Thank you, so, so, so very much for all the comments, love, criticisms and discussions you've all given me over the past year and a half. I cannot even begin to express how much it's all meant to me. This is my first, real story I've ever completed (at around 26,000 words!) and I intend to adapt it to become a real novel one day. Because, I truly feel like what I was doing here, with this, was an experiment, to see if I really could write a story. And, I guess that I can. Thank you so much to everyone for all the continued support and love.

If you have any questions or just want to talk to me (trust me, I'm easygoing and almost always online), you can contact me on AIM at superfeypower or through mail at starkhasaheart[at]yahoo[dot]com.

If you comment, I love you forever. This is the final chapter and the end of this fiction. Let me know what your favorite scene was out of the entire story, or maybe just a line that sticks with you. Once again, thank you and I love you all.

Rehabilitation. You have a problem, and we can help.

I understand that I must complete my therapy before I can be released.

Institutionalized. You aren't well.

I understand that I see things in ways that others do not.

Isolated. You aren't safe to be around others.

I understand that I need to better myself for the good of society.

Imprisoned. You cannot control yourself.

I understand that I am broken.

I want to get better.

Everything is pure here, white, untainted, whole. No color, no emotion, just stark, bare neutrality. With patients that could be set off by just the slightest hint of pale blue, they can't take any chances. No, any color must go. And black won't do, because it's depressing.

Make it white. Make it pure, empty, a canvas for all sorts of beautiful terror to be written on. Such a beautiful story, such a beautiful picture.

Craig's fingers droop over the wall, tracing the invisible pictures he's made night and night again, the emptiness sending disease crawling up his skin, begging him to fill that emptiness, to make it something real. Something obtainable. He lets his hand fall down onto the pillow beside his head and watches it instead, watches his fingers tremor and flex, the little lines trailing through them, create a map of his life, his choices and his mistakes.

He rolls over onto his side and watches the sheer curtains wiggle, possessed by the vent that blows hot air from the dark, evil furnace. He closes his eyes, body pathetically splayed across his bed, limp as a dead doll.

It's so boring here without you.

It's been three weeks since that day on the beach, since the bodies of his friends were found, since the interrogations and questioning began. He answers every question, from the police or from the press, truthfully.

Yes, I was best friends with him in grade school.

No, he never talked to me about killing people.

Kenny walks him back and forth from school everyday, his undying attention and devotion to keeping Tweek safe shielding him from the press, from the stares of his classmates. With no home to go to and no relatives to turn to, Tweek lives with Kenny and his family now. It's cramped in the little home and even they can barely afford to feed another mouth, but the publicity Tweek's getting manages to get them by.

He doesn't know what he'll do when he can't stay there any longer.

Tweek cannot understand why Kenny still wants to be with him. He trembles away from his touches, skirts away from the faintest display of affection. He screams in his sleep, thrashes about wildly on the bed, body struggling to escape from something his mind cannot let die.

Most nights he doesn't sleep at all. Most nights he sits at Kenny's window, emptiness searching to be filled by whatever passes in front of him. Most nights he doesn't want to get up in the morning and try to go to school. After what he's seen, he doesn't see the point in chasing after dreams, trying to get an education.

After what he's seen, he knows more than anyone else in this town ever will.

It's so boring here without you.

The pane of glass that separates them isn't enough.

Tweek holds up his phone and stares across that divider, stares at those eyes, staring right back at him and he knows, in that moment, that this was the something his emptiness was looking for. He swallows hard.

Craig's face is bandaged heavily where the half-smile had been carved into his lips, covered up and padded down to prevent any risk of infection. He'll always carry it with him though, forever a representation of irony.

As he sits across from Tweek, lightly gripping that phone to his ear, his lips tug into a smile, the most he can manage with all that gauze on his face. They pull apart and he what he says makes Tweek's breath catch.

"I love you."

Tweek hangs the phone up and sits there, staring at Craig, staring at him holding his end of the phone, staring at that little smile, that little twitch of the lips indicating the mad calm just before the storm. He's seen that look before, too many times.

"I love you."

Why should I love you? Why should I want to be with you?

Kenny stares up at Tweek, watches him finger that knife between his fingers, stares at the glint of moonlight of the edge of the blade, blue eyes wide with panic.

"Why should you love me?"

Kenny's expression is to die for. Beneath the gag, beneath the restraints, he looks so pitifully helpless, so full of life, so ready to be broken. The moonlight casts harsh shadows on Tweek's face, deepening the bags beneath his eyes, hallowing out his face.

The knife makes its way down Kenny's chest, circling his heart slowly.

"Why should anyone love me?"

Broken.

Kenny shakes his head and flexes against his binding, struggling to sit up, to stop this mistake.

Defeated.

He can't do this anymore. He smiles.

The blade wedges its way between their hearts and Kenny's body goes still. Sawing, gently, slowly, both boys watch as the serrated edges rise in and out, in and out. He moves in a circular motion, going around the heart. The blade sticks and stutters against the flesh and muscle, sometimes refusing to move through it, other times slicing so neatly through that it might've been a scalpel.

He carves down into the other, blood seeping up as arteries and veins are severed. The blade slips in his grasp but he presses forward, sawing through that thin layer of life, completing the circle.

"I'm sorry," Tweek whispers. "But this is how it has to be."

Kenny's sheets are soaked with blood. His body is limp. Eyes blank and empty, just like Tweek's.

"I'm sorry."

He dips his fingers into the hole he's sloppily carved. He's no good at this, yet. But he slides past the skin and muscle, reaching inside of the cavity and tightening his hand around that powerful heart. He squeezes it, watches Kenny's body seize up, watches blood seep up from the carvings. He smiles and gradually begins working it out, squirming his hand as he struggles to free it from its restraints, to snap the tendons and veins and arteries that grip desperately onto their lifeblood.

But he has it. The heart, sitting in his palm, the muscles tightening and panicking and dying right in his grip.

"I'm sorry."

But this is the only way.

The windows here are barred. To keep the world out. To keep the crazies in. Either way, nothing comes in, nothing goes out. Craig wraps his fingers around the bars, tugs on them experimentally, feeling, testing the weight of his prison.

A bright orange butterfly drifts slowly past his window. He stretches his fingers out past the bars, letting those pale digits dance and squirm in the air as they struggle to reach the unreachable. The butterfly lands on a tree in the garden. Its wings pull up. Its wings pull down. Its wings pull up. Its wings pull down.

He retracts his arm and sits at the window, head nestled in his arms, watching that beautiful butterfly, that unobtainable speck of color in his plain, white world.

This is how it has to be.

"Craig."

Tweek stands in front of his window. A violent, horrible splotch of red nightmares in his world. His shirt all drenched in blood, his blond hair coated, matted, dripping with the stuff.

Tweek extends his hand and sets the heart on the windowsill between them. He smiles.

Craig's fingers drift through the bars, extend outward slowly, searching for the touch of that bright orange butterfly. Tweek's fingers meet his and he steps up to the bars, intertwining their grasps, their lips touching around the cool iron.

"I love you, too."

Bare feet barely skim the floor as he walks into the front entrance, all drenched and covered in blood. He stands frozen in the center of the room, dead eyes searching the expressions of the limited night staff. He smiles and, extending his wrists out to them, says, "I'm ready now."

The Horror of Our Love…

Never so much blood pulled through my veins…

The Horror of Our Love,

Never so much Blood