so here's the usual stuff
-I don't own south park
-I don't own the cover art and don't know the artist, credit to them though
-this is kind of an AU and I'm prolly mixing up episode dates but it's okay it's fiction so it don't have to matter riiight?
anyhow, enjoy~
"Just chill out."
"I'm sorry, I can't help it. I hate needles..."
"So you just gonna sit there like a woos?"
"N-No..."
"Good, then chill the fuck out."
Stan took a deep breath. Michael was right, he had to suck it up and deal with the pain if he was going to go through with this. Life was nothing but pain anyway, right? Might as well try and get used to it.
"Just hold still," the jeweler said as he aligned the needle gun to Stan's ear. The athlete went rigid underneath him and gripped the chair tightly.
In a flash, a quick sharp pain shot through his ear and he squeezed the life out of the chair's arms to keep from jerking away.
The same process was repeated to the other ear, and the sting it left behind burned his head and he breathed slowly, releasing the air he didn't realize he was keeping in.
"There, you're all done."
Stan opened his eyes. Michael was smiling as he held up a small mirror in front of the other. "Looks nice."
Stan stared at his new self in the mirror. Michael had already put eyeliner on him. His hair was shaggier than usual. And now thick, cross-shaped earrings hung on his ears. He really did look the part of a goth.
"Good job, now we just need to get you some cigarettes and some coffee and you'll be all set," the other male encouraged him.
Stan twitched his nose at the thought of smoking. He didn't want to be a smoker and a drinker. Slightly groaning, he answered. "Fine."
On the walk home, Stan was wheezing the life out of his throat after he had tried his first cigarette. He pretended to like it to fit in with the others, and held back his rigid coughs until he could be alone. His mind felt cloudy and his stomach felt sick as soon as he stuck the cancer stick in his mouth. Inhaling that was seriously not one of his better ideas. The hot coffee didn't help, either. How the hell did those kids do that every day?
Sighing, Stan stopped for a moment to put his back against a brick wall. He wasn't even sure what he was doing, and whether or not whatever he was doing was helpful or harmful. Truly, he knew his relationship with Wendy was slipping for a long time. It just especially bothered him that she wouldn't even tell him why she dumped him, and she didn't even do it herself. She had sent a friend to do it for her. And she was already with another male. Meaning she probably never loved him in the first place.
And then there was Kyle. His best friend, his everything, now that Wendy was out of the picture. The redhead obviously did not approve of Stan's choice. And in times like this, Kyle was honestly never very supportive. They'd been fighting a lot lately and Stan couldn't understand why. Just more pain. Is it ever gonna end?
When he felt cold rain drops hit his skin, he knew he had to hurry home.
He really hoped his parents weren't there.
Of course they were.
"Stanley, what in God's name have you done to yourself?!" Sharon was horrified the minute she laid eyes on her son.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Randy asked, obviously not pleased with him, either.
Stan sighed, eyes on the floor. He should've expected this sort of thing. How would the other goth kids handle this?
"Why do you care?" He asked emotionlessly.
"What?" his mother was taken aback out of anger and also concern at the same time.
"Because your mother worked hard to push your body out of her body and you can't just do stuff like that!" Randy answered, earning an eye-roll from both Sharon and Stan.
"Randy," the woman complained. "Why don't you just go upstairs?"
"No, Sharon! I'm not just gonna let my kid turn into some little bitchy goth kid!"
You already have, Stan thought bitterly.
"Randy!" His mother argued. "Why do you always have to be so damn arrogant?!"
And an argument broke out, as usual. Stan took that opportunity to go upstairs to his room, shutting the door behind him.
The arguing continued for what seemed like hours. Stan was getting sick of it. He could hear his mother and father spewing out awful words to each other. He tried putting on his music, Grateful Dead, and covering his head with his pillow. It didn't help. He angrily threw his pillow across the room and sat up.
He'd give nothing more than to tell his parents to just shut the fuck up. At this point he wondered why they didn't just split and get it over with, before they kill each other. It would hurt him, but he's already accepted that his parents don't feel love for each other, maybe not even for him.
He sighed, pulling his iPhone out of his pocket and scrolling through his contacts. He came across Kyle's name and felt a burn in his eyes. Before he could stop himself, he pressed the dial button.
"Hello?"
"Kyle?"
"Yeah?"
"...what's up?"
"What do you mean? You're the one who called me, what's up with you?" The redhead answered.
Oh. Right. "I... I don't know. Nothing."
He wanted to talk to Kyle but he didn't know what to say. He needed to talk out his problems, but he tried not to dump them on Kyle.
"Look at you. Look what you've become."
"Your negativity is poison to me."
Kyle's words stung to this day.
The redhead was heard sighing on the other end. "Okay. Why are you calling me?"
"I don't know," he repeated.
"Do you need something?"
"No, I guess not."
"Well I gotta go, okay? I'm trying to eat dinner with my family."
"Okay... bye."
The line went dead without another word.
Stan put his face in his hands. If he couldn't be himself around his friends, who were his friends really? He bit his lip as he took a small napkin out from his pocket with a phone number written on it. Entering the new contact in his phone. Michael.
He pressed the dial button again, and it rang for a small amount of time.
"Who the hell is this?" A deep voice came from the other end when he answered.
"Hey Michael. It's me."
"Stan?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, hey," he responded. Stan could tell he was smoking, by the sounds of him inhaling and exhaling louder than necessary.
"Hey."
"How do your ears feel?"
"They don't hurt as much as they did earlier."
"Good. Did your folks see?"
"Yeah."
"Damn what did they say?"
"They didn't approve."
"They never will," Michael blew out a puff of smoke. "Stan I'm gonna tell you something. No matter what you do, your parents are going to be bitches. That's how it is for us too. They don't like the way we are. They don't even care why. So we gave up on trying to please them or whatever the fuck they want from us. There's no point. Life is pointless."
These dark, depressing words actually comforted Stan. Michael understood him. "I hate my parents."
"I know. So do we."
"Michael... how do you deal with it?"
"...I'll tell you. But you might not like it."
Stan opened the door to his bedroom after talking with Michael on the phone for awhile. His words played in his mind when he explained how they dealt.
"Slit your wrists."
"W-What?"
"You heard me, woos. Slit your wrists. I know it sounds fucked up and maybe it is. But it's how we deal. Just do it. You're not a pussy, are you?"
"N-No."
"Then do it."
Stan's world went still. Slit his wrists? How would that help anyone through anything? He wasn't actually going to do it, he just told Michael what he wanted to hear. There's no way he'd ever want toー
"Randy you heartless prick! You just go burn in hell, you hear me?! Burn in hell!"
"Fuck you Sharon you stuck up bitch! Stop dumping all the shit on me!"
"Everything is your fault you asshole! You've ruined this family!"
"Everything was fine until you had to give birth to those stupid ass kids! You ruined this family!"
"And whose the one who brought that on me, prick?!"
Actually, it was starting to sound nice.
"You little bitch!"
Stan was surprised by another voice suddenly come behind him and was forcefully shoved into the wall.
"Ow!" He screeched, turning around to find his angry older sister.
"You made them fight again, you piece of shit! I swear this family was fine until you came along."
Stan's face faltered as he put a hand to his throat as a result of the wind being knocked out of him. "It's not my fault our parents don't belong together..."
"It is your fault, everything is your fault you little turd!" She raised a hand to hit him again, but he bolted to the bathroom and locked the door.
Shelley banged on the door violently, "get your shit-ass out here you little cunt!" She hissed angrily.
Stan sat down on the floor, back against the wall, covering his ears with his hands. It hurt, his ears still stung, but he didn't want to hear it.
"Fine, stay in there like a bitch! As soon as you come out you're dead, you hear me? Dead!"
Stan swallowed. Shelley was gone now but he didn't move.
He just began to cry. He cried into his hands, his whole body trembling. He felt so pathetic. Weak. Helpless.
"You're not a pussy, are you?"
He looked up at the counter. A sharp raid or sat still by the shower. Calling his name.
"No."
"Then do it."
He stood up and picked up the raiser. He put it to his wrist. His body trembling again.
No. No he can't do this... not on his wrist, anyway.
He moved it up. Rolling up his sleeve with it. He pressed the raiser to his skin. Pressed down, and sliced his forearm.
"F-Fuck," he said, the pain shooting through him instantly.
But he did it again.
Just do it.
He kept going. He wasn't sure how much time had passed. He snapped out of his trance when he started feeling lightheaded. He saw a frightening amount of blood on the floor.
"Shit, I took it too far," he mumbled as he scrambled to clean up the blood on the floor.
If he was going to do this, he'd have to be more careful. Maintain his control.
Somehow Michael had been right. He thought he felt better. It seemed like it at the time, anyway. It was just something he'd have to get used to, like smoking.
And pain.
Life is nothing but pain. Might as well try and get used to it.
don't ask me why I'm writing such a depressing story bc I don't know
there are characters like Stan that just get whumpage
I love Stan my poor little child sorry I'm doing this to you
ohh one more thing I'm not for self-harm, but (if you couldn't tell already) I really like dark fics and I think it's a good element to a FICTIONAL story.
don't actually cut your wrists pls it doesn't help anything
so I dunno shall I continue this~?
-luna
