped on this island in the middle of nowhere, hunted by a beast you created. A prisoner of a monster you gave a face to." He spat inches from his face, his voice ragged, as he grabbed his hands.
"Shut up, Stan..." he stammered.
"You don't know what to do with your life. You're as lost as I am, and you won't accept it. You won't accept it."
Their breathing grew heavier, mingling with each other as a result of their closeness. Kyle whimpered and gasped beneath him, his eyes fixed on the man above him. For the first time, Stan saw something resembling vulnerability on his face, and he felt his pulse race and his heart sink at the same time.
How far had they gone? Had everything been written to lead them to that moment? To that closeness, that adrenaline rush, that heat, and all those intense emotions within them that they didn't know how to express?
"Stan," Kyle gasped. And Stan captured his lips with his.
He imagined that situation countless times.
In the darkness of his room, on the cusp of puberty, where it was just him, his thoughts, and a depraved hand inside his underwear. The fantasies were always the same. In his bed. In the woods, hidden against a tree. In the study. In a corner of his house. At the theater, maybe. Anywhere. Kyle always looked the same. Flushed skin, closed eyes, furrowed brow, and mouth slightly open, begging for more and more between moans and gasps. Every time Stan finished that obscene ritual, he came back to himself and felt like the most terrible person in the world.
But there was gentleness, despite everything, in his fantasies. There were playful touches and a satisfying mutual desire. Suggestive bites on the lips and neck. Playful smiles. Knowing giggles.
He never imagined the desperation that would truly be there.
Kyle clung to his shoulders as if trying to burrow into his skin. He dug his nails into Stan's back and scratched. He begged for more, more, more. Deeper. Faster. Hotter. More ragged. More painful. More, more, more.
Stan's body was covered in bite marks. His neck, his collarbone, his chest. Kyle couldn't keep his mouth away from him. He was desperate. Slurring. Begging Stan to touch him. To let their skin melt into one another. To bite his neck and tear out his throat. To plunge his hand into his chest and squeeze his heart. To feel the blood trickle from his insides and stain them both. He wanted to die in Stan's arms.
And Stan, clouded by ecstasy, shared his desperation. He attacked Kyle like a hound in heat. With the animalistic force and urgency of a beast in need. Kyle whimpered beneath him, and Stan felt like he was going crazy.
"Please don't marry Wendy…" Kyle whimpered pitifully, the air in his lungs forced out by Stan's powerful thrusts. "Please, please, please, please, please… don't marry Wendy… please, please, please."
Stan groaned and kissed Kyle again. Kyle trembled and accepted the kiss with a whimper, deepening it with more urgency.
"Please, Stan… Stan… Stan… please. Be mine. Let's be each other's. Please… please…"
Stan knew he wasn't in the right state to make that decision. And neither was Kyle, to make such requests.
But what else existed beyond that? What world lay beyond their skin? Everything was so simple and so clear. They were always meant to end up like that.
The yearning glances… the conversations… the nights sleeping side by side… lulled by their shared breath…
Yes. Yes. Their destinies always laid in each other's arms.
"Yes, Ky…" he gasped, cupping his beloved's face, "…Yours… yours… yours…"
Kyle pulled him back to him and kissed him again. Stan quickened the pace of his thrusts. The bed beneath them threatened to break, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore but the warmth of each other.
The man beneath Stan gazed at him with eyes of love, a glow intoxicated by devotion and adoration.
"I wish…" he murmured, "…I could make a hole in your abdomen… and shove my cock in it… so I could be inside you… as you are inside me… and we would be connected at the same time… Like two pieces of a puzzle…”
The endorphins had transformed them into new people. After the orgasm, they lay naked in bed and let themselves be. Kyle snuggled against Stan's neck, letting him caress and kiss him. Their faces brushed against each other in a cloud of peace and with a couple of clearer minds.
The silence between them ceased to be awkward, becoming pleasant in each other's company. Their minds were blank, and they only felt. They felt skin against skin. Their arms clasped together. Their noses touching. Loose kisses on each other's necks. On their collarbones. On their shoulders. On their abdomens.
"It looks like you, you know?"
Stan was on the verge of sleep. His mind was clouded, and his body exhausted.
"Mhm?" He hummed.
"The… the thing. What I did. The man or… whatever it is. The monster. Creature," Kyle explained. “I wanted this for so long that I searched everywhere for you. And since I couldn't find you, I built you.”
Stan was too tired to be shocked by that confession. At that point, could anything frighten him? He already knew what Kyle had done, and yet he accepted it. He opened his arms and let him nestle against his chest.
That's why he placed a kiss on the crown of Kyle's head and stroked his back.
Kyle continued. "Sometimes… touching all those parts… it was like touching you…"
They looked into each other's eyes. A blue sea and a green meadow on a cloudy afternoon. Stan's mind was almost empty. Undisturbed. But what was overwhelming Kyle that made him start talking about all of this?
Kyle brought his fingers to his beloved's lips and caressed them with careful touch. Stan's cheekbones. His cheeks. The tip of his nose…
"You're not real, are you?" He asked in a whisper.
Stan was genuinely surprised by the accusation and frowned.
"Why do you say that?"
Kyle licked his lips and looked at him.
"You're not real. You're not here. You're a figment of my imagination. That's why you kiss me and touch me the way I've always wanted. Because I'm going to die soon. That thing is going to come and kill me, and it's going to have your eyes because I searched for them. I spent weeks looking for them so it would look like you. So it would be you." He explained. "I searched for arms like yours. Hair like yours. Lips like yours. Shoulders, thighs, neck, legs, abdomen... Everything just like you. Everything so you. And your eyes. Blue like a spring sky that will stare at me while they kill me slowly and painfully. And these moments with you will have been my last glimpse of happiness. I don't even deserve that."
Stan hugged Kyle. He buried his face in Kyle's chest and stroked his hair. Curly strands of red hair slipped through his fingers. Kyle let out a ragged gasp, as if he were crying.
"I'm scared. I'm so scared, Stan. So, so, so scared. I don't want to lose you. I don't want to lose myself. I don't want to lose anyone."
"You're not going to lose me. You're not going to lose anyone. We'll go home, and it'll feel like home because we're together. I promise."
Kyle looked up, his eyes brimming with tears, and closed them, letting Stan's touch on his cheek comfort him.
"He's here," he blurted out.
"What?"
"He's here. At the lighthouse. He'll light the way home when... when he comes for me."
Stan felt sober for the first time all night, and worry suddenly gripped him.
"Ky..."
He reached out to pull Kyle into another embrace. And Kyle let himself be drawn in.
A blinding light illuminates the room with the intensity of a thousand suns.
Kyle Broflovski wakes up breathless, gasping in surprise, his heart racing.
He is alone.
The lighthouse beam shines directly on him.
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