Disclaimer: I do not own South Park; it is the property of Matt Stone and Trey Parker.
Stan awoke to a horrible gurgling in his stomach. Pressing a hand over his mouth, he quickly ran out the door, just barely catching the time shown on his analog clock in bright red.
5:32, damn, he thought, slamming the bathroom door aside. Too late, as a horrible burning built in his throat and his stomach emptied itself onto the tile floor. Stan stumbled toward the toilet and thrust the seat up, managing to at least aim some of the bile into the porcelain basin.
"Oh God," he moaned miserably, hands white-knuckled against the toilet. The stench was enough to make him gag, and it wasn't long before another round of vomit tore past his lips into the murky water.
Coughing loudly, he smashed his fist down on the plunger, watching the bile and water swirl away down the drain. Pressing his clammy forehead against the seat, Stan groaned again.
He felt like shit.
The odor was still overpowering. Stan lifted his face, then scowled when he realized that there was puke all down the front of his shirt. A puddle was forming near the doorway where he'd slipped up. "God damnit," he muttered, throat burning from the bile.
His hands and knees shook, and Stan wasn't entirely certain if he'd be able to stand at the moment. He'd really fucked up last night. Usually, Stan only drank enough to maintain a constant buzz. He tried to avoid getting shit-faced, because he positively loathed dealing with the aftermath. It was always worse for him, due to his weak stomach and shitty asthma.
Another round of gagging hit him, and he bent over the toilet to prepare for the worst. By this point though, there was nothing left to throw up, so Stan was left dry heaving for a good five minutes or so.
"Eww!"
The blood left his face at the sudden voice, and Stan turned his head to spy Shelly standing in the doorway. His sister had long since gotten her braces off, and while she had mellowed a bit since they were younger, she could still be a huge fucking bitch when she wanted to be.
Her dark brown eyes found his blue, and she wrinkled her nose at him. "You couldn't even make it to the toilet?"
Stan stared at her with bloodshot eyes uncomprehendingly. All he could hear was shit spewing from her mouth. It was enough to cause another wave of nausea to roll over him, so he turned back toward the toilet and began dry heaving again.
Shelly watched her brother for a moment, lips pursed and a hand on her hip. Eventually, she let out an exaggerated sigh and turned back into the hallway. Stan was left alone for a blissful five minutes, before a very worried Sharon Marsh stepped into the bathroom, carefully avoiding the pooling vomit as she tied her robe tighter around her waist.
"Stanley, honey?" She didn't ask what was wrong, like his dad might have; it was obvious from the stench and the way her son was clutching at the toilet. Frowning, she gently rubbed soothing circles along his back.
Closing his eyes, Stan clenched his teeth and swallowed. "Hey mom," he whispered hoarsely. They sat there like that for a few minutes, until Shelly returned with a glass of water. Mom probably made her grab it, he thought idly, sipping at the drink. When Stan finally felt like he wasn't going to vomit anymore, he turned around and leaned his back up against the toilet.
"Looks like you do have the flu," Sharon said softly, smoothing the boy's black locks back from his damp forehead. "I'll have to call the school and let them know you're sick."
Rather than say anything, Stan just watched her. When everything else was shit, his mother was always a constant good. Everyone else in his life—even Kyle—had seemed shitty to him at some point or another, but never his mom.
When he gave no response, Sharon said, "Could you lift your arms, honey, so we can get that soiled shirt off?"
Stan blinked and looked down. He'd completely forgotten about that. A faint blush touched his cheeks, and he said, "It's cool mom, I got it," before shrugging out of his shirt and setting it aside. He eyed the tile, then added guiltily, "Sorry I threw up on the floor. I tried to make it to the toilet, I swear."
"It's alright Stanley," she said softly, running her fingers through his sweaty hair. "Why don't you go use your father's and my bathroom to shower off, so I can clean up in here, okay?"
Stan knew that it wasn't a request, despite her phrasing, and that she would brush off any protest he gave about her cleaning up his mess. "Is dad up?"
"He woke up when Shelly came and got me. I don't know if he went back to sleep or not," she replied, and Stan could hear the hint of annoyance in her tone.
Bracing himself against the toilet, Stan shoved to his feet, only wobbling a little bit. "I'll grab a change of clothes in case, then," he said. Stan made his way to the door, then glanced back and said, "Thanks mom."
"You're welcome Stanley. Now go clean up… is there anything you want in particular for breakfast this morning?"
Everything he could think of sounded like shit. "Just… some eggs and toast," he said after a moment. Even though it would be shitty, at least those would help with his hangover.
Once Stan was alone in his room behind a locked door, he kicked at his dresser. "Ugh, God damnit!" he growled, then clutched at his head and groaned. Flopping down on his bed, Stan kicked off his pants and boxers and just lay there miserably for a moment. Every part of him ached.
A knock startled him and he sat up, then peered at the clock. "7:20? Did I fall asleep?"
"Stanley, hurry up and take a shower! I'm going to start cooking breakfast soon."
Picking up a towel off the floor, Stan wrapped it around his waist and grabbed a fresh set of clothes, then quickly made his way toward his parents' room. Thankfully, his dad was not around, so Stan stepped into the shower and let the steaming water wash over him.
Why had he even gotten so drunk in the first place? Stan couldn't remember, and it was pissing him off. "I'm such a dumbass," he muttered, scrubbing at his skin with the soap to try and clean off the smell of vomit that clung to him.
When he finished the shower, Stan still felt pretty nauseous, and his head was killing him. He doubted that he would throw up again, though. Pulling on some shitty t-shirt and a pair of black jeans, Stan went downstairs.
Shelly and his father were no where in sight. Probably left for school and work respectively. As soon as he sat down at the table, a plate of shit was placed in front of him.
"There you go honey, scrambled eggs and toast."
"Thanks mom," he replied, forcing himself to take a bite of the pile of crap on his plate.
"I already called the school and told them you'll be staying home today. Would you like me to take the day off as well? I can call Tom and tell him—"
"No, it's okay mom," Stan interrupted. "I don't want you to get in trouble with your boss. I'll be fine… probably just end up sleeping most of the day."
Sharon hummed thoughtfully, then relented, "Well, alright Stan." Though she didn't like the idea of leaving her son home alone, Stan had shown a lot of maturity over the last few years. "If you're sure, then I'd best get going. If anything comes up at all, you give me a call, okay?"
Finishing off his plate, Stan nodded. "Promise."
With a quick kiss goodbye, Stan was left alone in an empty house.
He leafed through his dad's liquor cabinet, resurfacing with an old favorite: Jameson Irish Whiskey. His headache was still pounding at his temples, but this would help. And thanks to those Asperger fuckwads, Stan could drink this stuff like water.
As he made his way back up to his room, Stan took a few chugs of the whiskey. He was already starting to feel better once he reached his bed. Setting the bottle aside, Stan grabbed his phone and scrolled through his list of contacts. One of the names caught his eye, and his thumb hovered over it for a moment, before he hesitantly pressed the reply button.
S: You guys at school?
P: Not a chance.
S: Where are you at?
P: The usual. Why?
S: Skipping school. I might come by.
P: Wear something that doesn't look like shit then.
Stan chuckled at the irony in that. Heading over to his drawer, he switched out his Terrance and Phillip shirt for something a bit more appropriate. Throwing on his leather jacket, Stan decided to forgo the red and blue hat—it was ridiculously recognizable, and he didn't need word of this getting back to his mom—and shoved the whiskey into his backpack.
Wallet. House key. Phone. Alcohol… seems set, he thought. He went down to the kitchen, then hastily scribbled a note down and stuck it to the fridge:
Went to the store to grab some soup. Be back soon. -Stan
He didn't think either of his parents would be home before he got back, but he didn't want to risk it. Better to have an excuse prepared beforehand.
Stan took one more shot out of the whiskey, then shouldered his backpack and left the house, locking the door behind him.
Bit of a filler chapter, sorry. I wanted to use this one to kind of emphasize how fucked Stan really is. On the bright side though, there's a bit of suspense for you all. Who do you think P is? I'd be curious to hear your answers.
