Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any of the following characters.
Henrietta's room was a gothic paradise. Crosses hung upside-down on the walls—which were black and adorned in posters of bands like Bauhaus and Skinny Puppy—candles were lit on every surface, musky-scented incense was burning away on the nightstand, and the vinyl of "Disintegration" was playing in the background.
"What is the 'cure' supposed to be, anyway? And what's being cured?" Henrietta pondered the questions that all fans of The Cure ask themselves at one point or another.
"Whiskey, and depression," Stan smirked sardonically, taking a swig of liquor for emphasis. An intermittent alcoholic—having discovered the wonders of alcohol at a tender age—he'd recently gotten himself bumped off the football team for substance abuse. Subsequently, Wendy dumped him, sending him spiraling downward into a deeper depression; and he couldn't even talk to Kyle about it, without dragging his empathetic friend down with him. Stan occasionally needed to be around someone he didn't have to worry about possibly discouraging, and that's where Henrietta came in. She frowned sympathetically, regretting ever having regarded depression as a fashion she could simply wear. Stan had always been dubbed a conformist in the eyes of the goths, but their issues paled in comparison.
"I'm jealous of your hair," she admitted, fluffing his raven tufts. "It's naturally black."
"You're blonde, right?"
"Unfortunately." Henrietta rolled her eyes for the dozenth time that day, lighting a cigarette. Stan watched as she brought it to her black lips; the way her chest rose and fell with each smoky breath. His eyes settled on the black lipstick stain on the filter, and he found himself considering the fact that, if they were to kiss, the black would smear off onto his lips. He'd been thinking about Henrietta more, these days, in ways he'd never had. Kyle distanced himself when Stan felt he needed his super best friend most, and it seemed Wendy had finally given up on him, but Henrietta had always been there for Stan, despite that he'd only sought her out in times of need, and never offered her any solace in return; despite the fact her posse of goth boys still passed judgment on him.
"Henry..." He gazed into her eyes; smoky, purple eyeshadow, emphasizing her sultry expression. As though by a force of gravity, Stan felt himself being pulled into Henrietta's orbit; lips colliding. She pulled away with a gasp; eyes wide. "I'm sorry, I have no idea where that came fro—" His sentence was cut off by an abrupt kiss, leaving him equally stunned. When Henrietta pulled back, her typically pale cheeks were stained pink, and Stan thought that maybe she was his "cure."