Transfusion
By StarWolf
6/23/2004
Title: Transfusion
Author: StarWolf (elendraug at yahoo.com)
Fandom: South Park
Rating: R, though it probably could've been PG-13
Genre: Angst, romance?
Warnings: femmeslash, implied sex-stuff
Pairing: Mrs. McCormick x Sheila Broflovski
Distribution: Don't you dare.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. They're just fun to manipulate.
Summary: She's broken, but can't afford a replacement for herself.
Authoress' Notes: This is for the SPSlash "Least Likely Pairing" contest. Whee, I love Mrs. McCormick.
"Sheila! How are you?"
The windows are shattered from carelessly thrown rocks. She doesn't find it amusing, but her sons do. Her home isn't what she'd hoped it would be.
"Sheila, have you ever watched your son die? Have you ever sent your kid to school, and waited at the door for a child who couldn't come home? Have you ever had to attend your baby boy's funeral, over and over again?"
The kitchen sink is one of the few things she has left. She scrubs at filthy dishes with what used to be a sponge. Her hands are elbow-deep in murky water.
"Sheila, have you ever woken up in the morning and wondered why you even bother? Have you ever searched for a reason that doesn't exist?"
The phone never rings, but no one would pick it up anyway. She's sweeping nonexistant crumbs from the floor and wishes she wasn't hungry. Her stomach growls.
"Sheila, it's been such an awful day. Stuart's been a bastard, Kevin's wrecking the house, and I don't know where Kenny is."
The whole ordeal is too much for her to endure, but still she survives. She's not lazy, just black-eyed. Her head hurts, and there's no Advil to be found.
"Sheila, I need you to do me a favour..."
The call of sleep is seductive. She's tired and horny and is losing her mind. Her mouth is dry and lacks taste (she's lacking food), but presses insistently.
"Sheila, please. I'm asking for your help. I need to... I need to know. I need this."
The mattress smells of sweat, blood, semen, and mold. She clings, needy, desperate. Her sheets haven't been washed in weeks.
"Sheila, you've always been a great friend to me."
The lightbulb is flickering; bad wiring, probably. She kisses, she licks, she sucks. Her calloused palms stroke red hair and she fights to stay sane.
"Sheila! Sheilasheilashiela!"
The situation is out of control, but she keeps going. She's never slept with another woman before. Her breathing speeds up, and so do her movements.
"Sheila, thank you."
The gravity of it all finally hits. She's made a mistake; she's pushed her luck too far. Her conscience is killing her.
"Sheila, have you ever--"
"No, I haven't. I'm so sorry."
The door swings open and shut and threatens to fall off its hinges. She knew it would end like this. Her eyes start to water, but she's certain it's from all the dust.
"Sheila...don't leave me like this. I... I c-can't..."
Psychology isn't her forte. There's only so much advice she can give, so much comfort she can offer. Sheila considers signing herself up for therapy.
"Bye, Sheila..."
One's a bitch, and one's a butch.