A/N: This is set at the end of the episode 'Goth Kids 3 Dawn Of The Posers' after the boys left Henrietta's house. It's a bit dark and it MAY BE TRIGGERING to some people so be careful! I haven't written in some time so I may be a little rusty. I just love the goth kids. I apologise if the format of this story isn't done very well. It is extremely annoying and difficult uploading on a phone :/
Disclaimer: I do not own South Park, Matt Stone and Trey Parker do. I do not own any of the characters mentioned in the fanfiction and I will admit that there's a little bit of OC. Just a tiny bit!
Real Pain
They walked together for a few minutes heading home from Henrietta's. The night sky looking down on them while the snow surrounding them bit their skin with every useless step they took. Each boy exhaling poison from their now black coated lungs, stinging cracked lips from the unpredictable wave of breeze. A routine they've come to depend on. Each night halting at the end of Henrietta's street as the three goth boys departed their separate ways to the houses that they deliberately avoided. Alas the moons rising called them home each evening, forcing them with its glow to endure in useless dinner chit chat that usually ended with a lecture about the clothing they wore. Each parent having an almost rehearsed line to yell out to them as each one dragged themselves into a depressing slumber.
"Michael for the love of Christ wash your hair some day will you?"
"Firkle sweetie, why on earth would you want to be so terrifying?"
"Pete, stop with your stupid attitude."
Every night it's the same.
The boys continued walking in silence. Michaels eyes looking drained and blackened from the now smudged eye liner.
Petes legs tired and numb from the now falling snow.
Firkles hands shaking as he takes one last inhale of the nicotine.
All three stop and the snow beneath them sizzles in unison as each boy drops their addiction to the ground. They form a tiny group as they turn to one another. It's become a sort of silent farewell to them three boys. As if saying "cya tomorrow" with their eyes. As two of the boys went to turn into their separate streets, the tallest of the three spoke up.
"So you think she'll be okay?"
Pete and Firkle halt and turn to face their leader. Not officially a leader but the one out of all four goths that they all looked up to.
Pete spoke up softly, sticking his hands into his pockets. "What do you mean?"
Michael looked at the two boys, a hint of concern in his almost always emotionless eyes. "I dunno, she seemed pretty embarrassed."
Firkle looked down at the icy concrete. "I know I am," he said.
"Yeah you friggin emo traitor," Pete scoffed, flipping his fringe out of his annoyed glance.
"What do you expect? He's only six," Michael said, defending the kindergartener.
Pete rolled his eyes and a slight smile appeared on the side of his lips. "You're both pretty friggin conformist."
They each gave one another a soft chuckle and sighed into silence once again.
"No, but seriously Michael," Pete softly spoke up, flipping his hair out of his face. "I'm sure she's okay. You kinda made her feel better."
Michael nodded slowly, "yeah, well cya."
They all half waved and continued on their separate ways.
Pete dragged his feet up the street, gasping in bitter air as he groaned up his drive way. He reached for his keys to the garage and made his way slowly inside and out the back door to his trailer.
"What a fucked up day," he whispered to himself as he entered his dispiriting cave.
Pete had managed to convince his parents to let him stay in their camper out back. Anything to escape the clutches of his damn conventionalist birth creators. They had agreed so long as he ate dinner with them every night.
A voice was heard from outside as vexatious knocking rumbled his trailer door.
"Pete, inside for dinner. You're late."
Pete rolled his eyes and slammed his coffee on the counter.
"Not tonight Mom."
"Now young man."
"Argh, can't you just leave me to my nonsensical self loathing in piece woman? I'm not in the mood for your traditionalist dinner conversations tonight."
His mom opened his door and crossed her arms across her chest.
"I am sick of this 'my life is miserable' crap Peter. Now march!"
His mother pointed towards the house and Pete groaned as he walked past her with his head down.
"You're such a conformist bitch."
She rolled her eyes and followed, taking a seat at the dinner table opposite her husband.
Pete took his usual seat with an over dramatic sigh and slumped into the chair disinterested.
The dinner went on as usual with remarks about his hair or how 'boys don't wear eye makeup' and how 'his life was fantastic and he should be grateful for what he's been given.' Pete ignored the nonessential conversation and indirect comments and excused himself after a few bites of his chicken.
"You guys are lame. I'm going to bed."
Back in the comfort of ones own element he lit a cigarette and sat down on his single chair. Alone, left to his own dreary thoughts he began thinking about the day. Exhaling the last of his smoke he let his eyes wander to parts of his body.
"Fucking train wreck."
He stood up in a rage and threw his ashtray onto the floor.
"A fucking hypocrite."
The small home felt darkened, more so then usual and his hands shook as that 'feeling' came back.
It was a feeling of hopelessness, where the world felt swallowed and his mind began to fill with questions he didn't want answers to and thoughts that made him feel drained.
Pete raced to his bathroom and desperately reached for the only drug that made it all stop.
"I have a fantastic life ay mother dear?" He said to himself as he stared at the object. He smiled at the glow that shined on it as his faded ceiling light hit it.
"You don't know fucking anything you bitch."
He tore off his clothing, leaving himself exposed to the universe. That same universe that's fucked with him all these years. He let the voices scream at him as he stared angrily at his reflection in the mirror. His body wasn't supposed to look the way it did. Covered in every size and shape of self hate and fury. His body was a canvas of scars, of burns and of bruises. All deliberately put onto his skin by none other then the canvas himself.
Pete punched his mirror, letting warm, dark blood run down his hand. It wasn't enough release though. Over and over again gliding his blade across his skin. Finding any little patch of skin he could find that wasn't already painted with his art.
He laughed at the sensation. The feeling of relief, mixed with a slight numbness. No more voices, just silence. That meant he could stop.
He wrapped his fresh cuts up, suffocating the evidence of murder to his skin. Tightly restraining his secret in fabric.
After cleaning the rest of the mess up Pete let himself fall asleep. Displeased for the sunrise to later let him know that it's time to start another day in real pain.
A/N: I would very much appreciate a review as it's been some time since I have posted. So if you have the spare time I would be very glad!