Please Read My Authors' Notes:
This is the chapter where Cartman decides to join the Goth kids and become evil. Now, remember, that in the episode Raisins the only Goth kid that was named was the girl, Henrietta. So, I named the other Goth Kids. I named them Salem, Blair, and Ben Dark or "Flippy".
Remember: The Lords of the Underworld, are not actually a band. They're Timmy and Skyler's band from the show.
I actually named them in another story I'm writing, that's not ready yet. A Stan/Wendy, Cartman/Kyle romantic comedy called Never Get Over It. It's mostly about the Stan/Wendy coupling and how they get back together, but I have lots of nice yaoi scenes with Kyle and Cartman in it as well. It's actually pretty funny. I've let some of my friends read it, and they want me to post it. But it's a thirty page one-shot. I can't separate it into chapters and have it keep its impact.
So, kidlets: what do you think of my story? I'm not clinically depressed, am I doing okay? I'm trying really hard. I meditate before I write. I do that before I act too. I close my eyes and won't open them until I feel like when I do; I'm seeing life through someone else's eyes. I hope it shows…
The poem… yeah, I wrote the dumb poem. Forgive me for it. It's not much, but I tried harder than anything to write this emo-tastic poem. I am not much of a poet, more of a lyricist, which is essentially the same thing, but I have always found it to be a bit more difficult to write something I can't sing. So please forgive me. I'm not much of an emo, finding words like Henrietta were very, very hard.
Oh, and thank you very much Raigo. I… just… thank you. I am very happy that you sent me that message. I am glad to know that I'm helping someone.
Main Pair: Eric/Kyle
Secondary Pair: Stan/Wendy
Featured Pairs: Kyle/Rebecca, Bebe/Clyde
Mentioned Pairs: 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 and Matt Stone
Tee Shirts/Hot Topic/Bands © Various Creators
Fanfiction and Poem © Luffykun3695
Songs:
"Pretty Handsome Awkward" by The Used
"Fat Lip" by Sum 41
Chapter Four: Go Goth
Life. What is it? Some sort of endless string of nuisances and horror filled with disappointment, embarrassment and an endless feeling of nothingness?
No… that's not life, that's my life.
All my existence has become is as a self-loathing space filler. No one loves me. No one even cares if I live or die. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like at my funeral. Would anyone be there? Crying? YEAH RIGHT! There'd probably be three people there: the priest, my mom, and my mom's current fuck.
No one on this planet cares about me. There would probably be parties in celebration of my demise. I can see them now. Kyle would have one. He'd be glad to be rid of me.
Actually, I would be glad to be rid of me…
- 0 -
By two weeks, the act of binging and purging had fallen into routine. I'd already lost seven pounds and the weight of the world felt a little lighter.
But ever since my discovery I'd avoided Kyle like the plague: hiding in classrooms when I saw him turning the corner and delving into crowds when I spotted him walking down the hallway with Stan. I skipped lunch completely barricading myself in the bathroom. That was fine; I didn't need to eat anyway.
I felt pathetic.
Did I truthfully think that if Kyle saw face it would have I love you written on it? No, I wasn't worried about my face, it was my big, fat mouth I was worried about. What if I couldn't keep it buried? What if my feelings came tumbling out!? I'd kill myself.
I don't wanna waste my time,
Become another casualty of society!
I'll never fall in line,
Become another victim of your conformity!
And back down
Because, you don't know us at all…
We laugh when old people fall
But what do you expect with a conscience so small?
If it wasn't just my luck, when I arrived at the bathroom at the beginning of my lunch period, I found it to be closed off. It looked like someone had put cherry bombs in all the urinals and blown out the entire wall. It had managed to flood into the hallway. The smell of urine wafted from the puddles around my feet. The smell was putrid. I frowned, wrinkling my nose with the vile odor.
I sighed. I would have to go to lunch.
There was no way I could get away with hiding in the bathroom on the second floor; some teacher would catch me for skipping. Last time that happened, the principal called my mom and she ended up having sex with him in his office. Some kid filmed it and posted it on every porn site in the greater Colorado area… yay.
When I arrived in the lunch room, I went straight for the table, avoiding the line. When I arrived, everyone watched me as I sat down. Their eyes burned like red hot daggers piercing my soul. My stomach bubbled as I locked eyes with Kyle. We hadn't spoken since my blow-up.
God he looked good. He was wearing a green Nirvana T-Shirt that hugged his chiseled body with a brown jacket over top it, and loose, ripped jeans. A thin black necklace with a shark tooth on it dangled from his throat. A hint of red curl peeked from underneath is usual hat.
I didn't have any food, which was unusual for me and I guess they paid more attention to me that I thought because Stan asked, "Where's your food Cartman?"
"I'm—I'm not hungry, I've been sick…" I lied, horribly aware of the nagging pain in my stomach as it begged to be fed. Stan raised a skeptical eyebrow, but didn't press. Why should he? It's not like he cared.
I turned my attention back to Kyle. He hadn't even glanced at me since I'd seated myself. He was still pissed. It's not like it was important, Kyle was always made at me for something. Then again, I'd always made sure he was mad at me for something. With my recent discovery it had become painfully obvious to me that I just wanted him to notice me.
"Say you're sorry, Eric." My conscious pestered me. It was poking me at the back of my head like an annoying student sitting behind me in class. Prodding me with their pencil at the nape of my neck until it punctures and bleeds like a geyser, emptying my insides out like a spewing waterfall. "Say you're sorry, Eric!"
Shut up.
"Just do it. It's not hard. Apologize." The voice was quiet, but incessant.
It was never ending. Tugging and twirling around my psyche like a soft swirl of smoke from a lit cigarette discarded on the floor of a bathroom, long abandoned but still swirling, still emitting a small amount of smoke. My conscious was that little whirl of smoke. The little ring never stopped. In fact, it was nearly unnoticeable. But eventually, the smell becomes too much and someone begins to choke on it.
I was starting to choke. My own conscious was beginning to smother me. I had tried so hard to destroy it, to detach the wiring in my brain that told me the right thing to do. And yet, it had managed to correct itself. What was happening to me?
"Kyle," my voice spoke without my approval. I didn't mean to say anything at all but my mouth opened and the words spilled out. Kyle looked at me with a slight glare. My blood froze cold in my veins. What could I say? How could I—?
My thoughts were cut short. Kyle looked at me calmly with no clear expression in his ever changing emerald eyes. "Don't bother, Cartman. Okay?" Kyle whispered his voice a low monotone, "I know you don't mean it, you never do."
His words felt more painful than the cuts on my knees or the stares of the people in the lunchroom. If I said anything to him, I can't remember what it was. I just stood up and left. I can't remember where I went or what I did. All I remember is the stabbing pain in my chest that stung like the claws of a vicious lion on my already tender and shattered heart, still sore from my realization of love.
Is this what I was? I asked myself. Just some… disgusting liar? Someone so contemptible that he couldn't even trust in his apology?
Yes…
I was so hurt. I drifted through the rest of the day like a zombie.
- 0 -
While walking through the hallways so I could go out to the buses lined up in front of the school, I thought over the day's events. I felt like shit. I couldn't decide if I had done the right thing by apologizing or if I had overreacted by leaving. Who was I kidding? I didn't even know what the right thing was. I had made an ass of myself in front of Kyle yet again. Why did I even bother? It wasn't like I hadn't done it a million times before—was I— starting to care?
Yes.
What? I stopped for a moment. I completely stopped walking and people jostled past me. I didn't care when they crashed into me and muttered what a fat ass I was, that I was a waste of space. I was wondering if it was my own voice I had just heard. Had I—had I said it out loud?
I shook the thought and continued to walk. I sidestepped a door as it swung open and bumped into a black figure. Their books spilled out onto the floor. "Watch it!" they snarled. She glared at me, locking her eyes with mine. It was one of the Goth Kids, the girl. I couldn't remember her name. She was a year older than me, a junior.
I bent down to pick up her books. I noticed all of her textbooks were covered in black. They had pictures of skulls, snakes, daggers, and blood covering them. One of them had flown open, its contents strewn across the floor. A piece of shredded paper, dark gray in color, caught my eye. The handwriting on it was wiry and coiled, like snaking vines of ivy tying around the page. The words sat on the lines like they were winded around a tree branch. It was a poem.
Pain consumes my tortured soul,
My heart is bleeding
It seems as though your words have finally ripped through my heart
I'm torn apart
Words are teeth
They eat away at my decaying flesh
And every single day
I feel one step closer to death
I love you
But the words mean nothing more than shit
I let you have all of me and what did I expect?
Something?
I expect nothing
I love nothing
I feel nothing
I am nothing…
It was pretty, a lovely little winding prose of anguish and self-loathing. It was Goth, and yet, it was me. I met her gaze. She was actually sort of attractive, in a creepy Marilyn Manson sort of way. She held her excess weight nicely, as some women can. I however; am not a woman, nor one of those people who can hold their weight in any attractive way whatsoever.
Her best feature was her eyes. She had deep, haunted eyes that were some odd shade of blue that looked purple in the light. The huge eyes were accented by long black lashes, deep black eyeliner, and plum-colored eye shadow that showed off her violet irises even more.
Her lips were as black as night and stood out on her pale powdered face like a black lake in a drift of snow, curving and fluid. She was dressed in a tight black corset with interlacing purple ties down the bodice and a frilled, lace skirt that spread around her like a large black doily.
I wasn't, attracted to her per se. I mean, she was a woman. I had recently discovered that the female sex had no appeal to me. But I found her very interesting and unique. She seemed confident in her depression and self-hatred. Perhaps, that's what I needed, to be happy that I couldn't stand myself. Maybe I needed to be Goth.
As she stood up I followed her, handing her books. "The poem," I whispered, unable to stop myself. "I really liked it." I confessed. She looked at me, raising a thin eyebrow. I blushed in embarrassment but to my surprise, she smiled.
I had never seen a Goth smile, but when she did it, it was very pretty. Actually, it was alluring. Her black lips turned up ever so slightly, in a low-key way that had to be searched for, and her purple eyes glittered like two amethysts lodged in her sockets. "Thank you," she said. Her voice was gravelly, hoarse, but lovely, like Stevie Nicks. Almost male, but it was still feminine. I blushed inadvertently and her eyes flashed. "What's your name?" she asked.
"E—Eric," I found myself stumbling over words. I was no longer an asshole for this moment, I was myself: scared, vulnerable, self-loathing, dying for acceptance.
"I'm Henrietta." she whispered in her mystifying voice, "Why don't you come with me?" she gestured, turning her back to me and gliding through the crowds.
I followed her as she weaved her way out the back door. She put her ample weight against the metal door and thrust it open. She gestured to me and led me outside. Standing before me were three of the oddest looking kids I had ever seen. They were dressed in all black, Goth, pinstripes, tight fitting clothes, earrings, and heaps of black eyeliner.
I surveyed each one in turn, noting little traits about each. I was already familiar with Henrietta, so my gaze fell to the boy with red and black hair. He flipped it unremittingly when he spoke. His hollow blue eyes were lined in smoky black liner that made them look bright and full of hate. He was wearing a contoured black jacket with thin off-white pinstripes over a red tee shirt that read My Pet Zombie Hates Your Guts, But Loves Your Brain and matching pinstripe pants, skinny-jeans, I think they're called, practically spray-painted on his toothpick ass. I burned with jealousy. I think I shall call him Flippy…
The second boy had a goddamn pompadour. He had so much black eyeliner underneath his eyes he looked as though he hadn't slept in years. A cigarette dangled from his lips and an upside-down gold cross stud was in his ear. He also wore a black jacket. The white shirt underneath it looked as if it would've been at home on William Shakespeare. Some fruity, puffed out number. He looked at me with lifeless eyes. Bored to death.
The third boy fucking freaked me out. There was no way else to put it. He was small, probably about eleven years old, but he looked as if he had been through thousands of years of torture. His black hair fell low over his blank, doll-like eyes. Eyes that looked as if they had no mercy left within them, no innocence. His mesmerizing eyes could give Charlie Manson a run for his money. His solid black outfit hugged his sickly thin figure. I felt my stomach drop. His entire body was thinner than my fucking arm.
They seemed like a bunch of fuck-ups to me, but I was aware that I was no better. At least they were cool with feeling like shit. It would definitely be nice to want to be the asshole that everyone loathed. Ah yes, a land where skepticism was key and black was the new… black.
"Who's this faggot?" the boy with the pompadour spat. I felt my stomach drop. Was I that obvious? In a split second, I remembered that up until recently I constantly used the word as an insult with no consideration to whether or not the person I was criticizing was actually a homosexual. I was safe.
"This is Eric," Henrietta said, placing one of her pretty hands on me. The long square-tipped purple nails dug into my shoulder possessively. "He's with me." Was I? "He liked my poetry. Plus, he's so deliciously depressed." She cooed, her nails ripping into my jacket. I felt as though she had just made a pet out of me.
"Mmn," Flippy allowed, his bored eyes moved up and down my body slowly, almost lethargically, as if he got bored halfway down and had to remind himself of what he was doing. "I'm Ben Dark." I fought back a laugh at his incredibly lame name. He flipped his hair a few more times. I think I'll stay with Flippy.
The pompadour boy took a drag from his cigarette, releasing a low stream of smoke into the air. "My name is Blair." he said in his effeminate voice, flicking ashes from the end of his cigarette onto the ground. I can't believe this boy called me a fag when was so obviously one himself.
"Salem," the little boy whispered. His voice was still high, young. It hadn't quite reached puberty yet. His melancholy tone was so filled with hate and loathing it shook me to my core. It was like staring into a small, skinny mirror.
"Welcome to the Goths, Eric." Henrietta leaned into me, her hot breath caressing me ear in an unmistakably sexual way. Her breath smelled of tobacco, she must've smoked as well. I would have had to be blind to not realize she wanted me; perhaps looks met nothing to her. It was the only logical explanation for her to be attracted to my fat ass. I was so fucked up; I was probably like the Gothic Brad Pitt.
- 0 -
After I left the Goth Kids I went home to demand money from my mother. When I arrived she was wearing a light blue long-sleeved shirt with a very matronly lace collar. It was a classic look for her, but I knew underneath the cashmere and thin khakis was some sort of overly intricate, butt-ugly bubblegum pink number complete with lace, tassels, corseting, and garters.
I could see her bare nipples poking up through the thin fabric. I felt the warm bile rise in my throat, stinging the back of my tongue and tonsils. I swallowed it down and immediately regretted the decision. I should have just tossed it and lost the fucking weight.
"Money," I commanded, holding out my open hand in demand. I typically asked for money for food, but since I was forcing myself to throw up any tiny food morsel that passed through my fat lips I hadn't bothered. She looked down at my expectant hand without as much as a blink of her intensely mascara'd eyes. I hadn't bothered to ask her for money in weeks, so she was willing to give me some of the money she wasn't going to spend on her next fix.
She flashed me her usual saccharine, goopy smile, "Of course, Poopykins!" she doted in her high, annoying voice. I snarled at the abysmal nickname as she placed a rolled up stack of bills in my hand. They were mostly one dollar bills. I felt like a fucking pimp.
Mom kissed my head, leaving a sticky red lipstick print that I furiously rubbed away. "I'm going to the mall." I growled, turning on my heel and leaving her to stand by herself in the living room. There was absolutely no one on this planet that disgusted me more than that cheap whore.
Okay, maybe one…
Your dream vacation, is my hostage refuge
A work in progress…
You bleed just like you puke while runnin' a mile!
I beg to differ, make me an offer
Warm summer rain…
You bleed just like you puke while runnin' a mile
Hey, are you okay?
You look pretty low
Very handsome, awkward
Do you feel okay?
You look pretty low
Very handsome, awkward
I went to South Park mall and waded through the crowd in the food court. I nearly shit myself when I spotted Kyle sitting at a table with Stan, Wendy, and to my dismay, his schizoid girlfriend. She wasn't bad looking, if a little mousy, and I felt my jealousy burning within me like a raging forest fire. I hated her. It took everything I had not to stab her with the plastic fork she was eating her Chinese food with.
I actually had sick visions of what her eyes would look like pierced on the white plastic utensil. I bit my lip and walked past them. I could feel their eyes on me as I passed them. I wasn't surprised. A fucking whale in a Crayola red ski jacket was damn hard to miss.
I entered Hot Topic with a single goal in mind: Goth clothes. I was going to make myself into what I needed to be.
The sales clerk looked up as I entered. I was the only person in the store other than herself and a boy in purple loitering in the back by the CD's. She was pretty, a petite little girl with a light gray Hello Kitty shirt that was up high enough so that I could see the skull ring in her belly button. Her black and pink pants were low on sensuous hips that made me jealous. Her hair was six different colors, short and spiked up. Her eyes were lined darker than a raccoon with deep navy liner that sparkled under the pale light. She smiled at me. I nodded back, uncaring.
I grabbed a plastic basket and began selecting clothing. Huge black baggy pants, patterned with neon bright colors, decorated with dragging suspenders and silver, clinking chains. I snatched up T-Shirts of various Goth and Emo bands, The Lords of the Underworld, The Used, Slayer, whatever I could think of. I grabbed wristbands and belts. I even took a few pairs of shoes that cost over fifty dollars. Price meant nothing to me; it was my whore mom's money anyway.
I chose a few structured jackets. Those faggots on that Queer Eye show said something about them making you look thinner. I figure, there's nothing wrong with me looking a little bit thinner, right? A couple of pinstripe jackets joined the pile, along with a long black trench, covered in skull buttons with zippers crisscrossing down it. I hoped it would be warm, since I was going to throw out all of my feelings for Kyle with my red coat.
No more Kyle. No more memories. No more anything…
I glanced around, and my eye caught a rotating cylinder piled with hair dye, jewelry, makeup, and pins. I snatched up a jar of the blue Manic Panic and a few pencils of black eyeliner. If I was gonna do this, there was no fucking way I was gonna do this halfway.
I chose a new Gothic backpack and a few pins to compliment it. Everything I was, was going to become Goth. I grabbed a small book. It was bound in black with a swirling gray and white skull design. I just wanted it.
I purchased everything and asked her if I could change in the changing room. The pretty sales clerk smiled and handed me the key. She winked, "Getting a new identity, huh?" she asked, my stomach flipped. Was she clairvoyant?
I didn't reply, but walked past her into the back changing room. I locked the door behind me pulled off my hat. Slowly, layer by layer, I striped to my boxers. I stood for a moment and stared in the mirror, my fat body reflected back at me. I stared at the old me: the faggot who wanted Kyle, the huge fatso, the jackass who desired something that didn't exist for him… love.
I pulled on a pair of bell bottom black and blue pants that, surprisingly, fit my fat ass. I slipped a pair of black and white checkered Vans onto my feet. I tugged a black T-Shirt with a dripping red heart and white curling writing, The Used: In Love and Death. I pulled the black trench coat over my shoulders and surveyed myself. I looked depressed. Perfect.
I fiddled through my piles of bags and fished out a tube of liner. I slowly applied it to the lids around my hazel eyes, blending it with my pinky like I'd seen my mother do millions of times over the years. Part of the ritual she had before she left for her nights on the street corner.
I shook my brown hair down in front of my right eye. I looked alright, actually. I looked almost human. It was a nice change from the pig I was used to seeing stare back at me. My binging weight loss had started to show. I was down seven pounds and my face actually looked a little thinner.
I left Hot Topic waving my regards to the cashier, who whistled at my new outfit. In my left hand, I carried my piles of bags. In my right, I held my old clothing. I walked directly to the food court. I wanted Kyle to see, to see me washing my hands of him.
When I arrived, they took a double take.
I reveled for a moment in Kyle's emerald gaze while he actually focused on me for an instant. I walked with purpose to the wire mesh garbage can near their table and threw my old clothes with a lovely resounding bang into the trash can. I swung my Hot Topic bags over my shoulder and marched out of the mall, my back to their table.
Goodbye Kyle…