It was always worse at night. He would wake up in cold sweat without even having a nightmare to blame it on. He would go down to the kitchen and open the refrigerator and bask in its comforting glow. When the feeling of shame, confusion, anger and fear finally became too much, he would throw himself into a feeding frenzy, devouring almost everything. He would gorge on the meat and cheese, the butter and bread, eaten separately, gulp down milk and lard, eat eat eat eat until everything was gone except for the greens. Then he would move on to the snacks and everything else that had to be stored somewhere dry. When he was finally done, the kitchen picked clean like a wheat field eaten by grass hoppers, he would collapse on the floor, laying there like a stranded whale, helpless and fat, unable to do anything else but lie still and let his poor abused stomach try to digest everything he had forced upon it. That was his happiest time. His brain was dazed, stunned by the sugar and fat coursing through his blood, making it thicker than pancake batter. His jaw hurt, his teeth hurt, his whole body hurt. But his brain was wonderfully numb. He had been so scared but now everything felt alright. The food comforted him, enclosed him in a protective bubble of fat, making him untouchable. He sighed and closed his eyes. Traces of sugar swirled inside his eyelids in colorful spirals and he smiled.
I was supposed to be normal. This wasn't supposed to happen. Why me? What did I ever do?
It was thoughts like these that drove him to seek comfort in the arms of the refrigerator every night and his eyes snapped open, smile freezing and dying in an instant, his heart beating faster and faster, the well known and dreaded feeling of fear and self hatred came over him. He struggled to get up on his feet, looking like an overturned beetle and he gave up, falling back on the floor, relaxing his aching muscles but not feeling a bit relaxed. It had been increasingly difficult to shut these thoughts off. Moreover, to shut off the feelings that made him feel this way. The shame. The horror. The guilt. The unmentionable.
I haven't done anything, I'm innocent!
If anyone found out.. He hadn't done anything, but the dark thoughts, that lingered in his head, the thoughts reared their ugly heads and said hello more and more frequently like an annoying neighbor you never wanted to meet, let alone be friends with, didn't go away. They wrapped around him like a wet sheet, making him shiver. He had friends but he was at the same time completely isolated. Caged by his own fear. His stomach hurt horribly and he groaned. No one should be able to contain this much food. This much fear.
It was never supposed to be me! I was always the normal one!
But there he was. Writhing on the floor in agony, not because of all the food, but because of the fact that his brain had turned against him in a horrible way, to horrible for him to even want to confront it. So he stuffed himself. Stuffed his mouth to keep it silent and occupied, filled his ears with the sound of chewing so he couldn't hear his own thoughts, filled his own brain with all the glorious trans fat, sugar and artificial coloring that is American fast food, just to keep it silent and numb if only for an hour. Cartman would have been proud of him. That gave him even less comfort than the food and like most other nights, Stan felt tears roll down his cheeks and fall to the floor. Tears of hopelessness and the indignant sorrow of a human who knows that he should be innocent. That he should be free of horrible dark thoughts.
I'm a good person. I'm a good person. I'm a good person. I've never hurt anybody.
But what if someday he would?
Some days he felt fine. Some times the kitchen wasn't raided for days. Those days, Stan was filled with resolve and hope. Not tonight. The days when he felt at peace were becoming fewer and less frequent.
He curled up like a ball and let his own despair consume him. That was alright in some ways. At least he didn't drag anyone with him. For now.
Why me?
Why not?