Chapter Track: Opium – Marcy Playground

**TW: Suicide

That morning isn't pleasant. To begin with, it's bright fucking sunny. Figures that after a thunderstorm of terrifying proportions, the sky the next day would be crystal blue, without a single cloud to shield them from the light.

Stan is hungover and embarrassed. What last night felt like is difficult to explain – but as soon as the other three were all asleep, Stan found that he couldn't get to sleep himself. He knew his insomnia wasn't due to any of the reasons that Kyle has trouble sleeping when camping. Stan is okay with sleeping on the ground, and the weird flip flops in temperature, and he actually enjoys camping quite a bit. But like he said – he couldn't sleep for other reasons. It had been like one those nights when you lay in bed and just wish that you had somebody, anybody to talk to about the roiling emotions in your gut and in your head, but either you don't have anybody around that you trust with your feelings, or they're all asleep themselves.

Stan's was a combination of both. He felt the familiar rise of fear when he looked at Kyle, who fast asleep beside him. He knew that feeling all too well – I love you, but I'm so afraid that you'll leave me again.

Stan in general doesn't like letting people in on his feelings anymore. If he doesn't want to be left completely and utterly alone, then he has to keep the awful things he feels deep, deep inside himself, where only he knows about them. He can never voice them, because people don't like cynicism, they don't like sadness, they don't like fear and paranoia and all the things that plague him when everybody else goes to bed.

So he drinks. It makes hiding the darker part of himself easier, makes the world a little brighter, makes it a little easier to sleep at the end of a long day. And if hearing that the love of your life was abused by an ex-boyfriend and being attacked by a bear isn't a long day, then Stan does goddamn know what qualifies.

That's why he drank last night. None of them were awake, so he figured it didn't matter. Stan thought that he would be able to drink himself to sleep and move on. That's what he used alcohol for most of the time anyway. It was something of a lullaby. When he was in high school, he'd drunk a lot during the days, as well, but unfortunately, as an adult, he has responsibilities that require some level of sobriety.

Stan had stashed an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels in his duffel bag. It had been a last minute decision before they left for the campsite. He thinks it was a pretty rational one. How would he have been able to sleep last night, otherwise? He only drank about half of the bottle, anyhow. That was a mild boozing for him.

Still, he always regrets how much he drank when it's morning again. His ankle hurts almost as much as his head. It's awful. His only comfort is recalling Kyle – Stan doesn't remember a lot, but he does remember being held, and being called "baby."

When Stan wakes, he's tucked into Kyle's chest, but overwhelmed by smells he associates with Kenny. He realizes quickly following that he's wearing a familiar orange sweatshirt. This revelation causes him to try and piece together what, exactly, happened last night. He looks up at Kyle, who's still dead to the world. Kyle is wearing a tight-fitting NYU hoodie. Wendy's hoodie. Across the tent, Kenny is curled up around Wendy, his pajama-clad legs coming up and around hers. His head is resting on her shoulder, his arms are hooked around her, on top of her belly, and his snores sound like something close to a lawn mower.

How can she sleep when he's so loud? Christ.

And when did Kenny get Hello Kitty socks? Wait, no, Stan actually remembers that part. It was before they'd all gone to bed. Kenny cleaned up their food mess and arrived afterward in the tent completely soaked through. The only one of them that had brought spare socks was Wendy. Thus, Hello Kitty socks.

Stan lets his head fall back on the pillow that he's sharing with Kyle, and continues wondering about last night. He got drunk, he…had to take a piss? That sounds familiar. Then what?

I'm scared.

I know, baby.

That's the first real memory that surfaces.

Stan's heart lurches. For a horrifying moment, he's almost certain that he's going to throw up. Nausea washes over him in waves, but he breathes in deep, and holds back. Okay, no. No no no. He loves that too much, being called baby, being held, being okay. This is too far for him. He's too close to actually telling Kyle all of his nasty feelings and self-hatred and profound, cavernous depression ripping yawning holes inside of him.

He can't tell Kyle those things. That's how he lost Kyle last time.

I just need to be around more positive people, Stan.

For Kyle, he has to be positive. He has to be quiet about what hurts. He can't. He simply cannot speak about these horrible things inside him. He'll shut them up, he'll drink them back. He'll do whatever it takes, because that's what you do when you love somebody. You do whatever it takes to keep them happy.

Stan feels like crying again. Or drinking the rest of that Jack Daniels. Instead, he takes advantage of Kyle still being asleep, and presses his ear right up against Kyle's chest, wrapping his arms around his waist and hanging onto his super best friend like this is the last time that they'll ever see each other.

Why is Stan even awake right now? Everybody else is still asleep. The sun that's coming in from the overhead tent window is still tinted orange – it must still be sunrise. So, he pushes those horrible feelings, shoves them down, and snuggles in tighter to Kyle, kissing the little bit of neck exposed to him. It's okay. It will be okay.

When Stan wakes again, it's so the sound of flapping fabric and way-too-loud voices. He's the only one in the tent, and the only stuff in the tent is his sleeping back, his pillow, and his duffel. The tent is being shaken, and he hears Kenny's voice just outside of it, calling, "Gooood morning, Stanley Marsh. It's a beautiful day for taking down the tent, if the dickhead inside it would only wake up!"

Then he hears the distinct sound of Kenny getting slapped, and Kyle saying, "Dude. Let him sleep a little longer. He had a rough night."

"Augh," is what comes out of Stan's mouth initially.

"Nah, he's up," Kenny says from outside.

The strip of sunlight coming in from the tent's window streams directly onto his face. Kenny, as per usual, is obnoxious as fuck. Can a hungover guy get a fucking break? Apparently not around these people. Fuck.

A few moments later, Kyle crawls into the tent. He's already fully dressed, looking ridiculously good for having endured that "rough night" he spoke of mere minutes before. His clothes aren't even wrinkled. That bastard. He always looks so clean cut. To say that Stan was shocked when he heard more of Kyle's struggle with self-esteem is an understatement of epic proportions. There is literally nothing that Kyle should be self-conscious about. He's a shade on the pale side, but Stan likes that. And fuck, his fucking attractive face. It's actually a nice thing to see first thing in the hungover morning, with his unshaven jaw, his muddy-green eyes, and his sympathetic half-smile.

Kyle holds out a water bottle and a couple aspirin.

"Thought you might need this," he says.

Stan hoarsely says, "Bless you, Kyle Broflovski."

He takes the pills and chugs back water, before wiping his mouth and handing the bottle back to Kyle.

Stan sighs and sits for a moment, striving to get used to be woken before he was ready. He pulls Kenny's hoodie up off of his body. It's already hot as fuck, and he suspects that they're not very far into the day.

"Hey Stan?" Kyle says, sitting cross-legged at the foot of Stan's sleeping bag while he fishes around in his duffel for a clean set of clothes.

"Mm?" Stan responds. He discards his shirt and bottoms unabashedly. He can't a help a secret little smile when he sees Kyle's nail marks still in his hips.

Kyle hesitates for a moment. Stan glances back at him while he slips a new shirt over his head. Kyle isn't looking at Stan, he's staring down at his hands instead. But, he finally speaks after a beat, "Are you…um, okay?"

There's that pang again.

No, I'm not okay. I haven't been okay for a long time. I don't think I'll ever be okay. But I'll pretend to be okay, for you. I'll pretend to be okay, because I love you.

Stan just offers what he hopes is a convincing smile and replies, "Dude, I'm fine. I'm just a terrible drunk."

Kyle smiles back, a little uneasily. That's when Stan reminds himself, you need to be quiet about it. The little bit of horrible he lets out, Stan lets out when he's drunk. And that little tiny bit already puts Kyle off. He doesn't blame the guy. Stan puts himself off. He's terrible to be around. He'd know. He's around himself all the damned time.

When Stan and Kyle emerge from the tent, Kenny says, "Fucking finally. I was afraid you guys decided that it was good time for a morning fuck."

"Kenny!" scolds Wendy, where she's stacking camp dishes into their cardboard box. She inhales, hefting it up into her arms to take to the car.

Kenny turns and attempts to take it from her, and Wendy says, "Stop that. I can carry a box of dishes for ten feet."

"But –"

"Helping me when I tell you that I handle it on my own is called benevolent misogyny," she says.

Kenny pouts and says, "Yeah, okay. I know. You've told me before."

"I'll tell you when I need help, okay?" Wendy replies.

Kenny walks away and mutters under his breath, just loudly enough that Stan and Kyle are able to hear, "Yeah, except you never need help." Stan still can't help but continue to find it humorous that of all the people Kenny could have gotten pregnant, that it's Wendy. He's all over the chivalrous "allow me" crap that Wendy is so averse to. Stan learned to not bother to argue with Wendy early on, and after awhile, he has sort of started to understand her point of view, though not entirely. It remains comical that Kenny is still becoming used to it.

The rest of the morning goes by quickly, at least, it starts to when Stan's headache begins to subside. Kenny and Kyle take down the tent while Wendy moves the remaining supplies on the picnic table back in the trunk of the Ford, and Stan has coffee and a slice of bread, because he's too lazy to cook anything.

It's a couple hours' drive back to South Park, and the ride is mostly silent. Kenny drives, since Stan is hungover. Wendy calls shotgun, and so he and Kyle slip into the back. Stan wishes he could fall asleep, but can't. Kyle does, though. The guy cannot be in a car without passing out, Christ. Within minutes of being on the road, Kyle's head is in Stan's lap.

Wendy follows Kyle's example, which Stan finds a little hilarious.

"She sleeps in the weirdest places," Kenny says, "Like once, I found her sleeping with her head on my kitchen table."

"A car's not such a weird place to fall asleep," Stan responds.

"I guess I just associate Wendy sleeping in a car with prom night," Kenny sighs absently.

"Prom night?" Stan's brows lift high in his hair. Stan didn't actually attend prom, to his mother's dismay. He thinks that that was the peak of his mother's worry for him. While every other kid flocked to the school gymnasium (South Park High School was not the wealthiest of schools), Stan stayed at home watching Discovery Channel and drinking. He hadn't even bothered hiding the liquor from his mom that night. And she hadn't said anything. Around the time when everybody else was presumably having prom night sex, he had his head in his toilet.

Kenny 'hmphs' and says, "I never told you about prom?" he glances at Wendy, which forces Stan's brows even higher up, which he had not thought possible at all. He is under the impression that this whole Kenny-Wendy affair began just about four months ago.

"Apparently not," Stan responds. He absently strokes Kyle's hair, playing with one of his ringlets.

Kenny laughs lightly, glancing at Wendy again, and says, "You know how we sort of had a freak snowstorm?"

"Uh, yeah?" Stan answers, despite the fact that he does not remember snow at all. His head was in the toilet bowl, not next to a window.

"I think that's the only time Wendy's ever let me help her with anything. She was trying to scrape the ice off of her dad's SUV in her big poofy dress, but she was too short. We argued a bit about letting me help, but she eventually caved. And somewhere in there, we ended up in the backseat of her car."

"You had sex with Wendy on prom night?" Stan exclaims.

"Shh!" Kenny says, "Not exactly. I'm guessing you don't remember how Token dumped her on prom night, either?"

"Unfortunately not," Stan mutters.

"She was leaving early, 'cause of him. I was leaving early 'cause I got caught spiking the punch and got kicked out," Kenny explains, "And shit, I dunno. I just felt really bad for her. She was like, crying and shit. And I wanted to cheer her up. So I was like making terrible jokes while I scraped her windows for her, and I was all, 'You know what would cheer you up?' and I did this –" Kenny briefly looks back at Stan and sticks his tongue between his fingers.

"You didn't," Stan says.

"I totally did," Kenny laughs, getting a blissful look on his face, the kind you get when you remember some of your fondest memories, "and she took me up on my offer."

"You are so full of shit," Stan says, amazed.

"I'm not, I promise," Kenny returns, "She sort of stared at me for a second, and I thought she was gonna punch me in the face or something, but then she was all, 'Okay. Let's do it.'" Stan gives Kenny a look of total disbelief, and Kenny goes on, "Oh yeah. That was the look on my face, too. It took me about ten seconds flat to get the back door open and her on the seat."

Kenny stops talking after that. Stan, meanwhile, is fascinated. He had no fucking idea that all of that was going on while he was wallowing in his own feelings. He urges, "Then what happened?"

"What do you think happened, dumbfuck?" asks Kenny, "I was saving your delicate sensibilities from the gory details. But if you must know, my performance was stunning. You'll recall, I had a tongue ring at the time."

"What happened to your tongue ring, anyway?"

"Kept chipping my teeth from playing with it too much," Kenny gives a woeful sigh, "She returned the favor, too."

Stan's jaw drops. He goes, "Nu-uh. Now I know you're full of crap, you lying sack of shit."

"I don't think she'd ever given a BJ before," Kenny says casually, "Not that I wasn't totally delighted."

Stan doesn't understand why Kenny adds the last part onto his sentence, until he sees Wendy. She is most certainly not asleep, and she's giving Kenny a death glare. She says, "I'll have you know, I did an excellent job for a beginner."

"What?" Stan creaks. He can't withhold his complete shock. He just can't.

"That you did, sweetheart," Kenny says, winking playfully.

Wendy rolls her eyes, "You are so full of yourself sometimes."

"I'm telling the truth," Kenny insists, "Are you telling me you didn't enjoy my brilliant tongue?"

"Whoa there," Stan says, but they ignore him.

"Of course I enjoyed myself. That's the first time somebody ever made me – "

Kenny looks horrified, "That was the first time somebody had ever made you come? Aw, shit, dude. That sucks. But I am totally honored to hold that place in your life, sweetheart."

That's approximately the place in which Stan decides that he is totally grossed out by the conversation. He sticks his headphones in his ears, since he can't fall asleep, and massages Kyle's neck with one hand.

Stan wonders if he'll ever be able to pay Kyle back for taking care of him last night. He knows he's repulsive when he's drunk and emotional. Kyle let him cry into his jacket, for fuck's sake. Stan owes him. He hopes he'll figure out a better way to show him how much that meant than sex all the time. Not that constant sex isn't awesome, because it is. He's starting to feel like being with Kyle is turning him into some kind of slut. Slut for Kyle? Kyle-slut? Something like that.

Thankfully, they arrive back in South Park without any more conversations about sex. Stan is going to have to make a deal with Kenny – I won't talk about my sex life, if you don't talk about yours. But then he realizes, Kenny loves knowing about everybody else's sex life, and is occasionally under the impression that everybody wants to know about his, as well.

Stan's only real dilemma is figuring out how to keep all his bad feelings away from Kyle. They'll scare Kyle all the way back to New Hampshire, he just knows it.

He'll keep quiet.

Nobody needs to know.

o.o.o.o

For the next few days, Stan's life is filled with gratuitous amounts of sex and drinking himself to sleep. He's in a happy sort of haze. Or maybe, more accurately, it's a haze that he's forced himself into so that nobody has to know how terrified he is that he'd going to be abandoned. The haze is nice. If he stays in the haze, Kyle with stay with him.

"Jesus, you're happy," Heidi greets him, when Stan comes to work on Monday with his slacks actually ironed, whistling some tuneless song.

"Damn straight," he responds, but he's trying to convince himself of that, actually. I'm happy. I am happy for Kyle. I am happy. I am happy. No matter how many times he says it, though, it doesn't sink in. It doesn't sink in because Stan knows in his heart that he's lying to himself.

He hates himself and he's miserable.

Stan makes himself a pitcher of coffee in the staff lounge, but before it's even done brewing, he hears the front door to the office slam open, and shouting. Oh, shit. This usually happens when somebody is really panicked about their pet, or they feel as though Stan has wronged them in some way. They actually got a bomb threat, once, though it turned out just to be a farmer that had drunk too much and didn't care for Stan as much as he had the vet before Stan.

"Fucking Marsh! Get your ass out here!"

"E-Eric, I don't think we should be shouting, that's bad manners." That is definitely Butters, which means Butters' companion can only be one person.

Cartman yowls, "Shut the fuck up, Leopold! This is serious! Fucking dicks, all of you." Cartman shoves the office supplies and dish of candy off of the front desk. Heidi glances back and gives Stan a look of fear, before getting out of her chair and rushing toward the staff room.

"Cartman!" Stan snaps, "Calm the fuck down!"

"No, Stan, I will not calm the fuck down, you stupid fag!" Cartman starts kicking at the papers he threw onto the ground. Meanwhile, Butters is cowering back by the children's corner in the waiting area, clutching Mr. Kitty around him stomach.

Stan inhales, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. He decides not to point out that Cartman is married to a man, and therefore, technically a "fag" as well. Not that Stan appreciates the terminology, but at least when it comes to Cartman, he's grown used to it. Kyle would probably pitch a fit, though.

"You told us that Mr. Kitty was healthy! You told us!" Cartman shouts. He picks up one of the cheap chairs in the waiting area, holding it over his head for a moment, while he pants, red-faced. Then, his gaze zeroes in on Stan and he launches it at Stan. Stan ducks, and the chair crashes into the wall behind him.

"Jesus Christ!" Stan says, "Dude, Cartman, calm down. Let me see Mr. Kitty. He was healthy last time that I saw him."

Butters gives Cartman a deer-in-the-headlights look, and when Eric doesn't react, he rushes forward, following Stan to the examination room. Butters sets Mr. Kitty down and rubs his knuckles together, looking scared and upset and generally freaked out.

"Okay," Stan says, "Can you tell me why Cartman is throwing a tantrum? What's wrong with Mr. Kitty?"

"H-He's just all sad all the time," Butters explains, "He's, um, lethargic. He doesn't even like playing with his c-catnip toys."

"Alright," Stan says, "I'm gonna run some tests. Do you want to wait in here, or would you rather be out there with Cartman?"

Butters spares a glance in the direction of the waiting room and mumbles, "I'd like to s-stay here, please."

Stan has Heidi come in and help restrain Mr. Kitty. The cat, like most, is extremely displeased about having to be tied down in one place. Stan has found that cats generally hate the restraints even more than they dislike getting blood drawn. He doesn't need much for the test – it's a standard Feline Leukemia test – just about a half cc. The actual test only takes a few minutes, but the minutes are painful. Butters taps his feet against the linoleum floor and makes distressed noises under his breath, occasionally reaching out to give Mr. Kitty a reassuring pat.

Oh, shit. Stan does not like these results at all. He clears his throat, "Butters, I've got news."

"U-Uh, the good kind of news, or the bad kind?" Butters asks, but he thinks that Butters already knows that answer to that question. Butters is simply one for holding out hope.

"The, er, neutral kind," Stan says. He won't know if this is really an emergency for a couple of days; their veterinary office isn't equipped with the laboratory equipment to further analyze the blood sample. He'll have to send it off to an office in Littleton, like he's had to before. He continues, "It looks like Mr. Kitty has been exposed to Feline Leukemia."

"Oh no," Butters whines, "Is he – is he gonna die, Stan? I can't have Mr. Kitty die. Eric n' me love him."

Stan says, "We won't know exactly how bad it is for a couple of days. I'm gonna send off some of this blood to another office down in Littleton. The real results will be in in maybe two, three days. How about I call you when I get the news, okay?"

"O-okay," Butters says, sounding dejected.

Stan is overcome by a horrible wash of guilt. How could he have missed something like this? He knows that he was hungover the day that Butters took Mr. Kitty in for the first time, but typically Stan is attentive regardless. He never misses anything. Well, almost never. He missed it this time, when it could possibly be a dire mistake. There is no way to treat Feline Leukemia. After cars, it's the second biggest killer of cats. He's so stupid, fuck.

"Um, Stan?" Butters says hesitantly, as Heidi hands Mr. Kitty back to him. He shuffles his feet and holds the cat close, sounding like he's on the verge of tears, "Could you maybe t-tell Eric the results? He's gonna be awful sore at me if I d-do, and I don't wanna –"

Stan cutes him off, "Of course, Butters. Cartman already hates me. It's fine."

"Oh, geez, Stan, he doesn't hate you," Butters responds, but they both know how true that statement is: It isn't. After Stan's falling out with Kyle, Cartman never treated Stan quite in the same way. His insults were even more cutting, even more bitter, even more unfounded.

Needless to say, when Stan repeats what he told Butters in the examination room, Cartman does not take it well. He screams, throwing another chair at Stan and a third chair through the front window of the vet's office, "Goddamnit, you stupid fucking asshole faggot, Stan! How could you be so careless? I'll fucking sue you! I'll sue you for malpractice! I'll get your license revoked!"

Stan doesn't bother telling Cartman that he isn't even licensed, that he learned everything from the previous veterinarian.

But Butters does. Butters pipes up, "Stan doesn't have a license, E-Eric."

Cartman flares up. He pauses, his hands already on the fourth and final chair that is in the waiting area. He turns around, stalking toward Stan. Each footstep almost shakes the building, or at least that's what it feels like. Stan doesn't think that he's ever seen Cartman this furious, and he's seen Cartman furious a whole hell of a lot of times. He's almost scared.

Stan cringes when Cartman shoves his pointer finger in his face. His voice is like ice when he speaks again, sounding eerily calm, "You monster. You horrible fucking human being. Treating animals without a fucking license, Stan? That's fucking low. That's animal abuse, you stupid asshole. I am going to get you for this. I fucking will." Cartman straightens out and swivels on his foot. He jerks his head in the direction of the door and says, "Come on, Butters. We're leaving this sham of a veterinarian."

Stan thinks he's in shock. He stares after Cartman and Butters as they climb into Cartman's yellow Hummer. Butters gives Stan an apologetic look through the broken front window of the office, waving half-heartedly.

"Are you okay?" Heidi asks Stan.

"I…" Stan can't come up with anything to say.

Because Cartman's right. It's true.

What he's been doing is wrong. He is wrong. He's horrible. He missed something important, something that could have made a huge difference in an animal's life, if he hadn't gotten drunk the night before, if he hadn't been hungover, if he hadn't practiced fucking medicine without a license. This is all his fault, in so many terrible, terrible ways.

"Stan?" Heidi says, "If you need…you can take the rest of the day off."

Stan can't even count how many times she's said those words to him. He almost always refuses. In fact, he don't think that he's ever taken the suggestion before. But today, he blinks a couple of times before reminding himself to speak, and responds, "Yeah. Yeah, I think I will. Call me if you need anything. I'll have my cell."

"You try and have a better day, okay?" she pats him on the arm and he nods robotically, before walking swiftly out of the office and to his Ford.

Stan hasn't felt this awful in a long fucking time. And that is saying something, because he feels awful every goddamned day, except for those perfect moments of peace when he's with Kyle, and even then, there's an underlying terror, that fear that he's going to be left behind again. And he'll be alone.

Alone.

Alone alone alone alone.

He's been alone forever. For years and years. Having a precious few wonderful moments with Kyle didn't change anything. He doesn't know why he thought it did. He's happy only in those seconds. But like he said, even then, he wasn't wholly happy. Because Stan knows, he knows that this isn't going to last and that he's just another small piece in Kyle Broflovski's life. In everybody's life. He's somebody's story, somebody's cautionary tale, but he isn't a friend. Not really.

Nobody wants a friend like him.

Nobody wants a brother or a son like him.

Every time Stan sees his mother, he sees the disappointment in her face. He's nothing but her failure, alcoholic son.

When Stan arrives home, it feels too small a space for him to think in. He ignores his dogs whining for his attention. They'd be better off without him, too. He's a terrible pet owner. They treat him like him like he's some sort of God, when he's really just a waste of space. They're the only things that will ever love him like he loves them.

Stan shuffles desperately through his alcohol cabinet, until he finds the fullest bottle of whatever. He takes it with him, outside, out of his suffocating house, out to his Ford.

The only thing on his mind is finding a place where he can think.

Stan drives for what feels like hours, but in actuality, is only minutes. He drives in silence, too. He doesn't deserve to have a soundtrack. He deserves to be left with his horrible thoughts in silence. He doesn't know why he was cursed to hate this way, to be this sad, but surely, he must deserve it.

Before he fell in love with his super best friend, before he fell into this cloying pit of horrible, resounding depression, before he isolated himself from other people so they wouldn't have to be sad too, before he started drinking himself to sleep, they'd come here. This place is one of his favorite in the whole world. He used to walk here before he could drive, and through all the years that he and Kyle didn't speak, he'd still come here. Sometimes, when Kyle was I New Hampshire and he felt that yawning emptiness of needing his super best friend, he'd come up here to get drunk.

They found it when they were eleven, just fucking around. Just being kids. When they were all happy. Because they weren't original, they named this place Stark's Cliff. It's where they threw rocks at cars – their new place, really. And it was just theirs. Just Stan and Kyle and Kenny and Cartman. No stupid Craig, or any of those other assholes. Just theirs. Kenny and Cartman and Kyle forgot about it, eventually. Of course. But Stan didn't forget. He didn't forget because he never forgets anything.

He wishes he could forget all the pain, all the hurt, all the utter hopelessness that he's felt all these years. When normal people have a bad day, it goes away after awhile. When Stan has a bad day, it's like an addition to an antique collection. He's had so many bad days, but he feels like he remembers every single one.

He remembers the heartbreak he felt when Kyle first uttered, "I just need to be around more positive people," and Kenny and Cartman told him that he just wasn't fun to be around anymore.

People don't like sad people. He realized that a long time ago. He knew it before most people should know. Most people find it out later, when something terrible happens and everybody they love just wants them to stop talking about it. That's what this is like…except that the horrible thing that happened is Stan.

Stan parks his Ford on the side of road beneath Stark's cliff. He takes his liquor and tucks it under his arm, hiking the way up to the cliff itself.

The cars passing by below him look so small, but he knows that if he decided to jump, they'd kill him in an instant.

It's a strangely comforting thought.

Stan breaks open the seal on the lid of whatever alcohol he's holding. He's so consumed by this awful, sinking sadness that he doesn't even care what it is. He takes a long chug, letting it burn all the way down. Stan picks up stones and walks to the edge of the cliff.

For awhile, he lets himself throw rocks at cars. He lets himself feel like he's thirteen-year-old Stan, who only just starting to suspect that he's not as carefree at his best friends. They were always laughing then, and he just felt wrong, like he didn't fit in the world. He was a piece from a different puzzle that was meant to be in a different box. He wasn't even the same color as the other pieces he got stuck with, not the same size, either. He was, is not, and never will be anything right. Everything about him is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

He takes another deep swallow of alcohol.

And another.

And another.

Stan's swaying on his feet now.

It makes him think of Kyle, and how Kyle has been taking care of him.

Nobody should be forced to take care of him like that, and that's what he's doing every time that he gets drunk. He forces people to clean up after his pathetic messes, while all he wants to do is forget. Forget everything.

And he loves Kyle so much. So much that it makes him hurt everywhere. Not just in his heart, but he's so in love it makes in sick to his stomach, makes his head buzz with feeling, makes him tingle all the way to his fingertips. And it hurts even more when he remembers that Kyle will never love him back. Kyle is leaving at the end of the summer. This is just a phase.

Then he'll be all alone again.

Stan remembers every day that he's been alone.

He remembers every time he got drunk.

Every time he went on a walk to clear his head.

Every time he saw somebody laughing and hated them for it.

He remembers every time that somebody told him to "cheer up" and how he just got sadder because he couldn't make himself get happy like they all wanted him to.

He remembers every pair of disappointed eyes that looked at him when they cleaned him up. When they picked him out of a puddle of his own vomit, when they held his hair back when he threw up in the toilet, when he told them that he loved them or that he thought they were pieces of shit. Kyle's eyes. His mom's eyes. Kenny's eyes. Even Shelly's eyes. All disappointed. Every last one of them deserved somebody better than waste-of-space Stan – a better lover, a better son, a better friend, a better brother. He wasn't good at being any of those things. And now he's killing animals in his carelessness.

Stan downs the last of the liquid in the bottle and hurls it off of the cliff.

His cellphone is ringing.

He doesn't answer it, he presses ignore. He doesn't want to talk to anybody, but he does want to say goodbye.

To his mom and his dad and his sister, he texts:

I love you.

To Kenny, he texts:

Good luck, dude.

And to Kyle, he texts:

I'm going to miss you so much.

He would write to Kyle that he loves him, but that would just embarrass Kyle. Kyle doesn't love him back, and so he doubt that he'd want that to be the last thing that Stan ever said to him. But it's okay to say that you'll miss somebody, right? In heaven, or in hell, or wherever you're going?

Stan pockets his phone. It's a simple after-texting habit, he realizes, not that he'll ever need it anymore. Not where he's going. He secretly hopes that he'll get into heaven, but he highly doubts it. He's lead a terrible life. He's a terrible person. A terrible waste of space. If there is God, he doubts that God actually likes him much. He's spent his life being miserable and useless. He'll probably spend death that way too.

Then he hopes that there isn't a heaven or a hell, that he'll just be in the ground and it'll all be over.

It will all be finally over.

His phone is ringing again.

He doesn't care.

Stan sways more, but he manages to stumble forward, stumble toward the edge. When he jumps off, he'll fall straight onto the high way. If the fall doesn't kill him, a car definitely will.

"I'm sorry," Stan slurs. He doesn't know who he's talking to. Maybe he's just talking to everybody that he's ever had contact with. He's sorry that they all had to deal with him. He's sorry that he was that one guy in their life that was never happy, that couldn't cheer up. And now he can't even pretend.

If Stan can't pretend that he's happy, then he's got nothing. He's lost all ability to force himself to live.

He takes another step forward. He's only a few inches away from the edge of the cliff.

Stan kicks a pebble off of the end of the cliff and watches it fall.

That will be him.

And it's a comforting thought. He won't bother anybody anymore.

He takes another step forward. His toes are touching the very edge. They're almost hanging off of it.

All he has to do…

…is jump.

o.o.o.o

Thank you, as always, to the amazing people that make my day, my reviewers: NightmareMyLove, Anonymous, wthiedk, Mallory, EmoRainbowGoddess, Crazy88inator, Miroir Twin, VannaUsagi13, KirstenTheDestroyer, Porn Mercenary, OXRosinaOX, and InspirationPoint.

So like a bunch of you disappeared, then. Don't think I don't notice. /side eyes

SERIOUS NOTE: This chapter's track is actually personally meaningful to me. I have struggled with depression for years, and though I have finally jumped that hurdle, I remember exactly what it felt like. This song in particular was a highlight in my depression because it illustrated to me a particular aspect of what I felt, which was that I had to keep pretending to be happy so I didn't make other people sad.

I want all of you to know that I never want another human being to feel like that. If you know me, you know I am mostly an asshole in general, but when it comes to mental health, I am very serious. If any of you ever, ever need somebody to talk to, I will be here.

/serious note over

To answer some questions I have forgotten to answer:

What lube do Stan and Kyle use? I imagine that they'd be pretty standard lube guys, they probably wouldn't even look at what brand they were buying. Kenny, on the other hand, probably has a vast collection of every kind of lube known to man. And I'm of the opinion that Tweek would like flavored lube.

Do you write Kyman? This has come up a couple of times, and this may be disappointing to a few people – but I don't write Kyman. The way I see their relationship is way too fucked up to be written.

How many chapters are you planning? I don't actually plan my chapters beyond the important details. So the answer is 'I don't know.' I write my chapters the same way that Matt & Trey write South Park. After I finish an installment, I have basically no idea what's happening next (there are exceptions, like this chapter).

Sorry for the long note, just some important things to get out of the way!