Stan Marsh
A.P. English
January 13, 2017
My Friends and I are Figures in a Wax House
with kiwi eyes and rose-stained lips,
ambrosia cheeks, divine pig tongues.
Before the house closes,
patrons stare at our shining faces,
our little warm coats and hats,
pretend to put their arms around us and smile, smile.
And we smile too,
as if there is some man in the sky,
with stars in his beard, and planets
in his palm.
We smile because their hands
shaped us this way, because
our thoughts are peaches, and
our bodies are full, flowering gardens.
With each heartbeat: puffs of pollen,
with every breath a pomegranate bursts.
My friends and I smile,
for we are strange joys.
…
"If you want to say goodbye, you best do it now," the coroner said to him, "he's going to be cremated in a few hours."
Kyle nodded, his throat burning. It still didn't feel real. The mauve walls with pink trim added to the pastel nightmare he felt trapped in.
He entered a bare room - no art, just plain gray walls, and a table on the other side. The table held up Kenny's body, pristine like he was freshly dead. Kyle closed the door behind him. The room seemed to elongate as he approached.
Karen had picked out his final outfit: black Vans, light blue jeans, and a button-up shirt with a green cactus pattern.
Because Kenny was to be cremated, there was no embalming, and he looked almost exactly how he was the last day Kyle saw him.
"I don't know what to say to you." Kyle's voice echoed slightly. "I've thought about what I wanted to say, but now that I see you, I don't know if I'll be able to get through it. I keep expecting you to get up and tell me I'm being dramatic."
He wanted to turn away and run out crying, let himself not be able to let grief weave through him, throw a tantrum like a child until it all went away. He stared at Kenny's clean face, flawless golden hair, and his closed eyes, hoping they might open. When they didn't, he pulled a flower head from his pocket.
"So, I know you love snapdragons because of your sister, and you started looking at daisies differently because of me… but you've never picked out a favorite flower just for yourself. Your life was so shaped by the people you loved, and everything you did was done with your heart. Every second of your life, you lived for others. And then you… then you let go. You let go so I could live and I'll never be able to describe how grateful I am. I'll never be able to thank you."
He grazed his thumbs over the soft petals.
"It's probably presumptuous of me, but I assigned a flower for you. Just for you, and who you are. It's a red lotus. I picked it for you because it represents compassion, pure love, and selflessness. It's the flower of the heart.
Wiping tears off his cheeks, Kyle gently slipped the flower into Kenny's shirt pocket.
"People love these flowers because they're rare and beautiful. I hope you know that those are the reasons I love you."
...
Labyrinth.
Just the word itself, she thought of often. Even the sound of it through one's mouth created its own path of syllabic poetry. La-by-ri-n-th. Starting with the tongue, brief closing of lips, the "r" and "i" rising from the back of the throat, then a final soft click of tongue.
Karen would watch the workers with crossed arms and a hood over her face, pink sneakers crushing wet leaves until they were able to discover how complicated the hidden mazes really were. According to her notes (lists of conversations she'd eavesdropped on), this dangerous area wasn't up for investigation until Kyle reported the bodies they found.
Then even more shrapnels of suspicion came up when they investigated Bael's house and found tons of photos of the boys, most of them taken without them knowing, other sacrificial weapons, and small animal carcasses. From the contact information in his address book, they were able to locate other cult members. Most of them fled. Some were dead.
One afternoon, Kyle received a letter. Rather, it was dropped on the doorstep for him to find later. It was written in type font, the paper yellowed at the edges:
To the one called Kyle:
We know you have been chosen. We were wrong to believe anyone other than you could lead us.
Think. You could be the catalyst for severe change in this world.
Find us soon.
Kyle read it out loud in the living room, shaking. Stan snatched it out of his hands, picked up a lighter and started burning the corner before Kyle stopped him.
"Wait, we need to take it to the police. I need to prove it if I think they're tracking me."
Karen added what the letter said in her leather-bound journal, already stuffed with photographs and various articles.
When the detective on duty asked Kyle why it would say "we know you have been chosen," Kyle shrugged.
"I don't know," he lied, the words straddling his throat, stinging the tip of his tongue.
Karen didn't know why she wrote everything down like this. All of it made an appearance in her pages: the dates of the town ordinance to demolish Saint Marcouf, all of the funerals (even the small, quiet one for Cartman, on a hill where wildflowers were rampant), and even the day they were given Kenny's ashes and she remembered how she lay snapdragons and daisies in front of his urn.
Maybe, she hoped, in 100 years or so, when her body is ashes in a golden urn next to her brother, someone will read it and know to never let this happen again.
Sometimes she sat in Kenny's office for hours, the smell of motor oil having permanently soaked into the furniture, the carpet, the office chair she sat and spun in until her head swam.
...
"What's the matter, Kyle? Don't have anything to say today?"
Kyle could almost punch him right in the bifocals. Every week, it felt like this therapist wanted to push his buttons as if he were some specimen under observation, a variant unit with no true quality of life. Normally, Kyle spewed for the whole hour: I miss Kenny, but his sister hates me now. I love Stan, but he's not saying what he wants to say to me. I can't believe I watched someone I grew up with shoot himself in the face. I can't believe "you'll never understand what it's like to be me" still sticks to my brain. And then, how do I dissect what happened to my parents? It's even my house now, and I don't fucking want it. How can I fix it up to sell it when I can't stand to go inside? I don't know how to go on with the rest of my life with this trauma on my back unless I start popping Vicodin.
Silence unsettles me. I stood by the water at midnight and I freaked out. I was listening for lapping water but the pond was frozen, so quiet and dark that I couldn't catch my breath. My heart beat so fast and I sweat, and looked around at the mounds of crystal snow and fuck, really there was no noise, and I cried. I started fucking crying because it was so damn quiet.
Each session circled around these topics like a rickety wooden wheel just broken off a wagon, circling and circling in the dirt but never falling to rest. This therapist, Dr. Edmund, who always wore a burgundy dress shirt and black suspenders, offered little to no input on Kyle's fervent testimonials. After several weeks, it became apparent to Kyle that Dr. Edmund was waiting for something. Rather, waiting for him to admit something. After all, the first time he saw Kyle, Kyle was in handcuffs, a bloody scowl painted across his face, furiously thrashing in Officer Barbrady's grip, screaming let me the fuck go! before kicking a vintage typewriter off the Deputy's desk. The lightbulb above him shattered.
He was pissed when they separated him and Stan, wheeling him into the back of an ambulance, then throwing Kyle into the back of a cop car. He didn't even get to see them take Kenny's body away.
But Kyle was innocent. The police accounts and all forensic evidence pointedly said so. Sharon Marsh pleaded that there was no way he was involved with anything Cartman was, that he was in hysterics and needed to be with family, not in handcuffs.
When he was finally released, Sharon and Stan picked him up. The boys spent the ride home embraced in the back seat, Kyle's head on Stan's lap, holding his knee and sobbing.
There was plenty he couldn't tell to this doctor of psychology, even if it would break the wheel. And Dr. Edmund wouldn't be prepared to hear: I can't die. Not that I want to. But because I can't die, I have responsibilities I never knew I would have. I got fucking stabbed in the neck the other week, could you have guessed that? I got stabbed in the neck because I saw Liane Cartman being attacked by Skeeter's and I intervened. I pulled my hood down and jumped in between them. The guy just fucking drove his switchblade into my neck and up into my jaw and I pissed myself because it hurt so much. She was gone before I could say sorry. Sorry that your son died twice.
And when I woke up, Stan was in front of our bedroom door. He found me and put me to bed. He said "you can't do this to me anymore, you just can't." So I'm more careful now, I try to be smart about things. But it's hard to be careful when there are no repercussions. I look at myself in the mirror and there are no scars. Even the ones I got as a kid. None. All gone. Even the one Stan gave me. I can't feel that white bump on my scalp and smile and think of him.
That's the thing about starting over, I guess. All the good gets wiped out with the bad
But admitting this would buy him a fast pass to the nuthouse.
"Maybe we should reschedule," Kyle said. "I don't feel like talking today."
...
December 26, 2017
He woke up and immediately reached out for Stan's body.
Stan wasn't there. Kyle rolled over, pulling the comforter up to his nose. The alarm clock still garnished in all of their Sharpie signatures, read 11:27 am. A steaming cup of coffee sat next to it.
(aw stan)
He sat up, wrapped his fingers around the porcelain Colorado flag, and sipped. Just in time for this birthday, the new Butcher Babies record came in, and Stan played it constantly ever since. It played now at the lowest volume, wavering under the needle of Stan's vinyl player:
We can live forever
But if we die, we die together
Run with me
Run with me...
Their room had become its own city, towering boxes of comic books, vinyl records, posters, figurines, and other trinkets. The program for "Titus Andronicus" lay on top of a stack of Popular Mechanics.
"I like the biography they wrote for you," Stan said one August afternoon, lying on their bed, letting the electric fan cool him. His ribs were still healing then, and the cast was stuffy. "Kyle Marsh hasn't been with us long, but during his time here, he's proved himself to be a very hard worker. From helping build the set to assisting others with their lines, you'll never see Kyle without a big smile on his face. He has indeed contributed a lot to bring up the positive and loving energy in our little drama community. We're excited for Kyle to grow with us! Aw, I always knew you had a little theatre gay in you. I wish I could have seen."
"I'm sure my understudy filled my boots just fine," Kyle said.
"Doubt it."
He wondered how many times he'd accidentally kicked Stan last night. He had to be keeping a tally by now. Dreams almost never stuck around anymore, as if his brain twisted and wringing them out before they could soak in. There were only so many he could remember, and he never knew what they meant. A few nights before, he dreamed he was trapped in a decrepit, dark house. Looking for help, he found himself in the basement. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling to the cold, cement floor. When he looked up, multiple pairs of eyes looked back at him. Animal eyes, exotic ones: parrots, capybaras, bearded dragons, and Fennec foxes, all hoarded in cages stared him down. Then he woke up.
A dream interpretation website said: "Having a dream about some exotic animals you are looking at or encountering means that your most secret desires and wants will never come true." It was bullshit, he was sure. And he couldn't find anything on trapped exotic animals. Maybe he didn't need interpretation for that.
After detectives released their grip from the Broflovski house (what the fuck else do they need to know? Kyle complained several times). Sharon and Randy spent the rest of the summer refurbishing, repainting, re-everything to sell it, while Kyle popped in as much as he could to help. They insisted they would take care of it all, but Kyle was stubborn. Sometimes, the brown splatters on the living room wall and bloody Rorschach wings in the carpet clipped his mind. But, by the time autumn came, they were able to sell it to a new suburban couple, determined to brighten any dark energies with their peppy, athletic children and golden retriever. Ike and Kyle went back to their new home to slaughter life one day at a time.
Kyle yawned, ran his hands through his hair.
Sounds of life came from downstairs. He heard Randy say something and Ike's laugh. Footsteps, and then Stan opened the door holding a plate, Sparky dancing in and out of his legs.
"You can't have Pop-Tarts, Sparky, they make you constipated."
Stan was still in his pajamas: loose, blue flannel pants and a white shirt with a mountainous skyline. Parts of his hair stuck up on the sides of his head.
"Hey, you're awake finally."
Stan pulled out the computer chair next to Kyle. Now that the cast was off, Stan took no movement for granted. Every step centered in grace and purpose. Every meal ate slowly. His face was plumper, healthier. One of the first things Stan and Kyle did when they came home was take turns playing through the Mass Effect trilogy again, spending mindless hours scanning planets for minerals, and loving every second of it.
"Hope you're ready for lazy breakfast in bed."
"Always," Kyle said, scooting up to the headboard. "Did you sleep okay?"
"Yeah. I mean, you kicked me a few times but other than that, yeah."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I'm kind of into it now."
Kyle laughed. "New kink unlocked, Stan?"
"Ha, maybe." Stan handed him a Pop-Tart.
"What kind is this?" Kyle asked, cracking it in half.
"Maple bacon."
"Maple bacon? How?"
"Black market."
"Oh, yes. Of course."
Sparky jumped onto the bed, sitting and staring at the boys while they ate.
"Are you going to give Karen that thing today?" Stan asked.
"If she doesn't push me into traffic first."
"She won't."
"She wants to."
"No, she doesn't. Not really. And even if she did-" Stan closed his mouth suddenly, but Kyle knew the next words: it wouldn't matter.
"I think that's what bothers her the most."
"Maybe," Stan took a sip of Kyle's coffee, then scrunched his nose. "Oh, that was a mistake."
"Do you… do you want to talk about it?"
Stan was the one who found the "thing" a week before. It was Kenny's star. The certificate, location chart, and photo still wrapped in gold tissue. Kyle told him everything that happened before, but the star discovery made it more real, more painful, for Stan.
"I think we've already talked about what we needed to talk about," Stan set the plate down and walked to the laundry basket.
Kyle watched as he kicked off his pajamas and pulled on a pair of acid wash jeans, then looked for socks. Kyle took a silent bite. Sparky's ears perked when he saw crumbs drop.
Stan turned back around and saw that Kyle was eyeing him.
"What?"
"Where are you going?"
"I'm taking Sparky for a W-A-L-K."
"Oh."
Stan sighed and sat next to Kyle on the bed.
"What do you want me to say, Kyle?"
"I want you to say what you're thinking. You haven't said anything all week about this, and it has me worried that you-"
"-Kyle, don't. Stop." He pushed some hair away from Kyle's forehead. "Listen, if something really had happened to me, I would have wanted you to move on. And Kenny was… Kenny was a good guy. And he cared about you a lot. I'd rather it be him than some random asshole."
Kyle took Stan's hand in his own and kissed it.
…
After a shower, a fresh sleek of hair gel, and the maple bacon brushed out of his mouth, Kyle walked downstairs.
Sharon and Randy had just left - he saw their red sedan back out of the driveway and head west across the living room window. The kitchen was still warm and sweet with Christmas spice, gingerbread, cinnamon. The day before, they stayed in pajamas all day, drank their weight in hot chocolate, and watched figure skating while opening presents. Hanukkah ended five days before, but the menorah still glistened on the mantle.
Karen and Ike were wrapped up in blankets, eating brownies while watching Bob Ross.
"What percent chance do you think he'll paint a cabin?" she asked Ike.
"69%"
"That's what you always say."
He smiled when he saw Kyle under the archway. "Hey, you're up. Stan said you hardcore passed out last night. Were you up too late playing with each other's nutcrackers?"
Karen pretended not to hear.
Kyle shook his head. "Hey, Karen. Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a sec?"
No response. Ike nudged her.
"I heard him," she said.
She set her plate on the coffee table, then walked up to him, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
…
He pushed it across the table to her. "I know you hate me right now, but I think you should have this."
"Another sympathy card?"
"No."
She peeled the gold tissue over and stared at the certificate for a long time, then burst into tears. "I… when was this?"
"I gave it to him after the play."
She swallowed, wiping away at her eyes. In the corner of his eyes, Kyle saw Ike peep around the wall, then disappear.
"If it wasn't for you and Stan," she said, not even looking at Kyle. "Kenny would still be alive."
"You know I think about that every day, Karen? Every day I think about how if it wasn't for me, my mom would still be here. I think about how I'll never see Kenny pull up in that god awful truck. I wish I could hear his voice again. I wish I could just call him up right now and ask him to hang out like it's a regular day, but I can't. I can't and it fucking sucks.
But if it wasn't for Kenny, Cartman and that fucking cult would have killed us all. You know that."
"I know." Her eyes narrowed, her voice a chilled melody.
Kyle stayed silent, watching as she traced her finger along with the star chart. It had been hell for her family. Closing down the auto shop for a few weeks until Stuart could get his shit together, have a memorial, have Kenny's ashes placed in his office at the shop. A few people were hired that wanted to work for the infamous Kenny's Auto, as it was now called.
Her face softened.
"You really loved him," she whispered.
"What?"
"You really loved my brother, right?"
"Of course I did. I do. I always will."
"If Kenny was alive, who would you have chosen?"
"Karen…"
"...I'm sorry. That was a fucked up question to ask."
"It's okay. Look, we don't have to be best friends, but I will always make sure you're taken care of. Always."
"What about me?" Ike was peeking around the wall again.
Kyle shrugged. "I'll think about it."
Karen scooped up the papers and held them to her chest. "Thank you. Thank you for this."
…
It wasn't a terribly cold winter this year. Snow layered the ground, but there was no wind, and the sun was beautifully bright. Kyle stepped out, put in earbuds, and started walking.
Downtown was busy, people walking hand-in-hand, cozy in mid-holiday glamor as if no summer massacre had just happened a few months prior. Even Kyle was submitting to a little happiness - he figured he should at some point, anyway. The worst was over. Maybe this one afternoon, he could pretend to be like these people with normal lives. Maybe.
A black cat crossed in front of his feet. He smiled to himself. "Of course."
The laundromat was now a spa and space to have palm readings done. Kyle stopped for a moment to look in the window. Next to a board listing different facial prices was a small, square painting. A woman with large, hollow eyes and a long neck. Written below, shimmering red text: the divine in me sees the divine in you.
He could still picture the washers, the plants, the lady with Pomeranians, the pinball machine.
…
He found Stan on a bench at Stark's Pond with Sparky curled up in his lap.
"Oh, hey! I was just about to head back home," he said when Kyle sat next to him.
"We can stay here a bit if you want."
"Sure. It's pretty nice out."
"Yeah, it is."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the trees rustle with wildlife, listening to Sparky's breathing.
"So…" Kyle shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. "You have any New Year's resolutions?"
Stan frowned. "No? Was I supposed to?"
"No, not at all. I just… nevermind. I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?"
"I'm not. I mean, I am, but… I don't know."
"Did you have any resolutions?"
"Oh. No." A car drove by, bass blaring, ascended a hill, then faded out. "I wanted to ask you something else, actually."
"What is it?"
"I've been wondering for a while… I mean, neither of us has brought it up yet," Kyle fiddled with loose threads hanging off his pocket, not wanting to look at Stan's face. "Did… did you still want to get married?"
"Oh, wow. I was not expecting that."
"Is that a no?"
"Uh, well, Kyle." Stan laughed a little. "We already live together. You still wear my ring. And you took my last name. We're basically married already. We really don't need a piece of paper to prove anything. I think it's pretty established that we love each other."
"Oh."
"But… I would like to someday, though."
"Me too."
Kyle put his arm around Stan's shoulders.
"So, for realsies though, Stan. 2018. What do you want to do?"
Stan chewed his lip, then said: "I want to go to school. I really do."
"For what?"
"English, I guess. Or music."
"I'm sure you won't have any problems with that."
"We'll see."
"You'll be amazing."
They snuggled closer, Stan resting his head on Kyle's shoulder, nuzzling his nose into his cheek.
"This is something I've been wanting to say to you, Kyle. I wasn't sure how to bring it up but you've already kind of picked at it."
"What?"
"Do you remember that one summer when I was really, really sick with the flu?"
"Yeah, it sucked. I felt so bad for you."
"I was out of it most of the time, but I do remember you were all excited because this group of scientists were able to reverse time on a coffee bean or a lima bean, some type of bean, for like half a second. And you asked me if there was ever anything I wish I could reverse for half a second. I said I didn't know."
"I'm guessing that you know now."
"It was difficult… there's a lot of little vignettes of time I want to take back. But that split second where I threw the ring at you. Your face… your face. I'll never forget your face at that moment. I would take it back so fast."
"There are a million moments I would reverse, too. Including that one." Kyle sighed and scratched Sparky. "To be honest, I'm really scared, Stan. Our lives are going to be so different from now on. Very less than perfect."
"I don't want things to be perfect. I want them to just be."
They kissed, then looked back out over the water, the snowbanks, smelled the spruce air of their little mountain town.
"I don't know what I would have done."
"Hm?"
"I just don't know what I would have done if-"
…
Sometime in late 2013
"-you had died that day."
Strawberry Migraine finished their soundcheck. The lights grew dark.
"It's going to take a lot more than a god damn raccoon to kill me!" Kyle yelled above the crowd's whooping.
"Good!" Stan grinned, then kissed him again. "I need you."
Moments later they were in the throes of song, of bodies mashing together, their arms up and wiggling. One girl crowd-surfed at the front, giggling and making devil horns with her fingers.
Stan grabbed Kyle's arm and pouted. "I want to do that. I want to go up."
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah!"
Another beer can flew past Kyle's face.
"I… okay. We can try."
Kyle bent down, wrapped his arms around Stan's waist, and lifted. People around them caught on and helped raise Stan into the air, where he was carried off on the hands of others.
Someone tapped Kyle on the shoulder. "You want to go up, too?"
Kyle hesitated, watching Stan dip, then surge back up.
"You know what? Yeah! Yeah, I think I'll go with him."
The man scooped him off the sticky floor and released him to the crowd. It felt like he was being thrown, his stomach was churning.
He caught up with Stan and reached out with his X-ed out hand. Their fingers touched, and Kyle never forgot how Stan looked that night, his sweating, beautiful, pink face bathed in white light; bass riveting his bones and the beat in sync with his red lotus heart; young and absolutely weightless in a sea of hands, forever clutching a fistful of his own river teeth.
THE END.
Guys... Thank you, thank you so much for all of your kindness and patience over the past two years. It's been such an emotional journey since starting this fic and I'm not sure if I could have gotten through it without your encouragement. I can't state how much the support has made my heart swell.
As always, you can find me on IG and Tumblr as nonbinarybead.
I made a master playlist of all music mentioned or artists that inspired (it's a flaming hot Cheeto mess tbh): playlist/4LM1WukeAMaMzR6bgTkTpY?si=NJ_WQIrQRPqob1v9rEVmGQ
Through some miracle, I was also able to get one of Stan's poems published: thefamilyconcertminusone
Thank you again for being so amazing. 3
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