You Can Never Go Back

Chapter 8: Abuse is Too Many Excuses

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Heh, the beginning note is aimed specifically towards Michelle, who I wanted to reply back to but couldn't- I DID say Kyle went to school in New England :) And I didn't want to pin him down to a specific school, but since I went to BU for two years before transferring, I kind of just assume he went there in my head too. Thus we have 'wicked'. Good catch.

To everyone else, I love you. Your reviews are awesome. Keep it up, and I'll try my best to hold up my end of this thing. Oh. I also love Craig. He, Stan, and Kenny are pretty much the three sexiest guys on the show for me- I like Kyle, and I find Cartman's sadistic side immensely pleasing, but I've been told by friends that's because I'm pretty much the skinny, female version of Cartman with the non-Jewish sensibilities of Kyle. I tell my friends to fuck off and mind their own business, and return to happily writing my fanfic.

I'm at Craig's bar. I'm at Craig's bar, primarily because I have nowhere else to go. My mom is crazed. She's found me jobs at the local grocery and Denny's, just to tide me over. With their powers combined, I'd be making eight dollars an hour. What, is it a crime now to mooch off my parents like all the other college dropouts? She acts like it is. Working two jobs would suck. Like how Clyde Donovan's dad was a geologist and owned a shoe store at the same time, and never had any time to play football with his son. I don't know why that memory stands out from when I was young. Probably because I always thought it sucked for Clyde.

Aside from the perils of sharing a house with my mother, two of my friends are completely and totally gay for me. Okay, so I'm sort of guessing about Kenny. He hasn't made any overt moves towards me, and I'm not one of those 'just because a person is gay, they must want my hot little ass' guys. It's just…little things. I could be completely off base, which I hope I am. I'm probably just unnerved because fatass fucking tried to suck my face off. I still can't believe fucking Cartman mauled me in a library, although it could have just been all the copies of Mein Kampf urging him on.

Oh, and Stan won't talk to me. At all, ever since the whole scene where I got slightly mightier than thou when we discussed his extracurriculars. I even sucked up the fear that Kenny might try to bend me over the side of his workbench just to ask him to call Stan for me. He did. I listened in. Their conversation basically covered the fact that I'm a major asshole, and that I don't really deserve to breathe the same air as Stan. Arrogant bastard. I hope he chokes on Wendy's home cooking.

I don't know which of these things bug me more.

So I'm at Craig's bar, mostly because his bar gives me cheap drinks and the longer I stay in Denver, the longer my mom thinks I've dedicated myself to the job hunt. I've been offered two more jobs by now, from persons other than my mother. The first is a minor position at a publishing company that I'm considering taking. The only problem is that the pay is shit. The second is as a PR assistant for Planned Parenthood. Do I even need to tell you what's wrong with that job? I can just imagine getting beaned in the head with a brick by Christian Rights Groups and Pro-Life Activists.

I frown at the filthy mirror behind the bar, catching a blurry glimpse of green that can only belong to my eyes. Everything else in the bar is brown, black, clear, or an interesting electric shade of blue. Whatever is in those particular bottles is obviously not meant for human consumption, but we alcoholics always have to try these things.

Where the fuck did Craig disappear to? I've spent the past hour here, waiting to be served on by someone other than this macho looking barback named Don, who can't mix drinks for shit. I guess I was sort of hoping Craig might lend me an ear as well; it's not like I have anyone else to talk to. We were kind of friends, once upon a time. Plus Don keeps trying to talk me into some drink that I'm almost positive should be rightfully called a Fruity Fucking Ball Grazer, although the barback had a much fancier name for it. I would take him up on his offer if he could figure out how to make something that didn't err on the side of too much piss rum and too little fucking coke.

A pretty blonde cocktail waitress prances by, but no Craig. Damn. Girl had a great rack though. Don't think she even needed that tray to balance those shot glasses on.

Funny, girls have been less of a priority lately; even checking them out has sort of seemed like work. That's probably because South Park is full of ugly bitches with half their teeth…Damned redneck prisses.

I lean back on my bar stool to appreciate more of the blonde waitress's assets, figuring I haven't got anything better to do. With any luck, she'll notice and slap me, or better yet, slip me her number. I guess I'm a redneck through and through as well, because I've always been of the opinion that a slap is just another form of affection. I got mistaken for a masochist in New England…often.

You know that old spiel about how guys are no better than dogs? I'm relatively certain that's true. All it takes is a whiff of ass, and we're creaming our boxers and craning our necks to get a better view. It's awesome. No, really. I wouldn't have it any other way. I just don't understand girls. They'll let a hot guy prance by without batting an eyelash. They're missing out on a great view. Not that I watch guys, or think they're hot for that matter. Fanfuckingtastic. Now I'm rambling on like the biggest fuckwit in the world.

Suddenly, I hear the most welcome voice in the world.

"Bitchface," Craig crows from somewhere, possibly the room hidden behind the bar that allows employee access only, "I totally pounded your ass…"

I wonder who he's talking to. I don't have long to wait and see; Craig finally emerges from exactly where I suspected he would. His hair is all rumpled, but his fancy clothes are as pressed and starched as the last time I saw him. He's buttoning the top button of his collar. Hmm, me thinky Mister Bar Owner got some action. I wonder who Craig was fucking back there, and if the ass pounding he mentioned was literal. I can't really imagine him saying that to a girl though, and trust me, back in high school Craig Tucker was King. He always landed the hottest chicks. If there's any doubt that he was sexing it up in that room, he turns his face towards the bar, towards me, and I see a ginormous fucking hickey on his neck. Oh yeah.

There's an abrupt, unexpected silence when he sees my face. I could tell he'd still been mid conversation with his mystery lover, but now he's just gaping unattractively at me. If anything, the silence grows larger seconds after he decides to lamely add minutes after his previous statement, "…at that game. I so pounded your ass…at that game."

He says it once more, firmly this time.

"What the fuck are you on about?" a decidedly masculine voice asks in reply, "Banging like that isn't a game."

"Shut the hell up," Craig tells the owner of the voice.

"Craig," the voice wearily says back, "Chill out dude."

Hey, whoever that is sounds oddly familiar.

Craig opens his mouth, obviously wanting to tell the person to shut it once more, but not wanting to say their name. The person saves them the trouble.

See Stan come out of the back room. See me gasp in shock. See Craig put his head in his hands in embarrassment, a rarely seen sentiment from him. See Stan see me.

Hunh, I wonder where Wendy is?

My former super best friend turns a glare on me that could quite possibly melt the polar ice caps.

See me shiver in barely suppressed fear. I wonder if Stan would try to murder me. I could fight back, of course, but he knows where I live. He could kill me in my sleep. Maybe it's time to start locking my windows and doors.

"You say anything, to anyone, I'll kill you," Stan tells me conversationally as he walks me to my car. I've been not so kindly thrown out of the bar for the night. Not by Craig, the owner of said bar and sympathetic ear-lender I came to see, but by Stan, who is apparently Craig's lover.

Somehow, I'm not as surprised as I should be.

"Even Kenny?" I ask, trying to sound non-threatening. I've heard that if you use soothing tones with rabid wild animals, they're less likely to bit you.

"Don't you dare tell fucking Kenny!" Stan shouts, suddenly taking hold of my shoulders so hard that I swear his finger prints are going to be ingrained in my skin.

"Okay," I blink, nonplussed. I'm trying really hard here to look like I don't think Stan's gone psycho. Treat the crazy person like they're normal…it's much like the rabid wild animals theory.

He's breathing hard. I can smell liquor on his breath. Looks like he and Craig pre-gamed before doing the nasty. I know I would certainly have to before I got within a ten foot distance of Craig's dick. It's been fucking everywhere, and anything that's been inside ninety five percent of the female population of South Park needs to stay far, far away from me. I cringe, wondering how Stan could have let him…Stan, who only weeks prior I witnessed giving it to some random girl.

"I'm not gay."

"Dude," I blink again, not really knowing what to say to this. I have no idea what to say to Stan anymore. He obviously went mad in my absence, and this new and depraved Stan isn't something I have the slightest clue how to deal with. I mean, if it was any of my friends from college, guys I hadn't known for so very long, I'd be cool with it. Hell, how other dudes carry on their sex life is their business. But this is Stan. He can't possibly be happy, cheating with random girls, cheating with Craig, and then cuddling with Wendy. How is he having this much sex anyway? Is he using little blue pills, or is he really just that much of a horn dog?

I said before I knew who Stan was, even if he'd changed. Now I'm thinking I don't really know anything at all.

"I'm not," Stan insists, "I'm fucking not, Kyle, so don't even look at me like that!"

"…okay," I frown, toeing lightly at the snow slicked pavement we're standing on, "Could you let go of me, please?"

He does. I know I'm just going to get myself into trouble, but I can't help asking, "Why Craig? I thought…in high school you two couldn't stand each other."

Stan's staring at me with those irritatingly deep eyes of his, guard fully up, debating whether to answer. I'm half-shocked when he does, "We can't. It's…a convenience thing."

"How can getting fucked up the ass be convenient?"

Ooh, that wasn't the best thing to say. He turns red with rage, and goes predictably mute. I'm really good at ruining our conversations, aren't I? Wordlessly, he leads me the rest of the way to mom's car. He even watches while I get in and turn the ignition. I'm not sure whether he's guarding me from all the murderers and rapists in Denver, or if he's watching to see if I'm going to pull out my cell and spill his gossip to everyone I know.

Just to be spiteful, I consider doing the latter.

I'll admit it. I caved. I managed to go a week and a half avoiding Kenny, and it was quite possibly the most boring period of time I've spent in South Park since finding him again. Sadly, to spend the day with him today, I have to go to Cartman's house.

Here's the thing. I don't honestly believe Cartman has feelings for me. Most likely, he kissed me because he was trying to get a rise out of me. I'm going to ignore the fact that he was pretty passionate about it. Liquor has that affect on people. It was almost enough to make me consider dropping drinking altogether, but that idea was absolutely abhorrent to me. I sound like a closet alcoholic, but really, for twenty three year old guys, alcohol is pretty much akin to oxygen.

Anyway, the point is I don't like Cartman in that way. Obviously, I only like girls. Breasts and legs and skinny little waists and cherry flavored Chap Stick…The thing is that I liked kissing him. Still, it would take Satan himself to drag that admission out of me. Even though I don't want to hurt the big guy's feelings or anything, I'm only agreeing to come over if he backs off. To my relief, when he shows me in at the door, his eyes don't even flicker in recognition that there might be the possibility of anything from me. I wonder now if he even remembers it.

We decide to play Gamesphere. Cartman has the newest model and hell if I don't love video games. I have to wait until Cartman departs into the kitchen for snacks before I can get to my real reason for wanting to see Kenny. Dropping my controller in my lap, I turn to the blonde and ask, "What's going on with Stan?"

Kenny sighs, "Are we on this again?"

"You don't really seem at all concerned about him. Some friend."

The boy's face darkens, "Hey, I've been putting up with this for four years. You disappeared, and now that you're back you're pussing out over it in just two months? Jesus, Kyle."

He really knows how to hit a guy where it hurts, doesn't he?

"Look, I just…he won't talk to me. He's acting like a complete dick, and I'm really worried."

"Don't be," Kenny mutters, "The cheating thing is whatever. I feel bad for Wendy, but what can I do? And the rest…Kyle, he's only being a dick to you."

Point for Kenny. Even though all my experiences with Stan since returning have been negative, apparently I'm the only one who's getting to see the angrier side of Stan Marsh. Even my mother's been asking why the little angel and I haven't reconciled. Gag, puke. I considered telling her that he had contracted leprosy from Craig's cock and thus wouldn't come to play any time soon, but then I remembered that Stan might really sneak in my house and murder me. If my mother didn't beat me into a pulp for defiling her house with those words.

"I know," I'm so frustrated I can't even believe it, "I just want to understand…"

"Why are you so invested in this? I know you want your best friend back, but that's probably not going to happen," Kenny bites his lip, and I realize he's still completely focused on whooping my ass at the video game that I've stopped playing. His character on screen is repeatedly kneeing my character in the balls, who just sits there and takes it.

"Seriously Kenny," I pick up the controller and surprise his kung fu master by swiping back, "Just help me out. I don't know why I want to know, I just do."

His hand lands on my knee, and I abruptly recall why I've been evading my friend for the past week or so, "You always were curious."

"Erm- yeah," I sputter. He sees how uncomfortable I am, and winks almost seductively before turning back to the game. Fuck. I can't tell whether he's teasing or whether he's trying to subtly charm his way into my pants. That's how Kenny always rolled with the girls, when he could. He would make them think he was harmless, and then one day they'd find themselves thoroughly ravished and regretting that they'd ever looked past his poor, dirty exterior. He can't be doing the same thing to me. He can't.

I see him lick his lips. He's looking at me out of the corner of his eye. Double fuck.

"My best guess," he says, concentrating now on trying to behead my martial artist, "Is that Stan doesn't even have an idea what he's doing. I think he just thinks this is what love's all about."

"How is that even possible? Love's not cheating on your girl…" I stop myself from saying more, not wanting to sound like a total pansy.

"If you think about it, Stan's always had problems with his parents. Remember the time they got divorced and then back together in like the space of a week? Or the time his mom thought he was killing people?"

"Yeah, but all our parents have issues," I'm not really getting what this has to do with the conversation.

"No really. Your mom might be a raging activist bitch, but she's pretty stable in that. I don't think she's ever stopped being a raging activist bitch. Cartman's mom is always going to be a whore. And my mom and dad might be drunks, but at least they're consistent. Stan's parents are really the only ones who can never seem to figure out how much they love their kids, or each other, unless there's a crisis."

"I never really thought about that."

Kenny grinned, "I'm insightful that way. I figure that somewhere along the line, Stan's worldview got totally strangled by them, and now he thinks that what he's doing is normal. It's probably true, I mean Randy and Sharon both had their share of affairs."

It does make a little sense, but not enough that it actually explains anything. I mean okay, Stan's parents were always screwy with the relationship thing. Even if that did hit him hard, which he never gave any indication of, he's too damned smart to let that influence how he lives his life. If anything, I think watching his parents' relationship constantly crash and burn would make him want to live a better life with Wendy, or whoever he chooses to settle down with eventually.

"Dude, this is bitchin," bright blue eyes turn on me in triumph as Kenny's character plunges a broadsword into my gut. I'm so, so dead.

We play video games for hours until boredom finally descends upon us. I'm half heartedly fiddling with my controller while Cartman 'pounds my ass'. Those words keep making me think about Stan and Craig. I still can't believe it. I even have trouble picturing it. The two guys share the same dark hair, the same lanky, athletic build, and even have slightly similar facial features. The only difference is the eyes and Craig's devil-may-care attitude. The two of them together has to be weird. It must be like fucking each other's twin. Sick.

"You wanna see something funny?" Kenny asks, breaking me out of my reverie. I shrug. Sure, why not? Fatboy's giving me the heebie jeebies anyway. I thought he was okay, that he'd forgotten even. Then I noticed the way he was discretely sizing me up. There's no way he doesn't remember. I could use a distracting laugh. I'm sort of surprised when the blonde gets up, tells me to stay put, and disappears into the kitchen. He returns minutes later, and we continue killing helpless CGI characters on the Gamesphere. I guess Kenny didn't really have anything to show me.

Half an hour passes.

Then the doorbell rings.

Grumbling and moaning, Cartman opens the door and immediately stiffens, "Not again."

He steps back and I can see the familiar blue uniform that usually inspires fear in my heart, but on this particular man does nothing less than give me a chuckle.

"Hi Officer Barbrady," Kenny and I chorus from the couch.

"Hi boys," the goofy man replies, then tries to resume some air of authority, "Eric Cartman, I'm afraid I'm going to have to arrest you for the death of Kenneth McCormick."

I can't help it. I burst out laughing. Oh, this is funny. Cartman's looking back and forth between Barbrady and Kenny, obviously trying to decide who to yell at first.

"Aye! I didn't kill him," Cartman splutters, red with rage, "He's right there!"

Kenny smiles cheekily, but doesn't say anything in the fat guy's defense. Ha. Serves him right. Kenny leans into me, smile still stretched from ear to ear, and whispers conspiratorially, "We'll let him stay the night and then drop the charges. I do this all the time."

Now Cartman's yelling, "Fuck, Barbrady! Why don't you ever believe me? I fucking work for the police department in Denver! I didn't kill Po'boy! Goddamnit!"

Priceless, dude. Priceless.

A few days later, Mom decides to inflict new and interesting tortures upon me. She sends me out grocery shopping. I can't even get away with going to Quickie Check, because her list includes things like arugula and oregano. I don't even know what we need oregano for. It's not like she's ever going to take mercy on us all and cook a pizza.

So I'm aisle three, looking for Tampax, which is quite possibly the most mortifying moment of my life. I discover the box in question and chuck it in the cart, racing down the aisle so quickly that I t-bone my cart directly into another, tipping it on its side.

"Why I never!" the owner shrieks.

The contents of cart spill across the floor, accompanied by the distinct crunch of glass. Shit.

I look up to apologize to the owner of the cart, who's giving me a scathing look.

"You young brats never watch where you're fucking going," the person begins to rant, "You better believe that I'm not catching the blame for this."

He starts yelling for help, his voice so shrill that I think he's had practice at it. He probably has. It's Mr. Garrison, after all.

To my surprise, the only form of help he finds is an all too familiar face.

"Kyle! Mr. Garrison!" Wendy rushes to our side, immediately righting Mr. Garrison's cart and picking through what is salvageable. I stare dumbly. I should probably help, but I'm sort of immobile under my old elementary school teacher's scary gaze. He isn't helping her either.

"Kyle Broflovski," the old man finally concludes, "I remember you. Your mother is that fat old skank who periodically storms city hall. And you're the little jerk that used to mouth off in my class."

"Yeah," I reply, completely unabashedly. I don't even feel so bad about tipping over his cart.

"You really should watch yourself. If you don't look where you're going you might just find a giant fat penis shoved up your ass, and then where will you be?"

Uh, no. There will never be a dick up in my grill. I tell him so. Before we can get into a cute little spat, Wendy straightens, everything back in order except for the guts of a jar of dill pickles lying splattered across the floor.

"Kyle, it's so nice to see you. You haven't dropped by the apartment in ages since you've come back," she tells me breathlessly, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead and leaving a little trail of shining pickle juice.

"Stan's not so fond of me right now," I tell her.

"Lover's spat?" Mr. Garrison interjects, "And how does that cuntbag of a mother feel about your homosexuality?"

I'm about to tell him to fuck off, but Wendy is shifting uncomfortably, and I know I'll probably get yelled at by her later for it. She's the type that's all about respecting elders, and he's got to be sixty by now. Mr. Garrison gives me a shrewd look. He may have been a shitty teacher, and he may have been incredibly stupid, but I always got the sense he could be dangerous if given a chance.

"Well, gee, thanks for the concern Herbert," I say smugly, "I'll let her know you'd like to join the next gay rights cause."

He flips me off and mutters something about upstart little brats. Whatever. I'm practically singing with joy when he leaves. That man has always and will always be a prick, and a perverted deviant prick at that. I was always surprised that his next phase after gay, female, and lesbian wasn't touching small children. He has the look of a pedophile, at any rate.

Wendy's smiling at me now, "He's a freak. Don't worry about it."

I guess she's not so into elderly rights after all. She surprises me more when she asks if I'd like to go have lunch. I decide it would be nice. I abandon my cart, deciding I can go grocery shopping later. Or maybe I can just tell mom the store burned down, and she can go out and buy her own freaking tampons.

We go to a local burger joint, which is more or less better than all those chain restaurants I usually frequent. Wendy's a sweet girl. She even pays for me after I order, although all my manly testosterone protests it.

She slides into the booth across from me with her double cheeseburger and laugh, "I hardly ever eat these things. But sometimes I just crave red meat."

I like her smile. She's got that pearly white model smile that you see in commercials, just like Stan.

We spend over an hour reminiscing about high school and our old friends. I thought she'd asked me out to talk about her boyfriend, but to my surprise, she leaves the subject alone. And it's actually really great not having to think about him for once. Ever since I got back, I've been feeling like this giant ball of angst, all over a guy who has essentially been a total dickweed and couldn't seem to care less about it. Spending time with Wendy is kind of making me feel better about myself. I feel like a man, one that talks to girls and has an exciting future in store. She grills me about when I'm going to submit my application for the community college, and mentions all the classes she took over at Colorado U before transferring here. Even though she's always been kind of a bitch, Wendy was also the smartest person around before she left. I hated her for it, of course.

Now it's just nice.

When we're wrapping up with lunch, Wendy goes to throw our trays out, and by chance I catch a glimpse outside. There, on the backdrop of the fog gray sky and the pastel cutout buildings, dressed in a coat the same deep cobalt color as his eyes, is Stan.

Oh, and it looks like he really is going to murder me.

A/N: Oh, poor innocent Stan. His life is tumultuous now that Kyle's returned. And Kyle just doesn't know what the fuck's going on. I wasn't going to post this for a while because I wanted to see if I could get thirty reviews. Review whoring is a new hobby of mine. I've been on this sight since like, 2001, and all of a sudden I find it interesting. But I got bored with my vacation (all I have to do lately is beta other people's stories and sleep, so…). Anyway, please, please review?

You know why you should? Because it's my birthday on the fourteenth. Yay! Let's all give Jondy a birthday present and review lots and lots, and in return the next chapter will have a crapload of Stan and Kyle lovin'.