They were young when it started. Too young to realize. To young to care about the consequences.

They had a dream, Stan always thought. An idea, a vision.

But well they were young.

There was the sound of something breaking. A piercing scream, echoing in the room.

Stan flinched slightly. 'Is this really necessary?'

Clyde looked up a bloody baseball bat in his hand.

'He said, he knows something.' For a moment a bit of life came back into his dead eyes.

'He said we should find out what exactly.' His voice was shivering with excitement.

'So we do find out.' He turned around, back to the crumbled figure in front of him.

Stan closed his eyes as he lifted the bat again.

Another piercing scream echoed from the walls.

Later as he walked down the hallway to his room he tried to remember when exactly Clyde had started to enjoy this.

He sighed. He was tired. It had been a long day. His stomach cringed at the thought of tomorrow.

He didn't said anything useful. He just screamed. And screamed and screamed and screamed and...

'Close the door Stan. It's getting cold.' He hadn't even noticed that he already reached his room.

Or their room. His head was spinning slightly. He closed the door.

Wendy looked up from her book. 'How was your day?' 'The Goths found Butters.' 'Really? How is it going?' What was she really asking, Stan wondered. Did she wanted to know about Butters or did she wanted to know about all the stuff Clyde was able to do with a bat.
'Not that good.' It was a neutral answer. Wendy seemed to be slightly disappointed. 'I'm tired.' he added quickly. Was she disappointed that he didn't wanted to speak with her about it? For a second the silence was there again and he again he realized with a terrifying clearness that he didn't know what he was doing, didn't know why he was doing this all. His eyes wandered over the furniture in his, their, room, so proper, so clean, so wrong.

His shoulders slumped down.

'Oh my poor dear.' Just a few seconds too late, only just a bit too sweet. She stood up and he saw that she was wearing that dress again. 'Lay down.' She caressed his check. He wondered if any of them really thought it was a loving action. 'I'll make it good.' she lead him to his, their, bed and he followed without resisting.

His head started to hurt. Something was wrong, no, everything was wrong and he didn't know how to fix it, how to make it well again.

His mind wandered back to Butters lifting his head, his face bloody, to Clyde, the mad sparkle in his eyes, lifting his bat, to Wendy in the purple dress, standing next to Him, like it was their rightful place and he was somewhere in between this all but it was way to late to figure out where exactly and to found out how he could change anything, something.

'I'll make you forget.' Wendy whispered into his ear while she slowly undressed him.

Maybe it was the true, maybe it was a lie, maybe it was all just an illusion.

It was good enough for now.

They got old, he thought dull, later when Wendy was moving under him, in him, not quite for him.

They got old and he got tired.