Chapter One
Stanley Marsh bit his lip harshly as he knocked on the door of Kyle Broflovski's house—for Ike Broflovski's birthday. It seemed everyday that boy got closer to his Bar Mitzvah, at the age of 10 now.
Stan had become an almost awkward boy when puberty had hit. But as he got older, he grew into his looks—his black hair peeping out of his hat, his eyes glimmering dazedly, and his body slim and thin. How long had it been since he had knocked on this door? The last time he had—why, he must have been nine years old. This whole scenario still made the teenage boy nervous; jerking at his collar and wondering who would answer the door. He hoped to God that it would be anyone but the red-haired, stern jewish lady named Sheila or her son.
As the door slipped open, Stan realized it was a canadian face that had opened it, and his breath slid out easily. "Ike," he breathed, "hey. Happy birthday."
Ike's face was minorly confused for the moment—Stan hadn't expected him to recognize him, the boy was young when he used to be Kyle's super best friend. "Hi…you must be one of Kyle's friends?"
"Yeah. It's me, Stan." His voice was strangled, wanting to hear the boy say something like 'Oh, Stan! I remember you!' or 'Oh, yeah! That's who you are! It's been agess!'
Instead what popped out was, "Uh-huh…Kyle's upstairs. In his room. Want me to show it to you?"
Disappointment flowed over Stan like a crashing tidal wave. "Nah, I know where it is. Thanks…Ike."
He tugged at his hat as he made his way through, having come early due to the urge to talk to his old friend. Halfway up the steps, he was interrupted.
"Stan? Stan Marsh?"
Sheila Broflovski.
He turned towards Kyle's frizzy haired mother, face stone. She hadn't changed at all over the years—she had never been a women to adapt to anything. He tugged at his hat again nervously, hating how he hadn't talked to this family in so long. At one point, it had been like a second home to him.
"Mrs. Broflovski. Nice to see you…again."
"Oh, Stanley! It's been so long. Are you here for Ike's birthday? Boobie actually invited you?" He was glad to see that her personality hadn't changed much either—she still spoke her mind and called her son an annoying nickname. For some reason, this was relief for Stan.
"Yeah…he did. Even though it's been forever."
"He said he would. He misses you a lot, Stan. You don't know how happy he was to see that you had come out of your…well, faze. We were all very worried about you. Raven, was it?"
That stung. It slammed into Stan and brought back painful memories of slicing his wrists, scars that would never leave, and having new scars every night. The worst part was that, even though his clothes were normal again, he couldn't stop. Pain was what he craved, what he needed to get through the day. It had become a habit. A horrible, bloody habit.
He gripped his collar and pulled, fanning his forehead. "Mhm. It sure sucked to be in that spot, Mrs. Broflovski. Anyhow, I'm going to go see Kyle now."
He bounded up the steps and slowly made his way over to the door. For a moment his hand stayed on the doorknob, unable to turn it in fear of awkward conversation. In fear that the two would never be the same again—that the connection between them really was gone.
And then he was there, pulling the door open from the other side. Poking his head out so that their faces were mere inches away, and Stan could smell the hint of bubblegum among his breath. "Stan." The high-pitched voice that had seemed to be skipped by puberty was the same, uplifting and amazing. Stan hoped that that would never change—that his voice would be squeaky and high-pitched forever. That was the way he liked his Kyle, not wanting to adapt to any change about him.
"Kyle…hi."
