A/N: I wish I could write these updates faster.
I've been so touched by everyone that has read, commented, or voted. Thank you for your patience and involvement. Because of some life changes, things have been extremely hectic, but writing this on the side has helped.
This chapter isn't very horror-centric, so I hope to ramp that up in forthcoming additions.
Once again, thank you.
Btw, High Jew Elf cosplay plus the Renaissance Festival was a fun combo, and I highly recommend it!
...
MARSH, Stanley
It is with great sadness that the family of Stanley Marsh announces his sudden passing at the age of 17. Stan will be lovingly remembered by his parents, Randy and Sharon Marsh, and his elder sister Shelley. Stan will also be fondly remembered by his boyfriend, Kyle Broflovski.
Stan was an exemplary student with an honors recognition in the English studies. He will be greatly missed by the faculty as well as his classmates.
A Funeral Service in memory of Stan will be held at 10 am at the River Funeral Home, 333 Helel Drive, Park County with Rev. Maxi officiating. A celebration of Stan's life will be held at the McCormick household for immediate friends and family afterward.
In lieu of flowers, please send a memorial donation to Colorado Pawz, a no-kill shelter in Denver.
...
May 26, 2012
Stan climbed over the frame of his best friend's bedroom window in the dark. One foot dangled down to the floor before hoisting himself over with the other leg. A birthday gift wrapped loosely in a recycled newspaper was tucked between his elbow and hip.
He slid the smudged window pane behind him and squinted into the room. He expected to see the shape of Kyle entombed under a mountain of blankets. But he wasn't there. The 12-year old Stan rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He fumbled around with the lamp on the nightstand, looking for a chain to pull. With a heavy click, a dull orange lit up the room. The mattress was devoid of any comforter or blankets. Only a gray fitted sheet was tucked around it.
"Kyle?" Stan whispered. The sound bounced harshly around the walls. The small, white alarm clock read 5:37 am in glaring, digital red font. It was still covered with Sharpie signatures in various colors, from all of the boys except for Cartman's, whose name had been furiously scribbled out. All of them had yearbooks. No one could remember why they all signed Kyle's alarm clock. Maybe just to fill some random blank space with their marks. He picked it up with his free hand and turned it slightly. Of course, his name was there, small and insecure, in blue ink. What he hadn't noticed before was a little red heart had been added to his name. Like his signature, the heart was faded. It had been there for a while. He didn't remember drawing it there.
Looking around the room again (he figured that Kyle might walk through the door at any moment, wrapped in blankets with a glass of water in his hand), Stan put the gift on the bed, pulled his phone out of his pajama pocket, and snapped a picture of it of this newfound heart by his name. He was lying to himself about not knowing why. He knew why. The thoughts started when Kyle got back together with Rebecca Cotswolds. It kept him up at night. Different voices in his brain constantly fought each other.
But all of it excited him. These new voices excited him the most.
He put the clock back down and threw the phone on the bed. Kyle's door was still shut. There was no sound of anyone coming up the stairs. No sounds at all throughout the house, except for Gerald's snoring.
Maybe Kyle was in Ike's room.
Stan walked around the bed, about to pass Kyle's closet, when he heard a familiar dialogue, very faintly, coming from behind the wooden sliding door:
...they gave me a receipt for the donut… I don't need a receipt for the donut. I give you money and you give me the donut, end of transaction…followed by Kyle giggling softly. Stan furrowed his brow, reaching for the closet door. He slid it halfway and poked his head in to see Kyle, swathed in a plethora of blankets and pillows, laptop open to a Mitch Hedburg video on YouTube, headphones in, staring up at Stan wide-eyed. He immediately ripped the headphones out.
"Stan?" Kyle's eyes looked like they were about to bulge over, a teenaged deer in headlights, but he managed to smile. Kyle didn't like surprises, but he seemed happy about this one. For a brief moment, Stan put his hand on his chest- his heart had fluttered a little. "Are you okay, Stan?"
Stan ripped his hand away. Straightened himself up. "Yeah, totally. Are you okay? I didn't mean to scare you."
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just-" he gestured to the laptop, "I couldn't sleep. So I'm doing this. You can watch with me if you want. I can start it over…"
"Actually, I," Stan pointed with his thumb to the gift he left on the bed. "I brought you a gift. You don't have to open it right now though."
"You got me something?"
"Of course, it's your birthday, dude."
"Oh… right."
"Are you sure you're okay, Kyle?"
Kyle nodded tightly, his lips pursed. He moved over and patted the space on the floor next to him. Stan obliged. He sat next to his red-headed companion, who threw a blanket over his lap. Their hands brushed.
"Dude, your hands are freezing!"
"Yeah. I don't know why I'm so cold…"
"You're literally covered in blankets."
Kyle just shrugged.
"Well… here." He loosely grabbed both of Kyle's hands, "My hands are warm."
Kyle tensed up, but he didn't draw back. He smiled sadly at Stan, who was exhaling hot breath inside Kyle's cupped hands.
"You don't have to do this, Stan."
"I want to," he replied, not even hesitating for a beat. Kyle yawned. His eyes teared up. "Did you, like, even sleep at all?"
"No, not really," said Kyle with a sigh, "I've actually been having a hard time sleeping."
He rested Kyle's hands on his lap. "Why?"
"Thinking too much, I guess."
"About what?"
"I… I don't know. A lot of stuff. I don't really know where to begin."
"Start from the beginning?"
"I… I just want to be distracted right now, Stan."
Stan thought about the heart next to his name. Wanted to ask about it so badly. Wanted to dig deeper. They were already holding hands… Not like they haven't before, but it was different this time. Confined in such a small space together, breathing each other's air.
Just one question was burning in Stan's throat.
"Kyle?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you maybe just upset that Rebecca is moving away? You've just been, like, really funky lately."
Kyle leaned his head on the closet wall and looked up at the bottom of the shelf. "Yeah. It's one of the biggest reasons I've been 'funky' I guess. It sucks."
"It does," Stan loosened his fingers around their hands, "But Kyle… she doesn't seem to really give a fuck. Like, she's not nearly as upset as you are. She seems excited, even."
Kyle slouched forward. Closed the laptop. "That makes it hurt even worse. I shouldn't have given her a second chance."
"Maybe," said Stan, a little snappily. Kyle glanced at him. Even in the dark, Stan could make out the pained contours of his face. "I don't know," he added in a softer tone. "I just think that you're a little too forgiving sometimes."
"Ah, so you've noticed." He sounded drained. He sounded older than he actually was. There was silence for a few moments. Then: "I guess I should try and start getting over her now." He looked at Stan. Was this an invitation? Stan wanted it to be.
He leaned to the side, toward Kyle, ready to embrace him. His leg extended out, knocking over a fishing pole. Kyle put his arm out and blocked it before it could whack Stan's head.
"Shit! I'm sorry! That was loud…"
Kyle shrugged. He carefully laid the pole down between them. "It was an accident, you don't have to be sorry. I'm just glad it didn't fall on you."
"Thanks to you."
Their faces were only centimeters apart. Kyle shifted nervously.
"Kyle?"
"Yeah, Stan?"
"I wish you were as nice to yourself as you are to me."
"I'm working on it, Stan."
Suddenly, Stan pulled away. "Since that thing came falling down on us," he picked up the pole, "Why don't we go fishing at the pond? Maybe you could use some air?"
…
The low rattle of cicadas drifted over the two friends; sitting on the dock that jutted out into the water. Stan swung his legs back and forth, causing his lure to bob around like a drunk ballerina. His Phantogram tee shirt had holes around the armpits. One of the tell-tale signs of a growing Stan was his ripping of shirts every time he raised his arms. The same was happening to Kyle, but faster, and Sheila would consistently come home with longer shirts for him. Stan was too attached to his band tees. To him, everything, living or not, had a voice.
Kyle happily studied his gift: a hardcover compilation of all the Johnny the Homicidal Maniac comics. He flipped through the pages, admiring the art, staring too long at some of the more gory illustrations.
"If you drop that in the water, I'll push you in there after it," Stan looked over at his friend with a teasing smile.
"Doubt it," Kyle retorted in the same teasing tone. "But don't worry, I have an iron grip on this thing," he said, raising the book up a little, "I've been wanting this for forever."
"It was on your little "books I want to read" list on the cork board in your room. So I guess you can cross it off now."
Kyle blushed and looked back down at his book. Stan shifted, making the dock creak a little bit. He absent-mindedly ran a hand through his hair. Kyle zoned in on one particular illustration. It took up the entire page. Black and white gore was somehow more intriguing to him than the fully fleshed out gore in the movies. This one had dissected dolls, and a contemplative Johnny staring out the window into the night sky:
Dear Die-ary,
Today I stuffed some dolls full of dead rats I put in the blender.
I'm wondering if, maybe, there really is something wrong with me.
Kyle read the second sentence out loud.
"I wonder that too," Stan said quietly.
"What?"
"Not about you. Sometimes I think there's something wrong with me."
"What do you think is wrong with you?"
Stan couldn't respond. He couldn't think of how to tell Kyle how he was spending restless nights, scratching at arms, banging his head on walls, dragging scissors down his thighs. He wouldn't be able to look into Kyle's sweet face and admit all of this. Not today. Not on his birthday. Just a few years down the road, Kyle would be the one dabbing Vaseline on Stan's arms, all the while murmuring this was a really bad one, Stan.
(next time you feel like doing this call me immediately)
(i will kyle)
(you say you will but you don't
by the time i reach you
it's too late
i'm terrified that one day i'll just
find your body)
"It's okay, Stan. You can tell me when you're ready."
"I don't know if I ever want to tell you, Kyle."
Kyle tightened his mouth. He would have been offended if it weren't for Stan's solemn, almost protective tone. The lure stopped bobbing.
Kyle cleared his throat. "Are you still coming to the Bar Mitzvah?"
"Of course," Stan was instantly beaming, startling Kyle a bit, "I wouldn't miss it for the world. Kenny still wants to come too."
"Okay, good. It'll make me feel better if you guys are there."
"You're nervous?" Kyle just nodded and stared out over the water. Some of the trees closest to the water had been cut down and chiseled into thick, sharp points. Stan noticed them too. "They kind of look like teeth."
"That's a bit creepy, Stan."
Stan half-smiled and looked back down at the water. "Says the guy that's reading Johnny the Homicidal Maniac ."
"Touché."
After a few minutes of silence, Kyle put the book inside his backpack and stared at his feet, kicking slightly. He could never sit still. He was too pent up to force his body to stay solitary. Anxiety about his Bar Mitzvah was more overwhelming than he wanted to admit. He knew it would be filled family and neighbors asking him "how does it feel to be thirteen" over and over again. There would be people clustered in every corner of the house. A lot of chatter, all at once. So many sounds coming from so many mouths. Kyle's shoulders tensed up and became rigid. Above all else, he would have to get up in front of everyone and read from the Torah. His family barely spoke Hebrew at home, and it just wasn't catching on as much with him. He was trying, but the fear of fucking up ate away at him, no matter how much the Rabbi told him he was doing fine.
"You're grinding your teeth," looked over at his anxious friend.
"Huh?"
The fishing pole pulled into an arch. A frantic Stan stood up and started reeling.
"Don't reel so fast, Stan! You're gonna lose it!"
As if on cue, the hook emerged from the water. Fishless. Stan pouted. "God damn it."
"You panicked."
"Yeah, I think we've established that via the empty hook, Kyle."
Kyle shrugged, "how are you ever going to feed your family now, Stan?" He stuck out his tongue slightly.
Stan flipped him off. He stepped back to recast. Kyle looked out, expecting to see the hook plop back into the water, but instead, stiffened at the sudden impact of the hook colliding into the back of his head.
"Oh my God, Kyle! I am so so sorry, I am so sorry, oh my God." Stan was pacing around Kyle now.
Kyle blinked hard. His vision wavered in and out. Did the hook just hit my head? He reached up and grabbed for it. The hook felt like it was only entangled in his hair. He pulled. An instant, searing pain tore through his scalp. Kyle stood up and faced Stan, who was pale with guilt, the whites of his eyes glimmering like wet hard-boiled eggs.
"Is it stuck?" he asked. His voice was thin. Weak.
Kyle reached again. Yes. It was stuck. "Seems that way." Stay calm, stay calm. Don't freak out. Kyle looked at his fingers. The tips gleaned a sheer layer of bright blood.
Stan trembled. He started towards Kyle, "maybe I can get it out."
Kyle turned his back to Stan. "Just be careful," he cautioned. "I don't like that it's all attached to the pole still."
Gingerly, Stan meshed his fingers into Kyle's hair. He tried to bunch of the scalp and push the hook out one side. Kyle squirmed. "Okay, no! Please stop! Stop!"
"I almost got it, Kyle! Stay still."
"I can't! It fucking hurts!" Irritation continued to rise up through his belly as Stan continued, each tug of the skin bringing more pain. His spine twisted, elbow squared out, knocking Stan to the edge of the dock. Stan wobbled, tried to reach out to Kyle, but it was too late. Stan fell backward with a flat thwap! Into the chilly, unforgiving waters of Stark's Pond.
…
"Here Kyle, you're gonna need this," Stan's Uncle Jimbo pressed a glass of Irish whiskey into Kyle's shaking hand.
Stan sat across from him, shivering under a blanket embroidered with a stoic buck.
Jimbo disappeared into the back office, presumably to get a first aid kit. Kyle stared down into the glass with unease. His eyes burned from leftover tears. The boys had trekked over to his gun shop because Kyle- still attached to the fishing rod, refused to go to the hospital for fear of his mother finding out. Jimbo lived in an apartment with Ned above the store, and if there was anyone that could help with hunting-related injuries, it would be those two. They couldn't help but laugh when a sour-faced Kyle and a remorseful Stan showed up at their door, connected by a small, red fishing pole. They immediately cut the string and Stan drop-kicked it across the room.
After examining the scalp, Ned concluded that some of Kyle's hair needed to be cut off. Not too much, but just enough for the hook to not get tangled. Wouldn't be noticeable at all; especially after Kyle puts on a yarmulke. Snippets of curly red hair floated to the ground while Stan sulked, tearing himself up about how horrible of a friend he is. It's not like I'm dying, Stan.
Then came the hard part.
Jimbo pulled out bigger scissors. The blades were thicker, and the sight of them made Kyle squirm. "I'll try to make it quick, Kyle," he had said, "but you've got a treble hook in there, and two of the prongs are pretty deep. I have to try and cut the tips off.
"There isn't another way you can get them out?" Stan pleaded. He had a hand on Kyle's knee. There was no other way.
Kyle doubled over, crying, as Jimbo nearly tore through his skull. His ears rang. Stan tried so hard to talk him through it, but all he could hear through the shrill screeching that violated senses was kyledogood
Hold
Breath
Almost
There
Please
Suddenly, the bloody hook was in front of Kyle's face. Bent. Severed. Stan looked like hell. Kyle imagined that he looked worse.
Afterward was when Jimbo gave him the whiskey. He didn't have numbing gel, and Kyle needed stitches.
"Back in Civil War times," Jimbo returned with a miniature first-aid kit, "amputees threw back some whiskey and bit down on the towel before the operation. You're just getting a few stitches, but I still think you deserve a drink." He ushered Stan to get off his rolling stool. The boy obeyed and stood by with Ned, watching intently. Neither of them said a word. Kyle solemnly looked down again at the auburn liquid. "I'm not putting these threads in your head unless you throw that down your hatch," Jimbo pushed.
Kyle looked over at Stan, who looked so small wrapped in the oversized hunting blanket.
"I'm not responsible for anything I say after drinking this," Kyle said to Jimbo.
"That's your prerogative, kid."
Another moment. Kyle chugged. His throat burned.
He didn't mind.
…
Sheila was all over them, fussing with Kyle's tie, slicking back Ike's hair. He was in a phase where he wanted it spiked all the time, even going as far as stealing Kyle's hair gel. But he stole everything from his brother: tee shirts, comics, anything. Kyle tended to be passive with Ike over things like that. He took it as a compliment.
Outside, heavy rain beat against the side of the synagogue. The pounding resonated in Kyle's ears. Everything seemed louder. It was the whiskey. There was too much of it in the glass, but he drank all of it, and now he was paying for it. He could've sworn he went cross-eyed at some point during the car ride there, and he was now rubbing his temples with cool hands. Nausea took over. It didn't help that the synagogue, like most buildings in South Park, was on uneven terrain, the floors uneven. Tilted. He pulled down on his yarmulke again even though it was pinned down and not going anywhere. It grazed his stitches. He flinched.
Busy with Ike's stubborn hair, Sheila was none the wiser to her other son's situation. He savored it, knowing these would be the last few minutes he would be alone with his thoughts.
He thought about Stan.
…
Sometimes when I look at you
I see a piano in the front yard of a tilted house stuffed with blood red-carnations spilling on the sides and over keys in some small town
maybe ours.
Kyle, I'm confused. Why do I see this with you? I wish you would just say something so I don't have to.
This hurts.
The card was nearly soaked in Stan's sweaty hand. Every word spit acid. He hated what he wrote. It was too weird. Too forward. Skinless.
Kenny was ransacking the buffet again. Some of the older aunts were all over him as he munched away, patting his shoulders with red, finely manicured hands. Not that Kyle wasn't getting a ton of attention either- he did so well at his reading. Didn't mess up once. Now they were at some out of town banquet hall where they lifted Kyle up over a circle of bodies. Everything and everyone was loud, and Stan sat on the sidelines, nursing a small plate of coleslaw at a table lined with blue and gold. He still felt guilty.
Kyle was good.
The room smelled of spice and melting candles seeping into frosting, the typical birthday smells.
He shoved the card in his suit pocket and headed for the bathroom. Amidst the chaos, Kyle caught a glimpse of Stan leaving. He pushed through everyone and followed him.
"Hey, Stan!" He ran a hand along the marble countertops while he walked to his friend, who had positioned himself over the very last sink. He gave Kyle a weak smile. "You okay?"
"Am I okay?" he replied softly.
He turned on the faucet and rubbed cold water in his eyes. "It's pretty hot in there."
"Yeah. Too many people, I guess."
"It's actually kinda nice. They're all here for you."
Kyle looked down at his toes and then back at Stan's reflection in the mirror with a smirk. "I think they're about to throw Kenny a Bar Mitzvah of his own." He put his back to the counter and leaned on it, rendering him eye level with Stan.
Stan laughed, "yeah, what the hell is even happening?"
"Kenny's a Jew now. Not by blood, but definitely by marriage because I guarantee they're going to try and set him up with one of my cousins." He crossed his arms. "But he went to Jewbilee with me that one time so I guess it counts."
"Oh, yeah. I remember that. I was so pissed that my parents wouldn't let us hang out."
"I was too, but it's whatever. It was a long time ago."
"My dad was like-" Stan put a finger under his nose like a mustache and strained to make his voice sound lower, " you can't just hang out with your buddy Kyle all the time."
Kyle wheezed, "Okay, no. That was a scary good impression, and you're not allowed to do that ever again."
Stan just nodded, laughing. "Sorry! But that's what he said though."
"I don't understand why."
Stan hesitated. "He said it was because people will think we're 'funny'."
"Funny?"
"Yeah. I didn't really understand what he meant then… but you can guess what it means."
Kyle raised his eyebrows. He shifted his weight a little. "Well… to be fair. Two people can literally be standing in a room together and people will be like 'omg I bet they're together'."
Uncomfortable silence. Stan rubbed his thumb on the lip of the sink. "How's your, um, head?"
"Oh," Kyle reached up and unpinned his yarmulke. He finger-combed some of the hair around the wound, "I need to clean it soon. But it's fine."
"It looks kinda weird in the mirror. With the one bald patch."
"Meh, it'll grow back. It was really convenient that it hit where it could be covered."
"It would have been more convenient if I didn't hit you at all."
Kyle shook his head and started pinning the blue yarmulke back to his hair. A few bobby pins sticking out of his mouth, he said, "It's not like you did it on purpose."
"I am literally going to feel bad for forever. We're best friends, I'm supposed to help you, not hurt you." Stan stepped in front of his friend, "do you need help?"
"No, I'm okay. If you reach up over my head people will think we're funny."
Stan rolled his eyes, "there's not even anyone in here. We're alone." Kyle patted the cap again before leaning back on the counter.
"Yeah. We should probably go… you should come dance with us, Stan."
"Uh, that's a no from me, dawg," Stan replied, "I don't even know those dances. I haven't known what the fuck has been happening since the ceremony." Kyle threw his head back and laughed, the bathroom light glowed down on him. "And you have cake on your face."
Kyle's hands immediately went to his cheeks, "where?"
"Under your jaw." Stan reached out to his face and gently wiped off the smidge of frosting. His ring finger accidentally rested on Kyle's lips. Neither of them moved. Stan expected the other one to draw back, like how he expected him to drawback when they held hands, but he didn't. "I wish you would just say it," Stan suddenly blurted.
"...what?" His face was soft under Stan's now shaking hand.
"Nothing. Nevermind," he pulled his hand away, but Kyle caught it at the wrist.
"What's going on with you, dude?" Concerned, Kyle pulled his arm in. Stan sharply inhaled with his nose and shook his head fast. A few tears welled up in his eyes. "Did something happen? You've been kinda funky too lately."
"No… nothing's happened. Well, no. I don't know."
"You don't want to tell me?"
"I feel stuck, Kyle."
"In regard to…?"
"It's hard to say."
Kyle slowly lowered Stan's arm. He knew it was the bad arm, and he felt bad for snatching it so suddenly. "Stan. Whatever you need to say, or whatever you need to do, you just need to do it. You'll feel better if you get it out of your system."
Out in the hall, the music swelled suddenly. It caught the both of them off-guard. Kyle squinted at the door before looking back at Stan, who then jolted up and pushed a warm, quick kiss on his lips. Kyle stood upright, speechless.
"I've been wanting to do that for a while," Stan said quietly.
More uncomfortable silence between them. Some whooping was heard from the hall. An ambulance outside.
"Did you… um, get it out of your system?"
"No. It's still there… Kyle?"
"Yes, Stan?"
"I… really, really like you. Like, a lot. And I kinda want to kiss you again."
Kyle opened his mouth to respond when Gerald swung the door open. Stan spun around and locked himself in the bathroom stall.
"Kyle? What are you doing?! Everyone is looking for you, come on!"
Kyle took one last look at Stan's dress shoes underneath the stall door before walking over to his father. He didn't know why he was hiding. They weren't really doing anything wrong, except, Stan wanted to kiss him again.
He wanted to say yes. He would have said yes.
...
It was a dark, foggy morning. The air was so thick that Kyle could only see four or five feet in front of him. Memories of Saturday (only two days ago!) he had been kissed and every moment since then, the sensation, the aftermath of experimentation still had a taste on his lips. He brought a finger to the bottom one, ran it along to the corners of his mouth as he walked. Softness and warmth. Actual warmth, for once. Startled deer bounced in different directions away from him. The bus stop started to manifest before him. He could make out the sign, the ditch next to the road that was filled with glimmering rainwater, and Stan. Just Stan. Alone.
Kyle stopped.
He considered turning on his heel and running away, but Stan noticed him, teetering with his feet on the gravel. They were too close not to notice each other.
"You're early," Stan said, monotone, blinking hard. He wasn't a morning person.
"So are you."
No response. Kyle thought back to the past two nights, wide awake, cruising his fingers along his mouth, wondering what was going to happen next. He went over the bullet points in his head. They could either a) forget it ever happened. But that could lead to several avenues of problems. What if they wanted to kiss again? Every social gathering would be filled with tension. What if Stan started dating someone? He would be jealous. He knew he would be jealous. Or there was b) stop being friends. No. No. He couldn't stand the thought. Going the rest of the school years only suffering passing glances in the hallway? Going to each other's graduation parties late and leave early? Going to their high school reunion with their wives, maybe husband even? (after all, a new branch of attraction that was peeking under the surface was just opened up) Seeing each other in the parking lot of Whole Foods, beer bellies abound, toting carts full of kids and exchanging pleasantries before Stan heads back to his red pick up truck and Kyle returns to his white Impala? No. He didn't want it. Couldn't stand it.
Or, there was c) be together. Maybe take things slowly at first, but ultimately be together. Date. Things that couples do. He wouldn't exactly know what couples do because of- Rebecca. Kyle immediately felt himself swell with guilt. He had completely forgotten about her. What would she even say?
He pulled out his phone to read their last messages:
9: 07 pm- Rebecca 3: I'm going to bed now. Don't stay up too late looking at memes ;)
9:15 pm- Kyle: I'll do whatever I please, woman! And good night 3 Don't let the leukocytes bite!
9:17 pm- Rebecca 3: Leukocytes are essential to the immune system. Why wouldn't I want them to bite?
9: 20 pm- Kyle: I don't know. I'm tired and was trying to be witty and that's the first thing I thought that sounded like it would rhyme and be science based. Just ignore me lol
9:21 pm- Rebecca 3: lol good night
10:21 am- Kyle: Hi :)
10:22 am- Kyle: How come you're not at school? :(
2:27 pm- Kyle: I miss you.
4:19 pm- Kyle: Are you still coming to my Bar Mitzvah?
9:20 pm- Kyle: Rebecca, I'm scared about you moving away.
That was the last message. He hadn't heard a word from her in a few days. Not even a happy birthday.
"Kyle?"
Kyle looked up from his phone to see Stan's quizzical expression, "Yeah, Stan?"
"How are the stitches?"
"Oh," Kyle brought a hand up to the back of his head. The stitches were still covered by the yarmulke. "It's okay. Kind of weird to sleep on though."
"I'm sorry," Stan looked down at the gravel. He sucked in his cheeks, "do you hate me?"
Kyle almost laughed, "no, dude! It was an accident!"
"What about the other thing?"
"What do you mean about 'the other thing'?"
"Do you hate me for that?" The sky was starting to lighten up a little, the fog somewhat easier to sift through. Kyle took a step closer, staring into the side of Stan's small and troubled face. He put his hands in his pockets and opened his mouth to say 'no', but Stan continued: "I'm sorry that I threw that on you so randomly. I understand-" his voice broke, "I understand if you don't want to be friends anymore. It wasn't fair to you."
Kyle looked down at his boots. Looked at the deep cracks in the street, potholes the shapes of continents. "So, what are you saying, Stan? It was just random? You don't… you don't actually like me?"
They looked at each other. "Kyle-"
In the distance, a familiar voice shouted at them: "HEY, FELLAS!"
Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Kyle quickly glanced behind his shoulder. Butters was still far away enough that he wouldn't be able to hear them if they talked softly. He turned to Stan. "What? Hurry, tell me…"
Stan looked around again before leaning in slightly closer, "Kyle, I would-" Kenny suddenly appeared behind Stan. He could tell by Kyle's eyes darting quickly to the side and then back to Stan's face with urgency. Carefully, softly, sincerely, he finished: "I would hold your hand if I could."
Kyle sucked in his breath. Butters clapped his hand down on Kyle's bony shoulder, and took his place where Cartman used to be. Kenny stood on his own, He peered at the rest of them, but said nothing. Kyle feared that he may have heard what Stan said, but didn't want to ask. If Kenny wasn't saying anything, he felt, then neither should he. In the distance, the sounds of the grumbling bus was heard barrelling down the road.
A, b, or c. Kyle. A, b, or c.
He felt like he needed to make a decision there and now. In this moment, frozen by the side of the road, the four of them entrapped in a metaphorical snowglobe, about to be shaken by the grubby and callused hands of Time, he had to choose. A, b, or c.
Life isn't a multiple choice test, he thought suddenly. Another stronger voice in his mind took over: There's no set equation to anything, ever. It's all in the blank white space around the text.
The bus door squeaked open and they filed in, Butters last, of course- he always let everyone else go in first. Kyle slid in next to Stan. Usually, Kenny would sit next to or near them, but strangely, he sulked to the very back of the bus and put his head down. Stan had his head down too, pressed against the seat in front of them, his hands at each side of his legs. The bus bumped along the road. Flashing fog lights lit up the corn fields; bright, dark, bright, dark. No wonder Kenny had sequestered himself in the back. He was prone to seizures.
"I would hold your hand if I could."
The words swallowed him.
Kyle moved his hand slightly. He hoped it wouldn't be too cold. Fingertips grazed over soft knuckles- Stan twitched slightly- his hand loosely wrapped around the other's.
Even in the darkness, Kyle could tell that Stan was smiling.
...
June 2017 - The Night Before Stan's Funeral
Ashes fell to the floor, gray snowflakes, and nestled into the carpet. He picked at the bandage around his knuckles.
Kyle repeatedly pressed the lit cigarette into the underside of his arm. The same area where Stan had the paw print tattoo. It hurt, but it wasn't enough.
I need to wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up…
He was sitting on the floor next to his bed, cross-legged and slumped forward. Shivers ran up and down his arms. His legs shook.
He brought the cigarette to his chapped lips. His forearm was burnt to shit. He wished he could light himself on fire altogether.
Everything was cold now.
…
"Bubbe, what are you doing awake?" Sheila caught her son rifling through the linen closet. She turned on the hallway light. He was wearing his winter jacket.
He glanced over at his mother with bloodshot eyes. She noticed his sunken cheeks.
"I'm getting another blanket," he mumbled, "maybe two."
"Are you really that cold?" She put her thumb and index finger over the thermostat, "it's 70 degrees in here… but I can turn the A/C down if you want."
"No… I don't want to make everyone else uncomfortable."
"I hope you're not getting sick."
"I might be. I don't know."
"Do you want me to make you something?"
"No, Ma, it's two in the morning. It's okay."
"Are you sure?"
That question again… "I am." He reached up to the top shelf and pulled down an old Lion King blanket.
"You haven't been sleeping at all, have you?"
Closing his arms around the blanket, he looked down at the green carpet and sighed. "No… I can't. I've tried."
"I'm really worried about you, Kyle." She put her hand on his head and finger-combed his hair, "we're all worried for you."
"I can't stop thinking about Stan," he clutched the blanket tighter to his chest. "I want to die."
Sheila grabbed her son and pulled him into a hug.
…
"We shouldn't be drinking coffee this early," Sheila poured the dark roast into a tall mug for Kyle, which read ' Good Morning! This is God, I will be handling your problems today !', "but this bag is about to expire anyway."
Kyle said nothing. He just drank.
"Uh, don't you want cream?"
"No cream," he said firmly.
"I don't know how both you and your father can just guzzle it black like that."
Kyle shrugged, "This doesn't apply to dad, but black coffee and cigarettes are kind of an aesthetic. Maybe that's why."
Sheila sat across from him at their dining room table with her own smaller mug. Years of family dinners had left fork scratches, some rings from when Kyle and Ike would forget to use coasters. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."
"Sorry."
They slowly raised their cups to their mouths at the same time and drank. Sheila cleared her throat.
"You know, I was terrified when you were born," she said.
"Terrified? Of what?"
"You were so small and I was petrified that the slightest thing would break you. I was a young mom and you're my first baby, it's never notterrifying." She took another sip and made a face, "Ugh, bitter." Another ounce of coconut milk was poured.
"Even the months leading up to your birth was just littered with nightmares about anything and everything going wrong," she continued, "When you finally did come, I was a wreck. For the first month or so, my emotions were so out of whack. It wasn't post-partum or anything like that. But whenever you cried, I cried. But you cried a lot and I was convinced that I wasn't feeding you enough or keeping you warm enough…
Even just a trip to the grocery store was so stressful. Every time, without fail, there were always people who wanted to look at your or touch your hair- and it took so much effort to just tell people to leave us alone. No one wants complete strangers touching their baby, but some people have no sense of boundaries. I was paranoid that someone was going to snatch you that if I needed to reach out in the freezer aisle, I would physically take you out of the cart and hold you close. I probably looked insane but I wanted to protect you.
I wanted to protect you from everything. I never wanted you to have to feel anything besides happiness.
But as you got older, the more I realized that I couldn't.
I've had to let you discover sadness… anger… love. Grief. All on your own. All I could do was back off and just make sure that you have a safe place to come back to.
You are your own man now, Kyle. But I wish I could just… wave a wand and take all of this pain away from you."
Kyle was gripping his mug now. "Ma… I love you."
"I love you too, bubbe," she wiped away at her under eyes. "Just please know that you're not alone. I haven't seen you cry at all the past week, and that's okay, you do what you need to do. But you've got me so worried, especially after what happened with the mirror…"
"I know, I'm sorry about that. I'll get you another one… I'm just… I don't know. I just feel numb. Like it hasn't settled in yet."
"That's normal, Kyle. It's okay."
"I don't know if I can go to his funeral," he stared down into the coffee.
"You should at least try, Kyle. We'll all be there with you. Everyone."
He licked his lips and took another long drink. It burned his throat. He didn't mind.
Suddenly, Sheila got off the chair and started fumbling in one of the kitchen drawers until she pulled out a large white envelope, already opened. She walked back over to Kyle with it. "You got this a few weeks ago," she said, "but I was too upset to give it to you. Your father wanted me to wait before confronting you."
"What is it?"
"A welcome package. From the University of Central Florida."
…
Kyle climbed over the frame of his best friend's window in the dark. His feet hit the floor right away. If he could sleep at all, he wanted to sleep in Stan's bed. But looking at it, he felt it was too big for just him. Without turning on any lights, he found the old mahogany dresser.
Jeans, boxers, socks, his favorite Butcher Babies tee- all arranged on his side of the bed. A flattened ghost.
Kyle slid under the covers. The scent of citrus on the pillow overtook him and he rubbed his cheek against it like a desperate, lonely dog. Seeing the clothes laid out made him feel like he was next to a shell, but he wanted it. Wanted to take it all in again, close his eyes and feel where Stan's body used to be, where he would reach out and run his hand over his belly button and up his chest.
He pulled out his phone. The last messages he sent made him sick to his stomach. He scrolled up and up until the words blurred and finally stopped sometime in early April:
3:01 pm - Kyle: My mom just commented that my face smells like bleach… lol
3:03 pm - Stan: RIP
3:03 pm - Kyle: Whaddyer dewin'
3:04 pm - Stan: Poopin'
3:06 pm - Kyle: Oh, neat. Push real hard for me
3:06 pm - Stan: Lol don't have to, it's pretty runny
3:07 pm - Kyle: God damn it lol
5:37 pm - Stan: Hey
5:42 pm - Kyle: Wut
5:43 pm - Stan: I love you.
5:43 pm - Kyle: I love you toooOOOooooOOoooo
5:44 pm - Stan: :) ya cute
5:45 pm - Kyle: Noooooooooo
8:31 pm - Stan: What was even the thought process behind that
8:33 pm - Kyle: Fur what?
8:35 pm - Stan: Oh wait sorry, i thought i was replying to our snapchat convo lol
8:36 pm - Kyle: Oh lol. Yeah idk why Ike wanted to jump off the roof like that. That trampoline is so small. There was def no thought process at all
He stopped there. It was too painful. But he wanted to hear his voice again. Just his voice, uninterrupted by his own grating responses.
He pressed "call."
It went straight to voicemail. Not like he expected an answer.
"Hi, this is Stan Marsh. Sorry I can't get to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I'm available. Thank you!"
So formal. He had been applying for jobs.
Kyle hung up. Called again. "Hi, this is Stan…" He listened, snuggled up to the pillow. Pulled the comforter tighter.
Hung up. Called again. "Hi, this is Stan…"
Kyle's fingers slowly opened up as he finally started drifting off, and dreamed that Stan was holding him, breathing onto his hands, keeping them warm.