Some quick notes:

Most of the content to this particular chapter was drawn from personal experience...I'll leave it at that.

The imagery that I've re-created here was inspired by the Soft Cell song "Bedsitter" (hence the chapter's title), as well as The Postal Service's "We Will Become Silhouettes", particularly the intro to that particular track. "Tom's Diner" by Suzanne Vega gets a rather obvious shout-out as well.

The title of the overarching story itself, "The Art of Falling Apart" is taken from a later Soft Cell album, and the twisting of the phrase Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret (the name of their first album, and one of my personal faves) is another Soft Cell reference. And finally, to state the absolutely painfully obvious, the opening quote is from what is perhaps Soft Cell's greatest song, "Fun City".

For the record, I have resisted using either the lyrics or the title of "Tainted Love". (Lulz.)

Although the story is classed as StanKenny, StanKyle features prominently, and indeed much of the emotional brain-breakage on Stan's part hinges on his (former) relationship with the latter.

Stan is a "sensitive jock" (gay football players I have personally termed "skullfucks" -- but that's quite another tale altogether) whose floridly explosive reactions to the corrosive drama herein are explained by his fondness (really not all that out of character, if one thinks about it) for classical English Lit.

Hopefully the story doesn't suck too bad...at any rate, leave me some feedback and tell me what y'all think!

Episode I
Bedsitter

I tried to make friends,
Tried to make amends –
I've sunk so low
It's hard to climb out.

Soft Cell, "Fun City"

It was all I could say.

Dammit.

I should've been saying more, saying something to ease myself and steady myself but I couldn't, too hopped up on pain and pressure and diseased innuendo, all the happy memories exploding, spraying bloody infected pus all over the room – and I don't have a fucking mop.

I would've told myself not to fall in love with an image, were not the image – him and me at school two days ago – so beautiful and real…but there I was staring at the computer screen – two days ago is a lost golden age – because I'm secretly a dark Jockfag who writes out his feelings in a journal all flowery and nice, like right now…football players aren't supposed to have feelings, but hey guess what? We do – and right then, my feelings were failing me completely.

The blinking light on the "D" drive was chirping in my head, over and over, he doesn't love you/he didn't love you/he doesn't love you/he didn't –

No – he did, he did, once…

His eyes – the shade of his eyes are blue, brilliant sparkling blue like transparent crystals, whereas mine…are darkened blue, the color of sapphires and desire, they meet his – can it be said that they really do? – and together, we are the blue of skies untainted, of heavens that radiate in the Sun's warm glow...

Where the Hell do I get this shit? What the Hell is wrong with me – ?

His expression is always so adorable, a puppydog I just wanted to clutch and hold, whisper-yell every pointless, worthless word of obsessive passion and squeeze it all into less than a second of a packed and exploding Eternity, the stars stopping to point and gape, black spirals of Infinity unraveling and wrapping across my mouth –

– okay, I'm going way overboard here, but I – I can't not think about it –

– because I can't feel anyone's lips, anyone's kiss, only the hard metal brace of something like a muzzle, as would befit a keep-me-in-a-cage freak-of-nature like me, to silence me, not to call him with a bark or a howl, when I can't do anything other than manifest primal, lonely, insane, absolutely blasphemous urges…

Fuck.

No use.

The only thing I wanted to do was touch him, feel him – and the only thing I could do was pass out on the bedroom floor.

"I love you, Stanley Marsh. Thank you – for picking me, I don't deserve you…me, a fucking loser like me, not Kyle…me…"

"Uh, Stan? It's me, listen – can we talk for a second? I really don't think this working…"

The sun came up the next day…

Today was a new day – but today the Sun did not seem to care what day it was, if an Empire had fallen during the night or a civilization had reached it zenith while everyone else was sleeping…really, it was, after all, the same thing, different only in the details.

The shower poured over me, but it couldn't wash off that rank scent of defeat, or get the taste out of my mouth of the – of the vomit of the night before.

What a stupid thing I did, myself tells myself, but I'm not listening to me – I don't trust myself, not with my body, not with my soul, never again, lest we forget, Sweet Jesus.

Getting out of the bathroom, the spring morning comes through the window, with the pale lemon-dust of the sunlight's glow…there was supposed to be life out there, coming out and rebirthing the world over, casting radiance from one continent to the next in perfect harmony with the sauntering waves in the oceans…

Enough poetry. It's all bullshit in the end.

Off the charger comes the phone – and hey, presto! people care.

You have – seven – teen – new messages. To play these messages, press –

No.

Fuck no.

I don't want to listen to them. They aren't him – I just know they aren't – and they don't a damn thing on him. Unless it was…unless it was his voice, I didn't wanna hear another Goddam sound.

I collapsed to my bed and I feel my face convulse. At first I tried to fight it...I sat up, and stared stupidly over at my desk where the papers were all over it, pens and pencils and open notebooks and even a candle burnt down to look all spooky – hey, whattya know, Cartman was right for once, Jockfag likes to –

"Hyah! Damn Jockfag sucks Jewcock!"

– likes to be gay and read Shakespeare, Jockfag likes to be gay and write poetry and then go play quarterback for the school, Jockfag sucks Jewcock and swallows Jewcock, loves to swallow Jewcock, promises Jewcock he'll love him forever and they'll move to Canada and get married, and then dumps him like yesterday's dinner.

Hot fucking damn, I'm a worthless human being.

That was the last straw – I couldn't fight it and then I gave up, and then the dam burst, and oh Jesus Christ it was awful – I couldn't stop —I let it all out, ripping it out with Kyle's invisible hands and Kenny's invisible claws. By not saying – thinking – their names, I was just making it seem like it wasn't all that bad…but it was…

I started to hyperventilate – could this get any worse?

Actually, yes.

I passed out.

Blacked out.

Turns out guzzling pills doesn't just fuck up the night, it fucks up the day. Everytime I dryheaved last night I thought of Kyle crying on the phone and Kenny standing in my doorway – the parting glance – turning and walking away.

The stomach acid burnt my tongue the way Kenny – Kyle – the way their tongues caressed it, once upon a time – up from my throat where the pills went down, because I wanted to show my body what my mind's been having, those healthy doses of the need to hurt.

After all these years, I never once thought or believed it could ever come to this. But somewhere forgotten in the shades of my self-worth, I knew that if it ever did, it would be my fault – me, destroying me, destroying everything and everyone else.

I wake up and the sun is still shining, and Sparky is curled up on the foot of my bed, he must've wandered in while I was sleeping…he must've known his best friend was in trouble.

It's Sunday morning and somewhere in my head is "Tom's Diner" by Suzanne Vega, I want some coffee and a newspaper and a nice relaxing chair, embroidered slippers and a bathrobe to match – make it all so banally normal, all so welcoming back into the routine and wheels and cogs of life...

It's Sunday morning and the all-night non-stop erotic catatonic cabaret extravaganza of what turned out to be perhaps the most absolutely pathetic attempt at suicide in history has gone to bed.

And there I am – awake.

This is where it should it end – you know, camera pans out to me crying myself to sleep again – but no, I'm never that lucky and nothing is ever that fitting.

Instead, the phone buzzes.

Kenny McCormick.

I let the voicemail get it – I start crying again, harder than before, when the phone buzzes again – the son of a bitch left me a voicemail, and it had taken him a solid three minutes to do so.

What choice did I have? I picked up the phone – I pressed down one and waited.

You have – eight – teen – new messages. To play –

I press one again, and hold the phone up to my ear…