Perchance to Dream

Disclaimer: See prologue

Summary: Stanley can't catch any sort of break.

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At School II

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I am developing an intimate relationship with the hallways of South Park High School. Every day for the past month I've been knocked on my ass at least once per day. I haven't said a word in two weeks to anyone, just pulled my hood up, lowered my head, and sullenly stalked to class.

Even this won't stop them. I see Kyle every day, almost immediately upon being knocked down. He's got a funny look in his eyes and a scowl on his face. Of course, Mr. High and Mighty, I control pretty much everyone in the school, I could stop or start anything without getting in trouble, does absolutely nothing to stop my abuse.

Nor do I ask him to. That would be perhaps the only way I could further lower and debase myself in this school. And I'm sure that's what he expects from me, him and all his cronies; for me to spend a class break on my knees in front of the most powerful man in the school begging for him to leave me alone.

I'm not going to give the asshole the satisfaction. I keep a tube of IcyHot in my locker now. I'm just going to deal with my aches and pains as they come, and pray to God for some poor new kid to show up.

On top of this constant bullying that Kyle's managing to persuade the school officials to ignore, I'm piling up detentions. For insubordination. Because I refuse to talk in class, in a (thus far) futile effort to stop the beatings. This means I refuse to answer questions teachers direct to me. This means they're getting angry at me and throwing me in detention.

Every once in a while I'll be joined in detention by Cartman or Clyde, the only two of Kyle's posse stupid enough to beat on me in front of teachers Kyle doesn't have classes with. Not that it matters, I still spend my detention deluged in notes that alternate between mocking and threatening. I'm going to be getting another one, if the way Ms. Young is looking to me is any indication.

"Stan?" I look up, and indeed she's looking at me. "I asked if you could tell me who invented the cotton gin."

Well, of course I can. It's Eli Whitney. I learned that in eighth grade. But I can't tell Ms. Young this. Instead, I pull my hood up and lower my head to my desk. I know that she's going to hold me after class, and then she's going to give me a detention after I won't answer her in the midst of an empty classroom.

Sure enough, the next thing I hear is "Stan, see me after class." She then goes off to someone else to get her answer, while I spend the rest of the period staring down at my book, absently flipping through pages.

When the bell rings, I slowly pack up my things and walk up to Ms. Young's desk at the front of the room as everyone else files out, including – according to my peripheral vision – Cartman and Clyde.

"Stan," Ms. Young starts, "why won't you answer me in class?" I give her a glare and set my face into a scowl.

"It's OK to talk, you know, Stan." I shake my head side to side. It's not OK to talk. It won't be OK to talk for five months, when I get away from here, from myself.

"There's no one else here," she says with incredulity. "What are you afraid of?" What am I afraid of? I'm afraid of everything and everyone. Either Cartman or Clyde, or both, are waiting outside that door and listening in. Just give me my detention already and let me head off to Trig, damnit.

"Fine, if you're going to be so difficult, detention it is," she says, writing out the citation and handing it to me. I have to give it to the office before I go to my next class so I can be added to the detention roll. Bullshit, is what it is. I'm caught between a rock and a hard place. Either I talk, and get the shit beat out of me for making the team look like what it is – a collection of talentless dumbasses – by said talentless dumbasses, or I keep silent, still get the shit beat out of me, AND have to go to detention and make up the two and a half hours I miss of work every week on the weekends.

Clutching the citation in my hand, I walk out of the class and am immediately greeted by a swift punch to the gut that has me doubled over and gasping for breath as a fat hand grabs me by my hood and my hair and pulling my head up.

"Fag," Cartman spits. "You keep your faggy little mouth shut, you got that? We can do so much worse to you, Marsh. You keep up your little end of the deal, and we'll keep ours." Yeah, yours, beating me as a precaution. Jesus…why?

Why me? Why this? Why won't it all just stop? I nod my assent to receive a shove to the ground from Cartman as his 341 pounds of flab waddle off towards his remedial English class. I spend two minutes gasping for breath before I can get up, clutching my stomach still, heading for the office to drop off my detention notice and heading to Trigonometry, where I silently and sullenly do my in-class worksheet.

This one really hurts. It twinges as I leave Trig for Art, continues whenever I move anything in Art, and English, and Lunch – where I can barely manage to put down my chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes. It twinges during P.E., where Coach is kind enough to bench me. It continues throughout Civics, Spanish, and Chemistry, and has just subsided by the time I enter detention with our latest novel for English.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the pissy little poor emo hippie," Cartman snarls from his seat in the back as I enter. "How's your stomach, fag?"

I grit my teeth and stalk to a seat as far away from Cartman as the room will allow, crack open my book, and start reading, pausing only to wave to signal my presence when the teacher's aide who supervises detention calls my name.

From there, I sit down with my book and begin to read. The book itself is rather easy, but for some reason I can't focus on it. I need to have it read through Chapter Four by tomorrow for a quiz. It's a straightforward assignment, and a book I've read before, but something's just not right about today.

A ball of paper lands in my lap, to snickers from Cartman's direction. Scowling, I unfold it and read a poorly-scrawled note.

"Fag," it begins, "just give in. We all know how much you wanna be Broflovski's bitch. Craig's getting pissy because he can't wait to tape it."

Frowning, I crumple it up and toss it into the garbage can near my desk, picking up my book again. I wanna be Kyle's bitch? This is very much news to me. I spend about as much time pining over the traitorous kike as I do talking to him: none at all. He might as well be dead, for all that I give a fuck about him.

Craig wants to tape … what? Me groveling in front of Kyle, Kyle making me his bitch, or both? Moreover, what does Cartman mean by "be Broflovski's bitch"? Like … bitch, bitch? "Hike-up-your-ass-so-I-can-buttsecks-you" bitch? No way in hell. Kyle's not gay. He stole my girl and he's got authority over Cartman. If he were gay, neither of those would happen. Especially not the authority over Cartman.

If Kyle were gay, Cartman would have gotten the guys together and ousted Kyle faster than you could say "fag." I'm just as incredulous that Cartman is dumb enough to think I'd like it up the ass. Buttsex is nasty. I'm not saying this as a Catholic; I'm saying this as a normal person. I mean, seriously. Can you imagine the shit – literally, people, shit – that's up there? It's not healthy! All sorts of nasty things are up in there. Full of things your body DOESN'T WANT!

You can get hepatitis, herpes, genital warts, all sorts of STDs and other infections from buttsex. And Cartman thinks I'd subject someone to that? To be at the mercy of whatever nasty things are living up my ass? That could kill someone! I wouldn't wanna be responsible for something like that, especially if it would be preventable. Thus, nobody's getting into MY ass. Ever. I don't dig the buttsmex.

Another note lands in my lap, accompanied by Cartman's chortling. Frustrated, I unfold it to find an incredibly crude drawing of a stick drawing of me on all fours with a stick figure of Kyle – besides the labeling, Fatass made sure to draw a veritable shrub growing from his head – with a cock the size of his stick leg (drawn with remarkable attention to detail, which both does and doesn't at all surprise me) lined up to "fuck me senseless," according to the speech bubble over my head, which also includes me begging Kyle for him to do me.

There is nothing I would like better than to scream at the top of my lungs at Cartman right now. But since the beatings only increase with volume, if I screamed at the top of my lungs, they'd probably break my ribs or something. Instead, I try to work out my rage by destroying the note with extreme prejudice. I rip it in to halves. Then fourths, eighths, sixteenths, thirty-seconds, sixty-fourths, one-twenty-eighths, two-fifty-sixths…and there's not enough left to rip it into five-twelfths. Shooting a glare back at Cartman, I keep him in my gaze as I sweep the pieces into my hand and dump them into the trash.

Shaking my head and still seething with rage, I return my attention to my book. Or, again, try to. There's no fucking way I can concentrate on Bilbo Baggins with Cartman taunting me like this. I would love NOTHING more than to get up and punch his fat face in. I can't though. It's not possible.

I've got to do something though. I can't let them just walk all over me like this. This can't go unchallenged. Unless I stand up for myself, and prove that I'm nobody's bitch. As much as I wouldn't mind for that fucking kike ex-SBF of mine to come down with some crippling and debilitating and deadly illness, I'm not willing to be fucked up the ass to facilitate it. I'd never be able to live it down. So, I'm going to have to be proactive about it. Sure, fine it'll land me in detention again. Or maybe suspension. But there wouldn't be anything that school administration could do to me that would make beating the Fatass just as bad as he does to me every fucking day.

"Stan Marsh?" the TA says, catching my attention. I look up in surprise, catching her glance with a raised eyebrow.

"Your half hour is over. You're free to leave. Eric Cartman, you as well." Oh, this is pretty damn perfect. He lumbers out of the room as I pack my book back up. Cartman closes the door behind him, and I note that it opens outward as I make my way out. I turn the knob, hesitate, and then SLAM the door open. I'm satisfied when it meets an obstruction halfway through with a crunch. Slipping through, I close the door and let Cartman sag to the floor with a bloody face.

"Fucking…fag," he spits, reaching for my leg, but I scoot back to avoid him. "You'll get it, fuckwit, just you wait."

"Oh, shut up, Fatass," I mutter, kicking him in the face, knocking him flat on his back. Re-shouldering my bag, I stalk off to my locker to get changed, before I have to head off to work. The only plus about my probable suspension is the fact that I'll be able to make up for all this lost work and probably not have to work as much on the weekend. And sleep in.

God, I can't wait to get called to the office tomorrow…

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Notes: Well. It's almost December, does that count? So, there you have it. I'm done with almost all my academic work for the semester. I believe another update will be forthcoming within a week of this.

The only thing that will delay the next update is a lack of reviews to this chapter. 13 people get emails for this story. 14 people have reviewed it over four chapters. I, personally, am not pleased by this.

So.

There won't be an update until at least 14 December unless I get at least four reviews for this chapter. Five or six reviews would make me more pleased. But I will settle for four, to make up for the only two I received for last chapter that displeased me greatly.

Happy reading (and reviewing!) I'll give you … a cookie, if you leave a signed review or an email address with your anonymous review :D

Phoenix II