Cartman PoV
"I was thinking maybe a welcome home party." Mom fusses, brushing down the sleeves of my pyjama top. "I could make banners and... Food, for when you come out of hospital."
"No." I reply, bluntly. "Besides I'm getting discharged today, you won't have time to make anything."
"I could get KFC?" She tempts me. The word used to literally cause palpitations in my throat, my mouth would water and I would immediately sink into a state of desperation for the chicken. But now, it didn't faze me in the slightest. I felt drained and empty, and nothing seemed to make me feel hungry anymore.
"No." I repeat, seeing her face fall a little. The nurses were already persuading me to see a counsellor, and a psychiatrist had been in to assess my symptoms and why I had resorted to 'starving myself'. Therefore, I had aimed to drop Kyle in it as much as possible. Maybe he would be arrested, he could share the family ticket with Kenny's mother for an annual trip to the prison.
"Ok Eric, how are we feeling today?" A nurse comes over to me, equally fussing over me and rolling up the sleeves my mother had just taken down.
"Top of the world." I mutter. "I get to get out of this shit hole at least... After this therapy session or whatever."
"Right but remember what the psychiatrist said to you?" She prompts me. "Try to eat little bits here and there, even if it's just a snack, you need to start filling yourself out a bit more."
"Said no one ever." I scoff, it actually felt good for someone to say that to me, like I had achieved something. She gives me a worried glance before heading to the next bed along.
"How you feeling this morning, buddy?" I hear an annoying but familiar voice as Butters punches me in the arm. It was the lightest of punches, but bruises me easily and I try to conceal the pain from the audience around me.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I glare at him, rubbing my arm, as if he had millions of germs spreading from a simple touch.
"Told the nurse I was your cousin." He shrugs.
"Oh great." I roll my eyes, raising my voice slightly. "To make this even worse, now they all think I'm related to you?"
"Now Eric, that's not very nice." Mom tells me, patting Butters on the shoulder appreciatively. "What a lovely gesture for your little friend to come."
"Scuse me, nurse." I press my buzzer loudly. "My mom needs to be transferred to the mental health unit, and take him with you."
"Oh cool, an adventure." Butters' eyes light up. "Is that where your hospital friends are?"
"You're in the mental health unit." A nurse explains to me, bluntly.
"Oh..." Butters ponders, looking around curiously. "Well where's the isolated rooms with padded walls?"
"It's not a prison." I virtually spit at him, embarrassed that Butters of all people had just established where I was.
"We need to take some more bloods." The nurse persists. "It's procedure, to check you are alright to be discharged."
"I'll have no blood left." I huff, eyeing up the needle warily. "It's the only thing filling me up right now."
"I think a welcome home party sounds like a great idea." The nurse tells me, clearly overhearing our conversation. "Maybe just some snacky bits that might fill you up a bit."
"Or, we could have a chocolate fondue, except with my blood." I glare at her, my eyes darting to the needle in my arm. "Since everyone seems so interested in it."
"...Or a quiet night in could work." She shrugs, removing the needle and walking off, followed by my gaze. One thing was for sure, I couldn't wait to get out of this dump.
Bebe PoV
I stir, my back cramping from being on the couch all night. I glance over at Kenny, who was drooling in his sleep, lying against the wall on the rotting carpet, a pool of sick accompanying him. How did I end up here? What did I do to deserve this?
Then again, what did he do to deserve this? He didn't ask for a broken family, a run down home, a pregnant girlfriend, one who only last night, admitted it might not even be his baby.
Maybe he would forget, after drinking himself virtually to death, sitting at the kitchen counter, or more... Standing, given that the chair would give way if he was to balance on it. But it was wishful thinking, he hadn't even been angry, just upset, hurt and shocked.
"Fucks sake..." I hear a grumble, as Kenny moves his heavy head out of the puddle next to him.
"There's no one else to blame but yourself." I mutter, eyeing him up hatefully.
"And you, for dropping a bombshell on me." He sighs, reluctantly.
"So you do remember then?" I avoid eye contact with him, although he seemed more focused on the vomit now glued to his cheek.
"I might forget how and when I'm drowning my sorrows." He mutters. "But I don't forget why."
"I don't even know whether it is Clyde's." I blurt out, keen to defend myself. "I mean... It might not be."
"But it might be." He prompts me, and I bow my head slightly. "And why might that be? Because we've been together a solid... Eight months now."
"I know." I mumble, trying to prevent my face from flushing. Suddenly this whole thing had turned round on me, and I hated it.
"So... What?" He narrows his eyes. "They've lengthened the duration of pregnancy now?"
"No." I respond, bluntly.
"...When?" He sighs, knowing there was no point in stringing it out.
"Jason's party." I admit and his face falls immediately.
"...That's the night we got together." He points out, his voice weakening. "So you can't have."
"I don't actually remember..." My mind clouds and I squeeze my eyes shut. "But Wendy said I got really drunk and I had sex with him, that's the information I'm going on, it might be a pile of bullshit-"
"Wendy?" He virtually spits. "But... I've been there for Wendy."
"I know." I exclaim. "But-"
"I've been a rock to her these past few months." Kenny raises his voice, anger brewing again. "Helped her with her breast cancer, and she's completely-"
"...What?" I stop him, my voice barely a whisper and his eyes widen in shock.
"What?" He retaliates, I could see in his face that he had done something very wrong.
"What?" I repeat, and we both stare at one another, the silence so heavy and intoxicating it made me feel queasy.
"...Nothing." He shrugs it off. "Anyway, what possessed you to sleep with-"
"Wendy has breast cancer?" I prompt him and his head hangs in shame.
"She wanted it to be a secret." He admits. "So please, no eavesdropper, or wicked games. It's somethings serious-"
"Oh like I would." I snap at him, slightly upset by his low opinions of me. "She's my best friend, believe it or not, and even if it was someone like Red, I still wouldn't blurt something like that out to the world."
"Ok so now all that is cleared up." He silences me. "Can we go back to when you were in the wrong."
"Low blow." I glare at him.
"No, you're a low blow." He digs. "Diverting the subject with something as serious as that."
"YOU WERE THE ONE WHO BLURTED IT OUT!" I scream at him.
"BECAUSE MY SLAG OF A GIRLFRIEND HAD SEX WITH THE GUY WHO ABUSED HER." He yells and I'm taken aback, the room falling silent again.
"Sorry..." He whispers, but I shake my head, pulling myself up. "Bebe, I'm sorry."
"Forget it." I walk out of the house, running down the path and failing at preventing the tears from falling down my cheeks.
Wendy PoV
"You'll be fine." I kiss Stan, squeezing his hand as he looks at me nervously. He was off to his first therapy group session at Hells Pass, I'd have gone with him but he refused to let me go.
"I love you." He smiles.
"I love you too." I reply, as he kisses me one more time before trudging off down the garden path. Once he has cleared from view, my eyes focus on Bebe, who was apparently walking towards me.
"Alright?" I mutter, my voice frosty. We hadn't spoken properly in a while, I hadn't really spoken to any of my friends, bar Stan, for a fair few months.
"Back together then." She indicates at where Stan was walking off in the distance.
"Didn't you get the newsletter?" I ask her. "...It was on Facebook."
"I haven't had access to anything." She shrugs. "Been sleeping at Kenny's, naturally it's not really an electronic haven."
"Sounds fun that." I mutter. "Who needs five star hotels?"
"Yeah well... It was better than living on the streets." She shrugs, and my eyes narrow at her.
"Come in." I say, reluctantly although I had missed this. Me and Bebe made a pact in second grade, if either of us were in trouble, as would put one another first, no matter what the circumstances.
"He's found out about Clyde." She admits, sitting down on the couch and staring into the distance. "Well... More, it came up in conversation."
"I'm guessing that wasn't casual morning chatter over your Captain Crunch?" I assume and she nods.
"We've been arguing... A lot." She tells me. "He's been drinking... A lot. It's not a good combination."
"...Has he hurt you?" I ask, suddenly protective of her and the look on her face says it all.
"He threw an ornament of some sort at me the other day." She explains. "Put me in hospital."
"Is that why you weren't in school?" I ask and she shakes her head.
"No it was only for a few hours, then I was discharged." I inform her. "Tearing to the lining of vaginal tissue... Or something."
"So he's kicked you out? After all that?" I persist. "He put you in hospital, could have murdered your baby and yet you have to walk."
"Actually... I walked." I correct her. "Because he was the one who started exposing secrets..."
"...What?" I linger on the word, the look she was giving me was worrying.
"He was kicking off at you, for knowing about Clyde." She explains, slowly. "Then... He told me... About... I mean, is it true?"
"Is what true?" I attempt to cover up, but there was no point. "...Yes."
"You should have said something..." She trails off, and I try to swallow the lump that was stuck in my throat.
"You had enough on your plate." I shrug her off, knowing the real reasons were both because I was embarrassed and because I might have not trusted Bebe at the time. I was fuming at Kenny, after promising to keep it a secret, he was stupid enough to let it slip in an argument. He thought it was a simple sentence, but to me it was my life. "Drunken idiot."
"Tell me about it." She mutters, reaching out to take my hand, squeezing it warmly. "I'm sorry I haven't been there for you."
"Don't worry about it." I manage a smile. "You can be... Next week when I have my operation if you want?"
"Operation?" She sounds slightly panicked when repeating this word.
"To remove the lump." I explain. "They say if it's successful I might not have to have further chemo."
"How come you're so... Positive about everything?" She asks. "I'm always down at the moment, and scared. So scared."
"Because it's the only way to be, isn't it?" I tell her. "I'm bricking it inside, just like you are."
"What a pair hey?" Her eyes glisten with tears and we stare at each other for a second, before moving to wrap one another in a hug.
Stan PoV
I walk down the hallways, my palms sweating, legs shaking so much so that placing one foot in front of the other took great effort.
This was one of the biggest things I had to do, walk into a room, face to face with other teenagers going through the same things as me. Equally as scared? Who knows, some of them had done this for months, years maybe even. I round the corner. Either way, my secret was going to be exposed to a group of people I didn't know.
And Cartman, apparently.
"Stan?" He frowns as I stand in the doorway, frozen, what the fuck was he doing here? "Oh fucks sake I told you to leave me alone, I'm fine."
"What?" I manage to voice.
"Just because it's your fault I'm in here doesn't mean you have to feel guilty and turn up to hospital all the time." He explains, and then my mind clicks. He thought I was here for him, not for me.
"Oh... Yeah..." I stutter, peering around the unfamiliar faces sat in the circle. Ok, I could leg it now and it would all be fine.
"Stan Marsh?" I hear a voice and turn around, my heart sinking as I see a friendly looking man in a white shirt, holding a clipboard.
"Uh... No sorry." I hold my hands up, casting a sideways glance at Cartman. "I'm... Kenny McCormick..."
"He was supposed to turn up last week for a therapy session after his girlfriend signed him up, but didn't." He explains and I freeze. "And according to this picture I have in your file, you are Stan Marsh." He holds it up and I stare at the picture, damn that was my school photo from this year, I had a massive zit on my forehead and so persuaded mom not to buy it. "It's alright, take a seat, you have nothing to worry about."
"So..." Cartman is grinning at me now, wincing as he sits down on one of the plastic chairs, clearly uncomfortable due to the lack of flesh to cushion it. "Why are you fucked up?"
"Eric that's enough." The man scolds him, but it doesn't dismiss the smirk on Cartman's face. "I'm Mark, I'll be your counsellor for today, or the following sessions you may attend."
"Hi Mark." A few of the teenagers chorus, unenthusiastically. They were clearly the ones who were not here for their first session.
"So would anyone like to kick this off, have a chat about how they're feeling?" He asks the group, causing me to exchange an awkward look with Cartman.
He had now stopped jeering and was fumbling with his hands in his lap, clearly suddenly scared, perhaps ashamed. It was something I rarely saw; Cartman feeling intimidated, but it was the first time I could properly see his weight loss, his bony structure beneath the thick material of his pyjamas, indicating he still had not been discharged. No one had really picked up on it, we only tolerated Cartman, or paid him any attention when he was ripping on people. But just looking at him now showed me just how much he was hurting, just how much the years of insults and snide comments had really affected him. He was wasting away, and for once, I actually wished he would eat the skin off our KFC whilst we collected the shopping bags, maybe I wouldn't be so mad at him. I never thought I could care about Eric Cartman, but seeing his face right now, it all made sense; he was scared, he was ashamed and he was insecure. That's why he felt the need to insult anyone who came into his orbit, to try and make them understand exactly how he felt, every single day.
"I'm Nancy." One girl stands, her hands shaking, as she stares at the floor. "I was diagnosed with moderate schizophrenia about six months ago... I was in denial, I refused to believe it. But secretly I knew I had to do something, I started attending private therapy sessions about four months ago, and have now had five sessions here..."
"Thank you Nancy." Mark says, in a soft voice. "Would you like to tell us anything else about your condition?"
"...I could never be myself. For years I felt like I was being controlled my someone else, like my mind wasn't my own and my body was just an empty shell." She explains, slowly becoming more confident. "The voices come and go, sometimes it's just sounds; a scream, a beep of a train, just an ongoing buzz that I can't get rid of. Some days it's really intense, it'll hit when I'm stood at the bus stop, or sat in tech class, or just lying awake at night. It's a continuous cycle; I can't sleep so the voices begin, then because the voices begin, I can't sleep. I've learnt over the months of therapy and counselling that, they're my own voices though. It's just myself, telling me I'm fat, telling me I'm worthless. Being here and seeking help, has changed my life. It's much less frequent now, I have a job at the local restaurant, I'm doing my exams next year. Things slowly feel like they're beginning to piece themselves back together, and I'm so proud of myself for doing the right thing, and getting help."
"Thank you." Mark smiles at her, as she sits in her seat. "A very moving account of how you've coped these last few months. You see, often talking about things can do you a world of good, it allows you to share your experiences with other people, people who might be feeling similar things. It shows each and every one of you that you're not alone, that you have so much support behind you, and that you're not all the things you've been convincing yourself you are for months, years maybe."
My eyes move to where Cartman was sat, gripping the edge of his seat and shuffling uncomfortably. He rejoins eye contact, but it was an honest, apologetic eye contact. In that moment we both clicked, for the first time in ages, and in that moment, we both had the same idea...
If you feel something may be wrong, please seek help. 10% of children and young people (aged 5-16 years) have a clinically diagnosable mental problem. That's 1/10, 10/100, 100/1000. So you're not alone, if you ever need to talk about how you're feeling, you can message me. I've been through the process and can hopefully offer some advice as to how to seek help xxx