Authors note: Congratulations to Zak for giving me my 200th review! And everyone else who's taken the time last chapter to review. I've honestly gotten some of the best reviews for this story, and I really hope to see more. Some of my stories end badly, and some end good; those of you who know that about me I think are kinda nervous because of that. No matter what the outcome, I hope it'll be satisfying. All I can say is that you need to trust me to give the story the ending it should have.
Again, thanks guys. I appreciate you so much.
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Chapter 12- Vampire
The talking started Tuesday afternoon.
It was like a breath of fresh air after drowning for a week, and so sudden, like breaking the surface of a flood. One minute I'd been arguing with Cartman about whether or not Ike looked like a trashcan, who wasn't even there to defend himself, and the next we'd been silenced by a small, "I'm tired."
The three of us, which included Kenny, froze at the sound, then all turned toward Stan at once. It was like he hadn't even spoken at all; head still down, bangs covering his eyes, lips wrung in a perpetual frown. But he had spoken, I was sure of that. One glance at the other guys, who stared back at me with a questioning, confirmed it.
"You… you ready to go home?" I tried not to sound shocked or hesitant, but I'm sure I failed. He seemed so frail, like a whisper of breath could make him disintegrate. I got a nod in response. It was such a simple gesture, but we all had to suppressed our smiles. "Want me to come with you?"
He thought about this, which made me feel like he were pouring scalding battery acid over my heart. I thought for a minute that maybe I'd been hovering too much; maybe he needed away from me. And then his answer, a small and almost timid "Yeah", came out apologetic. It's all he needed to say for me to understand his uncertainty. "Only if I wanted to" would have been the rest of his response, but I didn't make him say it.
I said my goodbyes to Cartman and Kenny and linked my fingers with Stan. Back at my house, he fell asleep listening to "The catcher in the rye", which I'd been reading to him all that week. It was something that got both of our minds off our own problems, and something that'd give us extra credit in English if we wrote a report. And afterward, when I was certain he was too deeply unconscious to wake without some hardcore shaking; I put the book aside and slid closer, until my thigh touched his and his breath hit my neck in warm puffs, then I closed my eyes and let the tingles melt my bones, thicken my blood, and tickle my body all the way down to my toes. This time I didn't rush to the bathroom to "take care" of things, but kept my hands above my waist and let the emotions I felt for him flow through my soul, until my body surrendered to the quietness of his room and my mind sunk into an endless wasteland of dreams.
The talking continued from then on out, coming in small fragments during moments we weren't expecting it. Answers, statements, observations; always so short we never actually saw him speaking, and when we looked at him, it was like he hadn't spoken in years, or hadn't even been listening. He'd become a shell, a rain cloud, and even more than that, a mystery.
I'm ashamed to admit it, but I'd be lying if I said that part of me wasn't enjoying this a little bit. I had Stan completely to myself; all day, every day. It was never a burden for me. In fact, I welcomed it with an enthusiasm that left our friends baffled. And the handholding, which was something that continued at school, at home, and in town, was my primary source of enjoyment, like a healing balm to my torment. Linked together by our fingers, palm to palm, skin against skin, tingles zapping through my veins.
No one said anything about it, at least not where I could hear them. It was something I was sure I wouldn't normally get away with. The situation had to be grave, dire; and it was. I craved touching him, I needed that contact with a ferocity that scared me a little bit, or maybe it scared me beyond comprehension.
I was unhinged, I knew that much, and Stan's hand was like the glue holding me together, keeping my brittle heart from splintering all to pieces. Because despite any sick enjoyment I was milking from it, the heartache outweighed it tenfold. There's nothing like seeing the one person you love more than life retreat into themselves and disappear into the emptiness of their embittered heart; there's no pain that can compare, because losing a soul to nothingness has a flavor all it's own; one that lingers on your lips like the afterthought of a bad dream.
But even dreams stopped after a while. I'd been finding it increasingly difficult to sleep with his body so close to mine. Every night became a battle against horrendous fits of lust that licked at my flesh like fire; white-hot flames which failed to be quenched by either my hand or the fantasies plaguing my mind with a vividness that almost left me questioning reality. It was my own personal hell, but a hell I didn't want rescuing from.
Somewhere along the line I began to lose myself in his isolated world. I was shivering inside, quaking down to my bones with depression, morphing into some kind of zombie myself; half tortured, half love crazed, delirious with lust and possessed by heartache.
But nobody could see it, and maybe I didn't want them to. I was too in love to want to be saved, which made me think; maybe Stan was too.
---
"I think we should try something else today." I broadcast, sitting at the breakfast table with Stan to my right and Ike and his best friend, Fillmore, across from me.
I take a break from my oatmeal to glance at Stan, whose efforts at eating his are tired and slow. His spoon clunks into the ceramic bowl, drags across the bottom, and then slips between his lips, where the process begins all over. He says nothing to my comment, but I'm not surprised by this. I tinker with my spoon and continue, impervious.
"I know you haven't exactly been on good terms with, you know, daylight or anything, but lets face it, Stan, you're not a vampire. You need fresh air."
"I completely agree," My mom breaks in, sailing into the kitchen in her avocado green bathrobe.
"Mom! Gross!" Ike slaps his hands over his eyes, dropping his spoon into his bowl of Cheerios and splattering his pajama top with milk. "Please tell me you aren't naked under that."
Humor is not something I find in much lately. Still, I have to laugh along with Fillmore at my brothers' mortification.
"Ike, don't be silly," she chides as she fills the coffee pot with fresh water. "Everyone is naked underneath their clothes."
"Well, yeah," He says. "but most of us wouldn't be in danger of displaying our entire anatomy if a slight breeze decides to blow."
I shove my fist in my mouth, trying hard not to let the laughter overtake me. I have no idea how high her tolerance is this morning since it tends to vary from day to day. The last thing I need is another grounding when I'd just had a near miss for ditching school.
"You've been watching a little too much late night television, Mister Man. I've got a nice pair of flannel pajamas under here, so you have nothing to worry about." Mom flips a switch, filling the kitchen with the scent of freshly brewed coffee in a matter of minutes. "And by the way, Stanley, that was just your father on the phone. He called to inform me he'll be picking you up in about ten minutes."
"What?" I choke and cough on my milk.
"Kyle, be careful." She warns.
"Mom, how could you?" Betrayal rings my voice. "You know we were gonna get out and do something besides mope around today. I told you that last night, weren't you listening to me?"
"I understand that, Bubbe, but I had nothing to do with it. Mr. Marsh is the one who called me. If he wants to take his son out, then there isn't anything we can do about that." She sponges off the countertop and I sink angrily into my chair. "Honestly, Kyle, I think this will do the both of you a world of good. Stanley knows I love him like one of my own, but the two of you need some time apart with your own families. You haven't left each others side in weeks now, it just isn't healthy."
"Bite me." I mutter to myself.
Ike suppresses his own laugh at my chagrin, then points his dripping spoon at me. "That's okay, Kyle, we're going to a movie today," He leans across the table to whisper. "And if you come with you can get us into something good."
"I heard that," Mom snaps. "Your brother will not help you sneak into an R-rated movie, Ike." She pats my pouty cheek on the way past. "He's much too mature for that."
My brother crumples dramatically into his chair, his sour expression mirroring mine. We both proceed to seethe as our friends' continue eating; Ike's cereal getting soggy and my oatmeal getting lumpy, the both of us too hung up on our pride to save our breakfasts from this imminent doom. Our eyes find each other across the new apple and pear patterned tablecloth, shooting silent messages of rebellion to one another. But despite all the frustration I'm feeling, a smile tugs at one corner of my mouth. Being nearly sixteen, I must look twice as ridiculous as he does.
Ike's lips twitch. He's so stubborn he's fighting it; then suddenly he flashes his teeth, beaming at me in delight. I smile back and wrinkle my nose, which has made him laugh since he was a baby. He chuckles and looks to Fillmore, who smiles back at him even though he'd been too busy playing the games on the back of the cereal box to even know what was going on.
I've noticed something peculiar about the way they interact with each other. They've been best friends for years, just like me and Stan. But unlike us, there's something completely different about their relationship. They don't stand very close, and they aren't very touchy. They don't share moments of silent glances where each knows what the other is thinking. They don't share the same bed when Fillmore sleeps over, drink out of each other's cups, or spend every weekend together.
Stan and I do all of that, and more, all of which could be considered totally gay.
So what did that mean?
"Good morning everyone," I hear dad chime at the same time as the doorbell. He scratches his freshly showered head and opens the door. "Oh, good morning, Randy. What brings you here?"
"Seems my son's moved in with you, but I've come for my visitation rights." He jokes.
I feel my face scrunch up and spin toward Mom. "That wasn't ten minutes!"
"Hey, Stan, ready to go? It's just you and me today, we can have some nice father-son bonding time." Randy calls from the living room.
Stan gets up with all the eerie silence of the walking dead and begins rinsing his dishes in the sink.
"I'll get those," Mom grabs his spoon and throws it into the dishwasher. "Have fun, Stanley, and tell your mom I said 'Hello' when you get back home."
My fist is clamped around my milk glass, squeezing so hard my fingers are white. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, wondering why it's so difficult for me to let him go. His shoes move slowly across the floor.
Clunk… scrape… drag… clunk… scrap… drag…
"Stan," I grab his hand when he starts to pass me by and stare desperately up at him.
He hesitates, looking down out of the corner of his eyes at a spot on the linoleum floor near my sock covered feet. My windpipe tightens, stifling a whimper. Suddenly this departure is making my lungs feel too heavy to properly expand with air. I cover the hand I'm holding with my other one. He gives it a firm squeeze, then pulls away.
A cloud of Stan scented air breezes past me as he walks away, and in a matter of seconds, he's gone.
-----
My hand is naked.
That's how it feels without his warm fingers curled around mine, as I walk down the center of town alone; exposed and cold. And lonely. My hand is lonely for his and I keep robotically reaching out for it and coming up with nothing.
I hold my palm up for inspection, clenching and unclenching my fist. I sigh and fish inside my pocket, pulling out my green mittens. But even the snug woven cotton doesn't help. I frown and shove my hands deep in my pockets, hoping for some kind of comfort.
His birthday is less than two weeks away now. I've been mulling it over in my head and still can't figure out what I should get him. Normally I would've already had it bought and wrapped, but this just isn't our year. What do you get someone in a position like his? What could he possible want?
I press my face against the cold glass of a department store window. A row of glittering rings set with crystals and diamonds twinkle up at me; a rainbow of promise rings. Jealousy slices through my stomach as I wonder which color Stan had planned to get for Wendy. Maybe blue to set off her eyes; or red for the passion he felt. Maybe a white diamond, because it's beautiful and dazzling like her smile.
I glower and turn back down the street, trying to forget about it. A tumble of autumn colored leaves scatter ahead of me, making October feel more official, and I try to focus on the smell of pumpkin bunt cakes baking in the coffee shop up ahead.
…But I wonder: is Stan romantic? Did he put that much thought into a gift to make sure whatever he got held a special meaning? Would he have given her the ring and then showered her in hugs and kisses? Was he sweet and unpredictable and affectionate?
I'm baffled, realizing suddenly there's a part of him I have no idea about. No matter how well I know him, I'll never know what he's like in a love relationship. I could get an idea from watching, but that wouldn't be the same thing. He couldn't fully change into boyfriend mode with his friends around. What is he like when he's alone with the person he loves?
My shoes slow until I come to another stop, and I gaze at my reflection in the glass of another store. My eyes stare back at me sadly.
What kind of a boyfriend would I be? Could I give him everything he needed? I'm not sure that I could. Sometimes I think I'm not even a very good best friend, not with the thoughts I've been keeping from him.
He's always been the perfect best friend. He always made me feel safe and wanted. And yes; loved. What would it feel like to have more? To be hugged and cuddled? What do his kisses taste like? If I were his boyfriend, would he…?
I shake my head and march away, not allowing myself to keep thinking down that path. It's a forbidden no-zone. Besides, if I were good for him, if I could ever hope to be his everything, I wouldn't be failing him now. He'd be healing, and the emptiness in his eyes would have long since vanished. But it's still there, and I know that even if I could shatter that, I'd only open a torrent of pain that's been frozen underneath. Why pick at a scab when I'll only make it bleed?
A woman with a pack of children whoosh past, shoving me to one side and nearly knocking me off balance. I don't even have it in myself to feel the least bit irritated. Instead, I stall; watch them as they disappear through other South Parkians weaving in and out of one another, enjoying their weekend with somewhere to go and someone to be with.
I squint through the sunlight, then sigh and lower my eyes to my shoes. One of them is about to come untied, but I'm distracted by movement to my left and peer into the Pet Shop I've stopped in front of.
Five golden puppies yap and nip at each other in a small pen filled with soft wood shavings. I've never been much of a pet person, maybe because Mom would never let me have any, but I still like animals and would normally get some sort of enjoyment out of watching them. But all can see now is the look on Stan's face when he'd found Sparky's abandon toy left over on his bedroom floor; the way the pain cut through him and the light flickered out of his eyes, the way he's completely died on the inside.
… and then I remember his smile.
A broken sob rips through my chest and I slam my fist against the glass. I hate dogs for making him hurt. I fucking hate the bastards! Maybe Sparky was the last straw. Maybe if it hadn't been for that damn mutt, everything would be okay. I don't know, but maybe. Just maybe.
I press my hands to the saline spilling down my cheeks and sink to the cold cement. Weakness overtakes me, and my shoulders shake as I hug my shins and wail into my knees.
Helplessness has no cure. You can be the most optimistic person to live and breathe and still find yourself consumed by the desperateness of it all. If you've ever experience something so morbidly painful you'd give anything, even your life, to fix it; if you've ever loved someone so much that their pain hurts you more than it hurts them; if you've ever been powerless to help the person who means everything to you, then you know how I feel right now, right this moment, and every miserable second my heart continues to beat.
I stay that way for a long time, ignoring the people who ask if I'm alright. Isn't it fucking obvious I'm not? Am I somehow not being clear that I want everyone to go to hell and leave me the fuck alone? Maybe I should make a goddamn cardboard sign to wear around my neck that says "Piss Off" in case I have any more public meltdowns in the future.
The tears keep coming, ripping from the deepest chamber of my heart. And I can't make it stop, and I don't even want it to stop. I hadn't realized the torment had built this thick inside me, or that the look in his eyes haunted me to the core, or how miserable I've become.
But it had, and it did, and I was. I really, really was.
I cry until every ounce of liquid is extracted from my body and I feel too weak to lift my head from my knees. I stay huddled in that position, letting the salt from my tears dry into crusty, red trails down my cheeks, feeling broken and vulnerable and alone.
A gust of gentle wind chills my skin, making me shiver down to my bones; then I freeze at the familiar scent it carries with it and groan inwardly.
He plants himself next to me, the sound of his jacket crinkling as he does.
"Go away." I mumble into my knees.
He doesn't respond, but he doesn't fulfill my request, either. The breeze gets a little heavier, swirling his scent around me. It makes me sick to remember why I know it so intimately.
I slip my hands between my knees and face and try to wipe the evident sadness away before peeking up at him. Cartman sits with his chin in his palm, staring off somewhere in the distance.
"Cartman?"
He blinks as the breeze kisses against his eyelashes. "I've never seen anyone so…" His tone is solemn and carries away.
I lift my head to see him better, trying not to care, but already deeply concerned.
"His eyes are so empty," he continues, quietly. "It's kind of scary."
I'm sitting here, staring, trying to find any incriminating evidence that this is somehow another trick. His expression is softened with worry, and I can't help but notice how much better he looks that way.
"Yeah," I finally respond. "It kind of is."
"I don't know how you can stand being near him all the time." He admits. "I can barely look at him anymore."
I glance at my arms crossed on top of my knees. "That's what you do when you love someone."
"Love," Cartman snarls, but his features can't retain the harshness right now, and it fades again into apprehension. "He loved Wendy, and look at what that got him." He runs all ten fingers over his face and through his hair, like he's been stressing about this for days; and maybe he has. "Is this what she's capable of? Look at what she did to him, Kahl. If I keep trying to pursue her and get what I want, am I next?"
I'm already shaking my head before he's even finished. "I don't think that Wendy's done anything bad, Cartman. I… she didn't meant to cause him so much pain."
"How do you know?" Suspicion creeps into his tone.
"I just do." I reply curtly. "Wendy is a good person. It's why Stan cares about her so much."
"And that bothers you, doesn't it?" My silence irritates him. I can see his fingers curl into fists out of the corner of my eye. "I'm not a fag, Kahl."
"I know."
"But you are."
"… That doesn't mean I wanted what happened between us to happen, or that I even enjoyed it." I reply slowly.
"It… doesn't?" We're not looking at each other; we can't. Instead we're both boring holes into the cement with hard stares.
"No. That's like saying you would enjoying screwing anything female just because you're straight, and I really don't think you have any interest in my mom, now do you?"
His face screws up in horrified realization, his mouth opens, but he's too disgusted by that mental mind-fuck to say anything.
"Just because I'm attracted to…" I break off, not sure if I should say guys or Stan, and then decide it doesn't matter. "It doesn't mean I'm attracted to you."
"Is that suppose to be an insult?" He growls.
"You know it." I smile slightly, and I can sense he is, too.
He picks awkwardly at a button on his coat, considering this. "So what happened… that was all… it was just…"
"Revenge." I fill in for him. "We were both feeling hurt and we took our vengeful feelings out that way. It was an act of insanity and that was all." I hug my knees to my chest. "In fact, if I could take it back, I would in a millisecond."
"You don't have any secret feelings for me?"
"God, no!" I shout, startling even myself. He looks at me with shocked, round eyes. "Do you?" I fire back.
And then he bursts into a roar of laughter. I can hear the relief spilling out of it, the nervousness and awkwardness. And I laugh too; manically, because the situation is so completely fucked up.
When our laughter dies down, the dejection fogs around us again, melting our smiles.
"I want Stan to get better." He gazes off into the same spot as before. It's hard for him to say that, but the sincerity rings true.
"I know you do, Cartman." I pat his shoulder. "I know you do."
---
It's the shiny silver Mustang parked in the driveway that makes me stop in my tracks when I get back to Stan's house. It's nearly dark, but the moonlight is glinting gloriously off its sleek body. I can literally feel my eyes light up when I notice it doesn't have any plates; just the colorful piece of cardboard proclaiming the name of a popular car dealership. Randy and Sharon are standing beside it, talking quietly. Stan is sitting on the porch, staring at a ladybug crawling across his fingers.
"Kick ass," I breathe out loud. "Is this yours, Mr. Marsh?"
"It's mine."
My head whips around to look at Stan, but he continues to play with the bug.
"Yours!?" I yelp, rushing to peer inside the tinted window. "No goddamn, fuckin' way, dude!"
"Kyle!" Sharon scolds, but Randy laughs at my admiration.
"Isn't she something?" He asks, tipping his beer at it. "It's not new, but it's only a couple years old and it's in perfect condition."
"You really got this for Stan?!" I whoop, pulling the door open and jumping inside. I run my hands over the steering wheel.
"A boys gotta have a car when he turns sixteen." He answers.
I flick on the radio and the buttons glow an electric blue. "Fuckin' sweet, dude!"
Sharon gives an aggravated grunt and Randy laughs again. "He's also got his license. Tell him Stan."
"What?" I pull my attention away to look at Stan. "But we haven't even taken drivers ed. Yet."
"He's a natural." Randy beams. "Took him down to the DMV and he aced it like a pro."
Well, yeah, because he's all mechanical and robot-like now. He just doesn't have the life in him to be nervous and screw up. "Have you drove it yet, Stan?"
"He'll… drive it when he's ready." Randy answers.
I feel my mouth pull into a frown. "Don't you like your car, Stan?"
"Lets go in the house for now, boys. Stanley can take you for a ride later." Sharon herds us all into the house, and then pulls Randy into the kitchen.
I plop beside Stan on the couch and watch him watch TV for a few seconds, wondering how anyone can really be so disinterested in their first car. Especially one that bad ass. I thought maybe something really exciting would snap him out of it. Something like this, I thought, would remind him that life goes on and he should, too. Apparently I was wrong. Again.
The voices in the kitchen raise an octave, drawing my attention to the hushed whispers that seem to be getting more hostile.
"…thought it'd help him, Sharon. I'm only thinking of the boy." Randy hisses.
"He doesn't care about anything anymore, Randy. He needs help, not a new Mustang." Sharon snaps back.
"He doesn't need a shrink, that'll just screw him up more than he already is."
Stan's clenching his teeth together as they continue on and on, back and forth, like some kind of battle on a daytime TV court show. I can feel the tension building stronger every second; in the kitchen, in Stan. His whole body starts trembling until he looks mad enough to murder.
I touch his forearm gently, ready to appease him when Randy finally shouts, "Our son is not suicidal!"
"WELL, MAYBE HE IS!" Sharon thunders.
Stan flies off the couch and grabs the new set of car keys off the table, then throws the door open and storms out into the night. I scramble after him, slipping on the grass made wet from the new snow floating softly to the ground.
"Stan!" I shout after him.
I push myself to my feet and make it into the passenger seat just before he's about to stomp on the gas pedal.
"Get out of the car." He stares out the windshield, glares, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white.
I blink stupidly at him. "No."
His fingers squeeze deeper, nails digging into the gray material. The veins are bulging out the back of his hands.
"Please," He grinds his teeth. "Get out of the fucking car."
I try not to let his words get to me. But it stings. He's never told me to leave before.
"What the hell did I do to you?" I'm trying to sound tough, mad. But instead it comes out like a sob; pitiful, stupid. My heart hurts.
I stare hard at him; feeling betrayed, feeling angry, feeling torn. His jaw is clenched so tight I'm afraid his teeth will crumble. More than anything, I want to take it all away. The pain, the bitterness. I'm losing him to it.
"I'm going with you." I decide quietly.
His eyes narrow further, bangs touching his eyelashes. He still wont look at me. "Kyle-"
"I said I'm going with you!" My shout echo's off the windows, whipping around us in the small bubble of the car.
Stan's lips hardened into a thin line as he shifts violently into reverse and peels out of the driveway. We fly down the street at incredible speeds, in silence. I hold on to the door handle, wincing as we round a corner.
"Stan, please slow down." I beg. He ignores me. "Please."
My nose is frozen and I'm shivering. It feels like the inside of an icebox in here, but I'm too upset to worry about the heater.
"Stan," I whimper.
"Shut up, Kyle!" He barks.
The words felt like a slap across the face as my heart disintegrated into a pile of ash. This wasn't my Stan. I knew that now. I wasn't losing him to the emptiness; I had already lost.
The car squeals as we spin around another corner, slide across the icy street and come to a stop in front of a tall, green house.
Wendy's house.
My blood comes alive with adrenalin, pumping like an electric current, heating up until it starts to boil. It mixes with the venomous sting of his words, making a deadly potion within my body. I can almost feel it seeping out of my pores, the calm before the storm, and then I erupt.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!" I explode. "What the hell is wrong with you?! You've got to be one stupid ass piece of shit to still be doing this to yourself! What are you gonna do, asshole?! Mope around outside her goddamn house for the rest of your pathetic, miserable, fucking life?! You are one self-centered, son of a bitch! You have people who love you right in front of your goddamn face, but we're not good enough for you, are we, you fucking dick!"
I grab his shirt and shake him violently before slamming him into the driver side door and letting go.
"This is real! I'm real! Can't you fucking see me!? I know you can, dickface! You just don't give a shit because you don't care about anything else in the goddamn world but Wendy! Well let me tell you something about your fucking princess, Stan, because you're too damn retarded to figure it out on your own: She's a girl, not a goddess! And you know what else? SHE DOESN'T LOVE YOU, AND SHE NEVER FUCKING WILL!!! There! There, I said it! And it's the goddamn truth because she fucking told me so herself! Does it hurt? OH FUCKING WELL! You're hurting everyone else and you don't care, so why should I?! This needs to stop and it needs to stop right now or you're going to lose everyone, including me! If you don't give a crap, than I'm fucking sorry I failed you! But you need to stop being a pussy and get the hell over it already!"
My breath feels like fire in my lungs as the oxygen come out in jagged puffs, hissing through my bared teeth. Stan is still clutching the steering wheel, shaking and beat red with anger. He throws the door open and flies out into the snow.
"What are you doing!?" I rave.
He's on my side of the car in a flash and yanks the door open, grabs two fistfuls of my shirt, and hauls me out of the car. The snow powdered grass swirls up to meet my face as I topple to the ground.
He's back in his car so fast that the only thing I see when I lift my head is two red taillights disappearing down the street.
For the second time today, an explosion of tears overtakes me.
---
TO BE CONTINUED…
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A/N: Hold it! Okay… I know… I KNOW Stan is a total dick in this chapter. Everything that happens though, it's for a good reason. Stan is my very favorite, and for that reason alone, you need to trust me. Kay? Trust me.
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-BratChild3