READ THIS OR DIE:
Over The Course Of The Last Few Months: My father had heart failure, my grandmother was diagnosed with ovarian cists and lung cancer, and my grandfather had major surgery. I had to struggle to stay in school and graduate. After I did I got in a car accident and broke my collarbone in half and couldn't sit up by myself let alone type. Then I started College. After that I got sick again. Three times. I also got a stalker. Christmas. After Christmas my dog was put down and I was too devastated to do anything. Shortly after that, I fell down the stairs and re-hurt the same side I broke. This year has SUCKED! VIVA 2010!
Now, now my loving reviewers… don't you worry about such things like being out of character. Really, FanFictions are not supposed to be set in stone as the original characters. Look at the wonderful Bagatelle's Under My Bed, while both Tweek and Craig are emphasized with their base characteristics, she builds on them in her own twisting way for her story's premise. Somehow I don't think Craig is really bipolar. Please respect that of mine as well. And remember! Just because I use a character negatively does not mean I hate them, it's for the story.
Can I tell you all something…? You are so sweet to me, when you tell me that this inspired you it really means something to me. It makes a bad day good and I wish that you were at my school with me, at my lunch table, chilling next to me exchanging story ideas. You're the sweetest of the sweet people on this planet.
KENNY IS RE-APPEARING! Can anyone guess why he is behaving the way he is? I bet you can't! No, I'm sure you can. You're smart. This is also the chapter because Eric begins cutting. Out of all the things in this story, cutting is the one I did do. I know what it is like to hate your body. Though I hated mine because I was sick, not overweight. I hated being sick all the time and blamed my "messed up body." On a better note, I have learned how to deal with my chronic illness better through medication and physical therapy and get sick less. So I am feeling much better about it emotionally too.
The last chapter brought up questions on my views on drugs. "Drugs are bad, M'kay?" That aside, I usually try to be tolerant of people who do them. At least the less intense ones like pot and alcohol. I do not believe in prescription medicine abuse and I really don't like it when people who let it consume them. The thing is, if you know me, you know I have a chronic illness. It's called Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. It is an autonomic illness that is the result of mono and is further exacerbated by a genetic condition called Ehlers Danalos Syndrome.
POTS is a neurological disorder which is manifested by delays in the body's autonomic responses. These are things your body does without having to think about it: heartbeat, blood pressure, eye focus, hearing, sweating, etc. The Epstein Barr (mono) virus lives latent in my system causing Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. POTS patients have a hard time controlling their blood pressure and heart rate, pass out easily, can have difficulty with hearing and focus, are more susceptible to illness, and are slower to heal. If you would like to know more about POTS I suggest you visit pots_an_
Due to this, I am on more than thirty plus pills a day. I have a lot of body issues because of it. I can't understand "recreational" drugs. I have this shitty body. One I would do anything to make better and here these people are with lovely, normal bodies and they're RUINING them. It makes no sense to me. Also; I love my mind. I would prefer not to be out of it. Some people like to fuck with their perceptions because they want to escape something or "have fun". I feel "high" when I don't take my pills or take the wrong ones. I hated it. I felt like I was trapped in the worst world. I have no athletic skills due to illness, but I am smart. I love my brain; nothing scared me more than it not working at full capacity.
My last reason? I am crazy enough as it is, if my comedy writing is any indication. I don't need any "help" to loosen up and have fun with my friends. If you can't open up with the people you consider your best friends without a drink or a joint, they are NOT your friends. Friends should not be united simply because they smoke pot or drink a lot. They are supposed to have similarities with you. I just don't think friendship should be based on mutual affection for a substance.
Again, I try my hardest to be tolerant but it so hard for me to comprehend. I am sorry for that, but I am the way I am.
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 and Matt Stone
Fanfiction and Poem © Luffykun3695
Songs:
"My Own Prison" by Creed
"Imperfection" by Skillet
Chapter Six: A Sinner's Blood
Is love supposed to hurt?
Is it supposed to fill you with a feeling of emptiness that is nearly unbearable? Is it normal if every time you see him you fill yourself drifting into a deep feeling of emptiness? Yet, when you cannot see him your life becomes stoic. You fall into a deep cataclysm filled with nothing but your own cynicism and self-loathing…
Is love supposed to make you want to punish yourself for your feelings? Should I want to slice my body to ribbons for wanting him so? Is love supposed to do this to you? Is love supposed to be something you fear or something of myth? Is it even real?
I have never felt love; I am undeserving of such an admirable concept. If love is real it is an element of fairy tales. Or at least the lives that seem like fairy tales in comparison to the sordid string of misdeeds I have come to call my existence.
Love stinks…
A court is in session, a verdict is in
No appeal on the docket today
Just my own sin
The walls cold and pale, the cage made of steel
Screams fill the room
Alone I drop and kneel
Silence now the sound
My breath the only motion around
Demons clutter around, my face showing no emotion
Shackled by my sentence, expecting no return
Here there is no penance
My skin begins to burn
It has been two months and I have lost thirty-five pounds. My face looks sallow and my clothes fit looser, but I do not look any thinner when I look in the mirror. No matter what the fucking scale says I see a fatass staring back at me.
My fingers are gnarled and bruised. I think I may have broken one from shoving it down my throat so forcefully. My teeth are more sensitive to food, so I eat even less. I can see red shredding on my tongue and my throat feels like an eagle has been clawing at it. But I don't care, all I want is to be thin.
My mother hasn't noticed my sudden weight loss. Not that this surprises me. She has not noticed the ever-present smell of vomit and Lysol in my bathroom, nor has she realized that I run to that fragrant room after every meal. Frankly, I don't think she's even noticed the fact that I've become Goth. She's too busy being a whore to notice much of anything I do.
When I'm with the Goths, I do not talk very much.
Henrietta has me at her side at all times. She lets her fingers drift over my hair like a pet. Her square-cut nails twirl through my chestnut locks absentmindedly. I do not say a word, but she makes it quite obvious that I'm her favorite. She comments lightly on my clothing, telling me in her unmistakably sexual whisper, how delectable I look. I never thank her for her compliments, I just nod my appreciation. I try desperately to play into her flirtations as best I can as not to lead her onto the true gender of my affections.
But really, you'd think with the other three her gay-dar would be more astute…
- 0 -
I haven't spoken to Kyle since our fight. I don't expect to. He doesn't even look at me when we pass in the hallways. It's not as if he's purposefully avoiding my gaze either. It's just as if I don't exist…
Bebe Stevens is another story.
She locks eyes with mine at every opportunity before averting them like one would at the site of a grisly accident. I can't blame her. I must look like a walking blob floating down the hallways. Bebe's black eye has faded, but it seems like she always has new bruises on her somewhere. Deep red finger shaped marks cover her bony wrists and she's constantly favoring at least one of her limbs. And of course, she's never without her bodyguard beau Clyde and his ever present sentry of Jason, D.P., Kevin, and Rick.
My conscious has quieted lately. I guess I must have detached it again after the incident with Bebe or maybe I just don't need its prompting anymore…
- 0 –
When I walk out back behind the school to the Gothic hangout, I find Kenny.
This surprises me. I never see Kenny anymore. He barely shows up at the bus stop in the morning and when he does, he usually keeps to himself. He doesn't even talk to Kyle or Stan anymore. We had a couple of classes together at the beginning of the year but he missed them so much the teacher stopped looking for him at role.
He looks terrible. Like a walking corpse. His eyes are sunken back and his skin is paper thin and greasy. It's a sickening shade of yellow that looks almost green, like an old taco shell. He looks poorer than usual, if that's possible. His orange hoodie is covered in grime and burn marks. He is shaking. I've never seen him so jittery. Something tells me that his gross weight loss isn't just due to his poverty.
I'm jealous of how thin he is.
When the door slams he looks up at me. His big baby blue eyes widen in surprise. "Hey Cartman, long time no see." He doesn't sound like himself. He's smiling too much, itching at his left arm feverishly.
"Yeah"
"You sure look Goth" he tells me. I raise an eyebrow. Why yes, I know. Asshole. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his hoodie. He fumbles them, trying to pull one out. It nearly falls from his trembling fingers. I can see every single bone in his fingers. Each digit as they shake. His nails are bitten to the wick and bleeding. I can't help myself anymore, I have to ask.
"Kenny, what the fuck is wrong with you man? You look like hell." I shake my head. Kenny flashes me another smile. It doesn't quite reach his eyes. He lights the cigarette. It takes him a couple tries, since he keeps dropping the matches. After a drag he speaks.
"It's nothing man. Just this and that. It's bull shit you know?"
His answer makes so little sense I can do nothing but nod in faux agreement. He takes another shaky drag from the cig and coughs as he attempts to exhale. After a few intense minutes of what sound like Kenny attempting to hack up a piece of tar, he spits. His spittle is black. He wipes tears from his eyes and looks over at me, still smiling like a fucking idiot. I raise a brow.
"Hey Cartman, can I ask you something?"
"What?"
"How do you do it?
"Do what?"
"Deal with it…" he flicks the ashes from the end of the cigarette and looks at me again. His eyes are shining with odd intensity. "Deal with being you. Being someone no one likes?" he looks at me directly. It takes everything I have to keep my mouth from dropping open. If bluntness was snow, he would be Antarctica.
"I—I don't…"
Kenny cuts me off. "Dude, forget I said anything. It's just like, I wonder if you hate you. Ya know? If everyone else hates you does that mean you hate yourself too? And if you do what do you do to deal with it? I mean… is there even a way to change who you are as a person?" He talks fast. His words blur together but each one hits me like a knife to the heart. He stubs out his cigarette and meets my gaze again, patting my shoulder he says "I'm just talking to myself. Forget it. Forget it. I'm thinking out loud. It's nothing." And with that he goes back inside the building. The sound of the doors slamming behind him seems deafening.
I sit there with my back to the school. The cold winter wind smacking me in the face like thousands of angry hands. My thoughts are consumed with Kenny's words. Is there even a way to change? I don't know. I feel like banging my head against the brick wall. I DON'T KNOW! How the FUCK am I supposed to know how to change? I thought losing weight would solve my problems but I'm getting thinner and people still hate me. They still stare at me like I'm an abomination. I'm a horrible person no matter what size I am! IS THERE ANYWAY TO CHANGE? Am I stuck like this? Am I stuck being Eric Cartman forever? I feel like crying.
I don't know what to think.
My brain is filled with television static. There has to be a way to fix me. There just has too. If I was normal even Kyle could like me. Right? Even Kyle. My thoughts are whirring faster than the ever texting fingers of a teenage girl. They go in circles. My thoughts keep returning to my body. This is my body's fault. If I wasn't stuck in this body…
It hits me like a ton of bricks. I know what I have to do. Grabbing my backpack I rip the zipper open so forcefully it nearly breaks. I scavenge through the jumble of papers with such purpose I shred anything that gets in my way. I finally feel it. My supply bag. I pull it out of my bag and open it.
With trembling fingers I extract my salvation from the supply bag's depths. My compass.
I open the compass to sixty-two degrees exactly and pull up my sleeve. I stare at the pale skin on my arm. My fat disgusting white arm. My veins are a pale robins' egg blue and bulge out like worms trapped beneath the earth, snaking down my arm. This body is repulsive. This body is why I am so fucked up. This body is why everyone hates me. I place the cold metal to my skin and hesitate slightly.
Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.
I can hear my own voice, pushing me to mutilate myself. Pushing me to destroy this filthy sack I was punished to reside in. I am going to free myself from my sins by punishing the sin itself. My body. I dig the compass into my wrist and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out in pain. Pressing down with as much strength as I can muster due to the pain, I drag the metal spike horizontally across my skin. I watch the blood as it rises to the surface.
Sweet, crimson purity flows from within me. My self-loathing bubbles to the surface of my wrist, a mass of hatred gushing from me. I am draining myself of my sin. I can see the evil as it streams down my arm in liquid form. It smells like copper, like new pennies. New. I am being renewed.
I drop the compass to the ground. It clatters on the concrete, a small splatter of blood on the snow. My arm is bleeding rather profusely, pouring down onto the ground and staining my clothes.
I feel serene.
Watching the small river of blood as it drips onto the ground I feel no pain, just numbness. I close my eyes and feel my tears fall from my them and into the wound like sweet salty kisses, cleansing me of sin.
You're worth so much
It'll never be enough, to see what you have to give
How beautiful you are
Yet seem so far, from everything you wanted to be
Wanted to be…
Tears falling down, again
Tears falling down
You fall to your knees
You beg, You plead
Can I be somebody else for all the times I hate myself?
Your failures devour, you're hurting every hour
You're drowning in your Imperfection…
When I arrive home, I stripped and shoved my clothes into the washer. I am not much for laundry, so I just smeared the Stain Stick over every inch of fabric and stuck them in the machine with at least a gallon of detergent. Wow, since I became Goth I have really started doing more chores what with cleaning the bathroom constantly and now I was doing my own laundry.
I fed Mr. Kitty and left her in the kitchen to eat. I walked up to my room and pulled on a loose pair of black sweats and a The Cure tee shirt. I dropped my bag on the ground and sat on my bed, staring at my arm.
The bleeding had stopped, but the cuts were still fresh. Deep, gaping wounds stared up at me. It was as if I could see into my mind through the gashes on my arm. They were pretty, in a morbid way, like a thin, red map of my life and self-hatred. Twisting paths of evil, finally visible to the rest of the world. Now everyone could see the evil inside me. I had opened the mirror into my soul.
I lay back on the bed. Now that my wave of self-loathing had passed I had a little more time to reflect on the events behind the school. What was going on with Kenny? He looked horrible and was acting like a fucking freak. Not that I had room to talk, but still. Wasn't Kyle keeping an eye on him? Kyle always looked out for Kenny.
Ah, there he was again. Kyle Broflovski. The boy never left my mind for too long. I rolled onto my side and stared blankly at the wall. I wished I could stop thinking about him. I wished I didn't feel about him the way I did. I wondered if draining the blood from my body would stop my heart and all the feelings that went along with it.
I sighed.
I decided to write. I wanted to get all these feelings out. I leaned off my bed and dug through my bag for my notebook. My fingers touched my compass, hastily shoved to the bottom of my bag. There were still flecks of dried blood on it. I felt warm.
I grabbed my notebook and pulled it out.
I wrote for hours. Poem after poem filled the pages. Like my blood from my arms and my food from my stomach I drained my feelings from my heart with each line. My heart spilled out onto each page. My unholy love.
My Sin…