AN: Poem is mine. Rated M for alcohol use, 'sex', death, angst, and 'murder'. Yup. (:
He liked getting drunk.
Scratch that. Not drunk. Buzzed. He liked this vibrating from the crown of his head to the tip of his toes and branching out to his fingertips. He felt like a phone that was continuously getting a text message. He felt invincible. He felt like the top of the world.
His words would barely slur and his wit had yet to escape him. That's what he liked. He liked it. He could pass for sober (if his douche-bags of parents wouldn't give him fucking breathalyzer tests whenever he walks through the door).
Getting buzzed meant the beginning of the 'partitioning' of his brain, where sections were cut off and forgotten for the time being. He wasn't one of those people whose brains betray them and make happy memories disappear, for which he was grateful.
He liked to think that while sober he was like a house with all the lights on. Alcohol was his bill that told him he needed to cut down on his electricity, so he went and turned those lights off, lights he didn't need: like the bathroom and basement and attic. It didn't mean he wasn't still a house, but parts of him were just not as obvious. (Yeah, fuck you, Kenny. He didn't 'change' when he got drunk. Asshole.)
He couldn't remember when everyone from school broke up. Cartman had gone on to make something of himself, only rarely showing up back home. Kyle had gone to be CEO or some shit of some hot-shot company. Kenny disappeared off of the face of the earth, but some said he was off singing professionally and making big bucks. Butters- Leopold, whatever- had gotten swept up in fame by the fashion community. Bebe had gone and started recording for a reality TV show.
And where was Stan?
Still here at the bottom. Clawing uselessly at whatever he could. But getting buzzed meant he could forget that, that he could let go and go fuck-wild. And, fuck, that freedom felt good.
Chicks were smiling at him with their cubic zirconium-encrusted eyelashes and fishnet stockings. They tried fruitlessly to garner his attention, to make him want them.
He didn't.
He hardly ever went anywhere with girls. They all started looking like Wendy and tasting like her and fuck he didn't need that. He didn't need to be reminded of what happened to her so he got buzzed and smiled at people he didn't know and wouldn't remember.
A head-on collision.
Heady bodies and sweaty clothes.
Scrambled brain.
They tell you she won't live,
And the sky starts to rain.
Sweet nothings whispered in his ear and a tongue licking across his neck.
'I'm sorry,' they say, but you know they lie.
'I'm sorry,' they say, 'but she had to die.'
No apologies are accepted,
Advances are rejected.
A gender-less hand at his crotch, telling him of what is to come and what to expect.
She's running through your thoughts.
What a shame.
Because we all lose.
In this silly, silly game.
And he's in a room somewhere, stripped and being fucked. He's being torn up and he hopes that that's what's hurting him, not this ache in his chest.
You go on a rampage.
Kill them all.
You go on a rampage.
Blood in the halls.
He can't cry because there are no tears to be shed. She was gone and she was gone and she was gone. He can feel it. It hurts.
They cry for mercy.
You slaughter them all.
They cry for mercy.
Blood in the halls.
He's torn and broken and he can't fix it. There isn't anyone to fix it.
They try to explain.
Soon they are slain.
Who would want to fix him? He's a nothing.
They pity you.
Your pain.
Your shame.
They pity you.
Because you try to beat the game.
So he gets buzzed and forgets and watched as it all fades into the pain, and the pleasure he hardly ever feels without the former.
'They killed her,' you say.
Trying to escape the price you must pay.
They can hear through your lies.
They laugh at your mistakes.
And he'll continue to ravage his nails while clinging to this. Hardly finding sustenance.
You try to kill them all.
Your blood in the halls.
You eventually fall.
Your blood in the halls.
They forsake you.
Your pain,
your shame.
It's not a life.
They laugh at you.
You had gone insane.