Searching for Sanity

~TheRealityOfFantasy~

Stan's house is no longer a home and he doesn't know where to go (slash, but not to the extreme. Still, don't like, don't read).

South Park belongs to Matt Stone and Trey Parker; I have no rights to anything but my fanfics.

Closets aren't very good for escaping from your problems. Say, for example, your house is on fire. If you decide to seek shelter in a closet while everything around you is burning to a crisp, you're just asking to get barbequed. It won't help in a flood either. And a ghost would slip right through the door and possess you or something like that, because that's just how things work in South Park. Do you know what else hiding in a closet won't help you with? Hiding from your drunken dad who's on a rampage. I learned this the hard way.

Dad came home from the bar a little while ago. It was part of his routine; once every few weeks he would go to the bar with his friends, have a beer or two, watch football, and come home. It was never an issue, and he never did it out of depression or to find an escape. He just wanted time with the guys. Well, it was never an issue before tonight. Shelly was really the spark that started the fire. My genius sister decided to bring her new boyfriend, Cam, home for dinner a few weeks ago. He was the school pothead and had been to jail twice for having a gun and weed on school property. All in all he was a parent's worst nightmare, and Shelly brought him to our house. When he was gone, Mom told Shelly that she didn't approve of the relationship and she lost her mind. I saw something change in her eyes and her voice reached a level I didn't know humans were even capable of reaching. I slipped away from the kitchen without a word and ran to the only secluded place I could think of: my closet. I put in my ear buds and blasted Mom and Shelly away with Green Day.

This became a nightly procedure.

"Mom, I'm only hanging out with him! I'm not freaking getting laid or anything!"

One, twenty one guns, lay down your arms, give up the fight…

"Mom, it was only one time! I'm not a god damn crack addict now!"

Far away, far away, waste away tonight. I'm wearing my heart on a noose…

"Mom, we used a condom!"

This one was tonight, right after dinner. Except this time things were different. Dad heard. Before Mom could yell at Shelly and tell her what a disgrace she was and the whole nine yards, Dad wordlessly approached my sister, slapped her directly across the face, and walked out to head to the bar. Mom, or an empty shell of her, walked up the stairs and closed her bedroom door behind her. Shelly stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen holding her scarlet cheek, trying to process what had happened. She eventually blinked and walked away, the butt of a cigarette sticking out of her pocket. Where did I go? To my closet so Green Day could take me away from this hell.

I walk a lonely road, the only road that I have ever known. Don't know where it goes, but it's only me and I walk alone…

I sat there in the dark with my favorite band on shuffle for about three hours (or three decades) before I felt the slam of the front door shake the entire house. The volume bar on my iPod receded as I held down the button and poked my head out of the door. At the bottom of the stairs Dad was stumbling around like he had one of everything at the bar. He still had a bottle in his hand and brought it to his lips, chugging the contents. His grip loosened and the empty bottle shattered on the floor, sending shards of glass in every direction. He staggered over to the staircase and made his way to my bedroom, muttering worlds that were drowned in alcohol.

As he got closer I could make out, "Stan, I'm coming. Stan! Stan, c'mere!" I silently slid the door shut and buried myself under fallen clothes, but my foot slammed into the wall and Dad threw the door open, peering down at me. I felt like I could get drunk just from the stench of beer on him.

"Stanley," he slurred, "everyone is this house is dealing with crap, but you're hiding from it all. You're avoiding it so you can keep a stupid smile on your face. Who gave you the right to be happy?" He inched closer to me and I choked on his beer breath. He grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me up off the ground. "You are going to feel pain, Stanley Marsh, and you are going to take it like a man!"

Right before my dad's knuckles could connect with my nose, I raised my knee and hit him where no guy ever wants to be hit. EVER. He fell backwards clumsily and hit his head on my metal bed frame, moaning in pain and confusion. I took the golden opportunity to get the hell out of there. My mind was foggy as I took the stairs two at a time and I tumbled down into the pile of broken glass. Blood immediately began seeping out of a gash in my forehead and my hand would need stitches, but I pushed the pain to the back of my mind and bolted out the door, leaving Dad barely conscious in my bedroom.

. . .

It's been about an hour since I left home and I've just been wandering aimlessly around town. I had nowhere to go, no money, and the snow had soaked my shoes ages ago; I can feel frostbite coming. I pull my cell phone out to check the time and I'm greeted with my wallpaper: a recent picture of Kyle and me at our last sleepover. I told him I wanted my background to be of me and my Super Best Friend.

"Dude, you're so gay," he had said, chuckling.

But it's his wallpaper too.

I know where I have to go. I turn around to go back to my neighborhood, but instead of walking up my driveway I hurry past it, my sights set two doors down. The Broflovski house.

Kyle has a tree that if I climb halfway up and jump Superman-style, I'll belly flop directly on his bed (this was the coolest thing ever when we were nine. We played Superman almost every day with Kenny- Not Cartman, though. He was too fat to be Superman.) I hoist myself up onto the lowest branch, which is a lot easier than it was six years ago. I skip a few branches that used to be crucial for me- excuse me: Superman- and push Kyle's window open. The moonlight floods through when the curtains move aside and it captures Kyle's sleeping face. I didn't even consider that he would probably be asleep at- I checked my phone- 2:37AM. I mentally kick myself and slip inside my best friend's window, landing with a soft thud. His face tenses and I fear I've woken him up, but I'm proven wrong when he begins snoring. Loudly.

"That's attractive, Kyle," I mumble. Then I look at him more closely. I notice the moonlight softly blanketing his face and red curly hair, which has grown a bit and straightened out slightly, but not too much. Mine had grown out too, but his looks better. More innocent. I look emo. I notice the smirk that just formed on his face; he must be dreaming. I notice my heart beginning to beat faster and faster.

That really is attractive…

The thought pops into my head before I can stop it. Okay, NO. I did not just think that Kyle Broflovski, my Super Best Friend, is attractive. NO WAY. I'm just… happy to see him. Yeah, that's it. I'm finally with the one person that could take away this weight on my shoulders and my mind just took off. I shake my head and sit down on the bed next to Kyle.

"Dude, wake up, please," I whisper, nudging his shoulder. He turns to face me but doesn't wake up.

"Kyle!" I say a little louder.

"Mmmpghgh… what…?" He mumbles, rubbing his eyes. It was cute. Oh my god, you freaking gaywad! I mentally scold myself, and then try to look as natural as possible. Kyle's eyes open and he stares at me, puzzled and alarmed.

"Stan? Is everything okay, Dude?" He asks, concern clear in his voice. I shake my head. "What's up? And why are you all bloody?" He glances at my forehead. The blood had barely slowed down and was now trailing down the side of my nose.

"My-" I start, but my voice cracks from the sobs that I was beginning to lose control of. Kyle puts a reassuring arm around my shoulders and looks at me, pleading me with his emerald eyes to continue. I take a breath and begin again.

"Shelly's still being a bitch. She had sex with Cam and Dad slapped her, and then went out to get drunk. He… He came home…" tears are streaming down my face, mixing with the partially dried blood, and it's getting harder to breathe. I reach up to my face and when I pull away my fingertips are scarlet. Kyle stands up and grabs my wrist. I don't protest; I follow him to the bathroom across the hall. The light is blinding after sitting in Kyle's dark bedroom, but my eyes adjust quickly. He motions for me to sit on the counter, and I comply. He begins to pull hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, and bandages from the cabinet beneath the sink. As he's cleaning my wounds, he asks in a tone so quiet I barely hear, "What happened to you?"

"I fell on broken glass. Dad came home and tried to punch me so I ran… I ran and tripped into a pile of b-broken glass from w-when he threw a bottle." He nods and moves down to the gash on my hand. I wish he would say more, because if I try to talk again I'll break.

A few minutes go by with no words spoken. The only sound is that of the faucet turning when Kyle soaks a washcloth to rinse my wounds. I break the silence.

"Thank you." I force the words out, but they bring more sobs. Kyle pulls me off the counter by my unhurt hand, expecting me to walk back to his room, but I collapse against him. He puts one arm along my back and the other beneath my knees, carrying me bridal style to his bed. He places me down beside him, leaning against the headboard, and wraps me up in his arms. I have an iron grip on his pajama shirt and he can probably feel my tears on his shoulder through his shirt, but I can't stop; I finally have a place where everything can come out. A period of loud, body-wracking sobs takes over me and Kyle pulls me into his lap. I curl up into a ball and lean into his chest, and he starts to run his hand through my hair, muttering statements about how everything is going to be okay.

Eventually the tears begin to subside and I stop shaking. Still, Kyle doesn't let go of me. I ease myself out of his grasp but remain in his lap.

"I'm sorry, Kyle," I whisper, my voice raspy. He puts a hand to my cheek and kisses my forehead. The darkness masks the blush that's scorching my face.

"Stan, do not apologize. None of this is your fault; don't blame yourself. I don't care that you woke me up, so don't feel bad about that. I'm glad you came to me, and I would hold you like this every night if you needed me to." His lips connect with my forehead once more, and he pulls away. We make eye contact for a split second, and before I can stop myself, I capture his lips with mine. I don't know if he likes it or is repulsed by it; I pull away before I can find out.

"Oh God, Kyle. I'm so sor-" He cuts me off.

"Don't you dare say sorry."

I couldn't if I wanted to. He presses his lips to mine and holds it for much longer than last time. I smile into the kiss and then break away and curl up against him, closing my eyes and slipping into the night.

I found my sanity with Kyle.