"What the fuck is wrong," he said, and blinked.
Stan's voice was almost hallow, much too deep, much too scratchy, as if he hasn't been using his voice at all or as if he's been using it too much. He has an itch to clear his throat but he doesn't want to ruin the silence. The expectant silence.
There was no one else in his room; he was alone on his bed, sat cross legged in the middle and stared directly at his wall on the other side. He stared at it as if he was angry, his eyes slitted, intensely focused, but the wall wasn't what he was really looking at.
"Fuck," he said, and clenched his teeth and lowered his eyes. "What the fuck is wrong. I don't understand." He picked at his shoes, at the seam of his jeans and fiddled with his shoelaces. He swept his finger across his brow, down his nose and flitted his eyes across his floor as if he were searching for something.
But he's not. And he's still alone in his room.
"Listen," he said. "I'm tired of feeling this. None of this is me, none of this is my fault, and I'm fucking tired of having to feel the backlash of the fuckers around me. So stop."
He sniffed and looked back up at the wall, but for some reason that was too hard so he looked back down and continued to fiddle with his laces.
"Come on self," he said, his voice scratchy. "just realize you're not worth this bullshit and stop feeling like an ass-hole."
His brows pulled together and he breathed harshly. He blinked rapidly and threw his shoelace against his shoe and stretched out his legs so they dangled over the bed. "I'm tired of it," he said, looking up at the ceiling. "So stop," he said, and elongated the vowel in 'stop' and let his voice crack when he went too long. He made a high pitched noise in the back of his throat and put effort into it, kept his mouth closed and furrowed his brows. He stopped when he began to get lightheaded and stared dazedly at his wall for a moment. That felt better, he thought, and brought his legs back up to the bed and brought himself up on his knees, turned towards his pillows. He picked one up in both hands, took a deep breathe, and face-planted against the fabric so he could scream and scream in his empty room until he was out of breathe and dizzy and tired and suddenly feeling better than he had all day.
"Well," he said, as he collapsed against the mattress, half his face hidden by the blankets. "That's one way to do it."
When he has to be around his family later, and when he has to deal with the ass-tards at school, he knows that the bullshit feelings within his chest and his head will come back with force and he'll just be the kind of tired that isn't good. But he'd be good for tonight. And he'd be good after school tomorrow. Because when he comes home and his mom isn't sitting in the living room downstairs, he could just hold his head while he screams and screams.
The sigh pulled from him came from his gut and traveled through his throat, heaved against the blankets and fanned around his face. He closed his eyes and wondered how he would explain his rough and heavy voice tomorrow.
He fell asleep.