I started this story after a serious depression and reading Bagatelle's The Weight of My Love I decided I wanted to help people. Bagatelle's story inspired the coupling, but the entire idea of this was inspired by the fact that I was depressed and know that there are many others who have gone through depressions as well.

Depression is nothing to be ashamed of. I am not clinically depressed, nor am I bulimic. However; I am someone who is interested in becoming a Psychology major in college and helping people is something I like to do. I want this story to be relatable to some of you. For others, I want you to take a step back and realize that there are people out there who are suffering from issues such as depression and bulimia who need help.

In this story, Eric Cartman suffers from Chronic Depression. It leads to self-mutilation and bulimia. He eventually finds a way to recover, not just through medication but through himself. I want you all to understand that you too can recover from yourselves too. You are powerful and beautiful people. Please believe that. Eric's situation is more severe than some, for dramatic effect and to throw in as many situations as I can for people t relate to and understand how to deal with in their own ways.

I thank you for taking the time to read Salty Kisses. I hope that it helps you and that you enjoy it as my writing style improves.

PS. I'm sorry about Love in the South, Park that is. It's on hiatus due to lack of talent.

Main Pair: Eric/Kyle
Secondary Pair: Stan/Wendy
Featured Pairs: Kyle/Rebecca, Bebe/Mark
Mentioned Pairs: Bebe/Clyde, Tweek/Craig, Butters/Token

Warnings: In this story, Eric becomes bulimic and begins cutting. There is mention of homosexuality, sex, violence, and abuse. This story is all about angst. So deal. There is a lot of focus on recovery and self-mutilation, both physical and emotional. Those with weak stomachs should not read this.

Dedications:This story is dedicated to every reader and reviewer. It is dedicated to every person who has ever forced themselves to vomit or cut. To every person whose parent has ever struck him. To every person who has ever been abused at school for simply being themselves. This is for you. This is to let you know, you are not alone. There is always someone out there who wants it to improve for you. I am here for you.

South Park © Trey Parker & Matt Stone

Songs:

"Lithium" by Nirvana
"Somewhere I Belong" by Linkin Park

Chapter Two: Smells Like Teen Angst

I have a reoccurring nightmare.

I am in the kitchen of my house, except everything seems reverse. The usually bright lights are dank and dusty. There are cobwebs on the floor. The entire scene seems dingy and eerie.

My mother and Mr. Kitty are nowhere to be found. There is no sound in the house aside from a pot boiling merrily on the stove. I can hear its lid clanging as the contents begin to rise up and push against it. I approach it cautiously.

Slowly, I lift the lid and gasp. It is filled with black bile. As soon as I remove the top, the contents begin to ooze down the side of the pot, bubbling like pus. The smell is rancid, like a dead woman was dumped into a port-o-john. I inch closer, peering into the pot. There are large, purple octopus tentacles slashing around. They're searching for something. They want to drag me in. Dead maggots float on the surface of the gunk.

I try to slam the lid but one of the tentacles grabs me. I want to pull away, but it is too strong. I am pulled into the pot, into the bile. Down. Down. Down.

I wake up screaming.

I'm so happy 'cause today I found my friends
They're in my head
I'm so ugly
That's okay 'cause so are you

We've broken our mirrors
Sunday morning is every day for all I care
And I'm not scared
Light my candles in a daze
'Cause I found God

I hate Art Class. I really do. It's that hell I have to endure for forty-five minutes every fucking day! It's really starting to get to me. I loathe it because I have absolutely no artistic talent whatsoever. I vaguely recall the most artistic thing I've ever done being the one time Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and myself made a penis out of clay in the third grade. I wish I'd kept it. Maybe I could have turned it in as my final project for the quarter, because the piece of shit that I was trying to pass off as a watercolor, I had barley started certainly wouldn't do.

It was then I decided that I didn't want to paint. I would draw instead…

I went over to the supply cupboard and grabbed a piece of newsprint. I bought it back over to my chair. It didn't bug me that I was the only one at my table, since no one wanted to sit with me. Good, fuck them. I thought spitefully; I didn't want them to revel in my non-artistic talent anyway.

I began to draw, without the slightest idea what I was doing or why. I just let my pen move as it wished, devoid of any direction at all. A picture began to form: big, round eyes, freckled cheeks, cute face, and a hat with two flaps.

I stared at what I had done. It was crude, but there was no mistake about it; I had just drawn Kyle Broflovski.

I scribbled out the picture so vigorously that I tore directly through the newsprint and found myself scribbling on the desk. I crumpled the paper up as quickly as I could and threw it away, as if somehow, everyone around me knew what I had done.

I leaned back into my chair, tears at the corners of my eyes from the physical exertion. I closed my eyes and inhaled the acrylic fumes of the tenth grade Art Room, hoping that they would clear my troubled mind.

Why had I drawn Kyle?

I sat back in contemplation. I couldn't think of any reasons why I would draw that annoying Jew rat.

"He's not a rat, you know."

What?

"He's not a rat. You've begun to elude yourself of the lies you've told. That's what they are, Eric, lies."

I felt my conscious beginning to gnaw at the back of my brain. My conscious knew something my cognizant mind had yet to realize… but what? And why couldn't I figure it out…? What was wrong with me?

The little voice in my head sighed. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Eric. You're life is not that difficult."

I scoffed, Says you.

"Eric, please…"

I was getting pissed, now. I'd long ago shut out any traces of a normal human mind from my head. I wanted nothing to do with it, nothing moral to see what I was doing. No conscious. What the hell was it doing back? I ignored the voice tugging at my sanity.

And I've got nothing to say
I can't believe I didn't fall right down on my face
(I was confused)
Looking everywhere only to find
That it's not the way I had imagined it all in my mind
(So what am I)

What do I have but negativity
'Cause I can't justify the way, everyone is looking at me
(Nothing to lose)
Nothing to gain; hollow and alone
And the fault is my own, and the fault is my own

I had managed to make it all the way to lunch. I piled my plate with so much food it was falling off the sides of the tray. I probably dropped a couple of Snacky Cakes as I attempted to sidle through the tables. It was difficult, obviously, since my fat ass kept bumping into people.

I drown my sorrows in food. A lot of sorrows. A lot of food.

Sometimes, I cry into my food… spilling all my angst onto my plate in wet salty drops. Like little kisses of salty, biting pain.

I couldn't cry though, I was at school. I would die before I ever showed my emotions to another human being. So I stared down at my overstuffed plate, biting back my pain. I was so confused. I had no idea what I wanted…

"Jeezus, fatass." The voice made me choke on my food. I looked up to find Clyde Donovan standing over me, arms crossed. His girlfriend was behind him: Bebe Stevens, some little curly haired blonde thing. She looked like a twig; I could see the bones in her wrists poking through the skin.

Nevertheless, she stood behind Clyde with her hands on her hips, trying to look as snide as him. "Is there any food left, you fat fuck?" Clyde asked, in that nasty way of his.

I opened my mouth to reply, but to my surprise, another voice cut me off…

"Up yours, Clyde!" Kyle snapped. The brunette raised an eyebrow, but the Jew kept his glare level. My stomach jumped, he was standing up for me? Why did that make me so happy?

"Why are you defending this fat fuck, Kyle? You hate him more than I do!" Clyde scoffed. My stomach twitched.

Kyle's face reddened slightly, his mouth dropped into a sharp frown. His brow furrowed and his green eyes flashed. "That's not the point…" he whispered, angrily. I grimaced. I could see how it was. He hated me. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes, but Clyde was there so I couldn't eat any of my food to make the feeling dissipate. I bit my lip and fought back the tears.

Kyle turned to Clyde and growled. It seemed as though even his freckles were flickering with his anger "Just get the fuck out of here, Clyde. We don't need you annoying the shit out of us. Take your skinny ass girlfriend and scat." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder and turned away from Clyde.

I saw Bebe's face. She looked as though Kyle's insult was the worst thing she'd heard in her entire life. I wish I was a "skinny ass". What I wouldn't give to have my stomach caving in the way hers was. What I wouldn't give…

Clyde scowled and tsked. His right brow shot up into his coffee colored hairline. "I'll let you two fags be…"

Kyle reddened and began to stand up, but Stan's strong hand forced him back down into his seat. He sat fuming as Clyde and his posse stalked away in sync with each other's footsteps like the Jets from West Side Story. I half expected them to start snapping…

"Fucking douche bag…" Kyle muttered; then turned to me, "You owe me, fat ass." The anger that had been welling up inside me for the last few minutes let loose. Kyle hadn't protected me because he cared; I was fooling myself to even consider the thought. He stood up for me because he wanted to be the one who insulted me. He didn't want competition.

I felt like screaming. Instead, I slammed my hand down on the table and shot up, knocking my chair from underneath me, the clang of the plastic on linoleum was enough to get Kyle's attention. The back of the chair snapped, but I didn't care.

Kyle's emerald eyes widened, and before I knew what I was saying, I opened my mouth and the words flowed from me before I could stop myself, "I can defend myself, you know! I don't need you, you fucking Jew! Why don't you just leave me alone and go fuck your spastic girlfriend?!" I shouted, smacking the tray onto the ground and stamping off, crushing a Snacky Cake under my foot.

I hate people.