Warning: This chapter contains graphic violence.
Stan finally arrived at the school playground. He had missed the midnight bus once again and had to walk the whole way in the fog. It wasn't as convenient a schedule as he would have liked, but he didn't dwell on it too much.
His classmates were there as usual, gathered in a circle around him as they stood in the undisturbed snow with their hands held behind their backs. He hadn't seen them approach. His teacher must have sent them out to tell him that class was about to start. Stan had no reason to entertain the possibility that something seemed off about them, for he knew his friends would never hide anything from him.
The chill breath of winter brushed lightly against his cheek, causing Stan to shiver. Wasn't it time to go inside yet, and get out of this miserable cold? An uneasy prickling sensation crept up the back of his neck. His classmates remained stoically silent, glancing around as if trying to avoid making eye contact with him.
"Hypocrite!" a cry rang out behind him, right before Stan felt a shock of frigid pain shoot through his body, causing him to arch his back and flail instinctively. "You never showed me the proper respect!" shouted Craig, as Stan felt the knife carve through his soft flesh and scrape up against his ribs. The unwelcome mix of blood and freezing air began to rush into Stan's lungs through the wound.
Staggering, bleeding, and overcome by nauseous gagging, Stan turned to Wendy and reached out his red-gloved hand towards her. But Wendy took a step away, shifting her gaze and biting her lip. A second forceful impact wracked Stan with agony, like a boulder being hurled up against his skin, after Token had drawn his own knife and plunged it down into Stan from behind in a jealous rage. "You stole the love of my life!" Token snarled at him.
Stan tried to turn to face his attacker, but fell to one knee when his legs gave way. "No don't, I…" he tried to say to Token, but was interrupted when Wendy took out her own knife and stabbed it down through below Stan's left shoulder. Everything started to go numb, save for a dull torturous writhing sensation like a swarm of rats trying to gnaw their way out from inside his body. He fell to both knees, grasping the front of his chest with his right hand.
"Oh Stan," said Wendy nonchalantly, pretending nothing had happened. "It's nothing personal, but I've always agreed with Token."
Both of Stan's hands were now gripped over his heavy fluid saturated lungs, as tightly as the panic that he was on the verge of drowning had gripped his consciousness. Steaming blood gushed forth when he tried to cough, marring the snow with dark red spatter. Were these really his friends? Friends were supposed to be people who you could trust, who would share everything with you, and who certainly would never gang up on you over petty misunderstandings. How could his own friends do this to him?
Friends… The meaning of the word seemed as fleeting as the breath on his lips and the blood in his veins. The crowd gathered around him had faded into one large blur, while the dark ruddy stain slowly spread throughout the snow below.
"Stan, is something going on here?" a familiar voice called out.
Stan blinked hard and tried to focus. "Kyle? Kyle, where are you?"
"Stan, I don't know how to put this, but we need to talk," spoke Kyle in a firm tone, working his way through the crowd. He sounded shaken or upset over something, and did not seem to take notice of Stan's situation even when he was standing face to face with his longtime friend.
"Kyle," Stan wheezed. "It—it's you…"
"Look Stan, there's something I've been meaning to get off my chest," said Kyle. "I've been thinking about us, and how long we've been friends." He sighed. "It hurts me to come out with this, but sometimes I think you don't care about our friendship. You never stand up for me anymore, especially when the going gets tough!"
"But Kyle, I…"
Kyle shook his fists in frustration, his eyes wet with tears. "That's not something I'd expect my best friend to overlook so often!" With that, he drew back his right hand and slapped Stan right across the face.
Stan wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared into Kyle's eyes, dazed, from his kneeling position in the snow. What was this all about? Was everyone now out to get him?
"Stan," Kyle started to say, "It's just that you and I have…" But before Kyle could finish, he was drowned out by the catcalls from the other kids gathered as they shoved him aside.
Clyde was the next to sneak up on Stan from behind, thrusting serrated cold steel into Stan's lower back. "You always looked down on me for being stupid!" he screamed. "I know you make fun of me when I'm not around!" He spat in feigned disgust. "You can be as subtle as you want, but I know what you really think about me!"
The blood now visibly cascaded down the side of Stan's heavy sopping jacket, pooling up beneath him faster than the snow could absorb. They had surely gotten what they wanted from him by now, hadn't they? It would not have made any difference if they had simply left him at that moment, for there was nothing he could do regardless.
He didn't even have the strength left to lift his head up when a fifth dagger ripped its way through skin and muscle and bone. "It's nothing personal," said Bebe. "I know you haven't really done anything to me, but I have to go along with my friends." She forced a smile. "I think you'll understand."
Another knife had found its mark, penetrating unusually deep given the one behind it. "Uh, well look, I'm sorry it has to end this way Stan," he could hear Butters say. "It's awful unfortunate, but I can't take your side in this one."
"I thought we had something!" cried the tense voice following the next knife, which was gripped tightly Tweek's trembling hands as it sliced through thick arterial walls with ease. "But you left me! Abandoned me! Forgot I even existed!"
Stan could scarcely tell the difference between the knives already embedded in his back and the series of stabs that followed. All had caught him blindsided. Like the knives, the mocking voices of his classmates, each making disingenuous efforts to rationalize their actions, had overlapped and run one into the next.
"You ruined my career, you ruined my life!" screamed a blond haired girl. "I'm sick of seeing you around!"
"You never pay attention to me!" he heard a high-pitched British accented voice exclaim. "You won't even speak to me anymore!"
"You've always had it in for me, I know it!" a red-haired girl accused him. "Consider the favor returned."
"Oh, but I expect you to flat out deny it all," spoke a haughty voice, to the derisive chuckles of his two dim-witted companions.
Stan was now on his elbows and knees in the thick crimson slush, floundering in a sanguine sea among the snow. His lips parted in a futile attempt to cry for help, but gobs of blood were the only thing that escaped. At that moment, through the blur and pink haze that covered his eyes, Stan could almost make out someone with a distinct blue head of hair standing at the back of the gathered crowd.
"H—llp…" he choked out. His pleas were nothing but a vaguely audible drawl.
"Stan." The boy could not be heard over the shouting and taunts of Stan's classmates, but Stan could see him mouthing words. 'You can't be helped'? Was that what the Guide was trying to tell him? No. "Only your true friend can help you now," he seemed to be saying.
Stan thought to himself, confused and practically delirious. What true friend? All he knew was that he had no friends. The daggers his friends had driven into him had gashed open his very soul. He tried to crawl his way towards the blue-haired boy, but every movement caused the knives to dig in deeper and deeper. With a tearing of strained muscle, he was completely spent. The frozen ground met the side of his weary-eyed face.
There would be no fighting back and no escape this time. His mind pleaded with fate to let him perish with what little dignity he had left. The ruby studded snow upon which he lay had at least shown enough decency to strike him in the face.
That—and one other.
There was one who stood apart from the frenzied crowd, never one to join in. There was one who stayed true to himself, and to Stan, at all costs. He was the only one Stan had left. With the last of his strength, Stan reached out his quivering hand once more. A green-gloved hand reached out to touch his.
"Kyle…"
Stan's true friend lifted him back up to his feet, where Stan threw himself over Kyle's shoulder, bringing himself close enough to feel the radiant warmth of his friend's face. One by one the knives retreated from his flesh, like harbingers of death fleeing from life, and clattered to the ground as harmless shards of steel. The crippling pain had faded into a dull throbbing shadow of its former self.
Stan finally found the strength to stand once again. Kyle smiled and gave him one last pat on the back. The deep wounds had already closed themselves over.
"Don't worry Stan. I'm sure we'll be together again one day," said Kyle with a wave, and then he departed.
The blue-haired boy was still standing where Stan had last seen him, now that the crowd had dispersed. "You're lucky to have such a devoted friend," he said. "I had thought you lost sight of him."
"I almost did," admitted Stan, still looking in the direction Kyle had departed.
"And how did you know?" asked the Guide, in a rhetorical sounding tone.
"I just…" Stan started. "It's like I just knew. He was the only one who faced me, and didn't try to hide anything from me."
The Guide nodded. "You value honesty then."
"Yeah," said Stan. "It's better to say what needs to be said, than to keep living a lie. I—I think if you have to make friends by lying to them, by pretending you're something you're not, then it can never last long."
"A noble sentiment," said the Guide. "It's rare that one understands and appreciates the true meaning of honesty. It's even more rare to find a friend who shares this understanding with you. It takes a real friend to say things to your face rather than stab you in the back."
"But then," said Stan, noticing that the Guide was still standing more than an arm's length away, as if he were afraid to make eye contact. "What about you?"
"Me?" asked the Guide, shooting a passing glance in Stan's direction. He gave a slight chuckle, holding his hands palms facing out for Stan to see. "I'm just really shy."
The final bell of the school day rang in the distance. It was time to go home. "Will I see you again at school tomorrow?" he asked the boy.
"You can count on me," said the Guide. "Remember what you have learned here."
"How could I ever forget?" Stan commented. The fog rolled in and condensed into a whitewash that faded everything out of sight.
Stan woke up in a different part of the intensive care unit this time. His body ached all over and the fresh bandages wrapped around his midsection were making him itch. He sniffled. Traces of dry crusty blood still lined the inside of his nostrils. A red intravenous line, leading from a transfusion bag, had been placed in his left arm.
Out in the hallway, Stan could see Dr. Gouache conversing with a colleague. The other doctor, judging from his silhouette, appeared to be leaning on a cane. "It's never lupus," spoke the gruff-voiced doctor, before limping off.
Stan's doctor entered. "Stan? How are you feeling?"
"Wh-what happened?" asked Stan.
"You suffered massive internal bleeding due to your injuries from the accident," said his doctor. "We didn't catch it right away because it didn't start until you'd been moved to the ICU. You lost a lot of blood, so we're giving you a transfusion."
"Oh. Okay." He looked around. "Where're my parents?"
The doctor sighed. "Your father started acting loopy after donating a couple of pints. We insisted that he stay here and rest, but he insisted on going out for a drink, saying it would make him feel better."
Stan rolled his eyes. "Goddamn."
"Stan, I do have some good news," said the doctor, trying to change the subject. "Your friends are stopping by to visit you! They insisted, so…"
"Whoa-ho!" Cartman interrupted as he barged in, pointing at the bandages that covered most of Stan's body. "The mummy returns!" His own left arm was in a sling, which apparently was reason enough for him to gloat.
"Dude, shut up!" Kyle admonished him, following close behind. Kyle had a bandage wrapped around his head and was walking on crutches due to his broken ankle.
Kenny walked in on his own accord. He seemed only to have suffered a few minor bumps and scrapes, and had a small row of stitches on his forehead. He quietly patted Stan on the arm to reassure him.
"So you've been in here this whole time, the center of attention, you little pussy," Cartman mocked Stan. "I've heard you keep coming up with new problems for the doctors to fix, huh?"
"Cartman, I told you, shut the hell up!" said Kyle. "We came here to visit him, not for you to act like an ass, especially after all that's happened!"
"Geez Kyle, relax, I was just trying to cheer him up," said Cartman defensively. "So how many bones did you break?" he asked Stan with a smirk.
Stan wasn't really in the mood to deal with this right now. It was none of Cartman's business. "I'm fine, all right?" Maybe that would do it.
"Oh really? I overheard them saying the bones were sticking out of your right arm," laughed Cartman. "Now that must have been some sight." Kenny had begun to glare at Cartman.
"It's not funny, fatass," Kyle growled at him, trying to step in front of Cartman.
"Well excuse me for showing some concern!" said Cartman in a sardonic tone, before turning back to Stan. "So does it hurt when I do this?" He squeezed the cast on Stan's right arm. "How about this?" he asked, squeezing it again to elicit a response when Stan tried to ignore him.
"All right, that's enough," said Kyle. "How do you like it?" He lightly poked Cartman on the left arm.
"Ow!" Cartman yelped. "Ah-OW! OWWW! Weeeaahhhhhh!!" he began bawling at the top of his lungs, sobbing heavily for dramatic effect. "Meeehhm!" he cried, hobbling out of the room as fast as he could and grabbing his wounded arm as if he'd been shot.
Stan cracked a smile. "Thanks, I owe you for that."
Kyle laughed. "What are friends for?"
"Yeah," said Stan, recalling fragments of his dream. "Friends."
Dr. Gouache walked back in. "Okay boys, Stan still has a long road to recovery ahead of him. But you can visit later if you want."
Kyle grabbed his crutches. "Well, see you then Stan," he said.
"Hope you feel better soon," added Kenny, following Kyle out through the door.
The doctor unhooked Stan's empty transfusion bag. "That should do it for now. I'll be back to check on you in a little while." He pulled the curtain around Stan's bed and turned off the lights.
Stan breathed easily and listened to the hypnotic rhythm of his pulse monitor. He soon drifted back to sleep on his own. This time around, he hoped, things would be different.