Chapter Text
He can barely keep his eyes open. After having managed to open them for barely a second, they just slip closed on their own accord again. This is torture. The only sound he can discern is the ticking of the clock, despite it being but a faint background noise.
Tick, tack… Tick… Tack…
School should have been labeled as a public hazard by the government a long time ago. The possibilities of death by boredom are only multiplying every day. Without even mentioning that it is an extremely lame way to die, class is just a terrible place to die too. It is bleak, and devoid of any creativity.
Since it doesn’t seem like the bell is going to ring anytime soon, Eric decides that a little nap wouldn’t hurt.
Who gives a crap about Annie wanting to buy some stupid tomatoes or something? Or maybe they have moved on to the next question now. Either way, no matter.
Just as Eric is beginning to drift off, making honorable efforts to forget his whereabouts, something rough and solid slams against the corner of his desk, forcing his eyes to snap open and his neck to crane upwards. It turns out that the object which roused him was Mr. Garrison’s huge, old-fashioned ruler.
“Well, if you’re missing your bed so much, Eric, at least do it during recess”.
Laughter echoes from almost every corner of the room. Assholes.
It is such a messed-up coincidence how they’ve ended up with Garrison again, after escaping him for a year in fifth grade. The guy is hopelessly boring, but still, Eric supposes it is somewhat better than having someone like Ms. Chocksondick as a teacher. They’d start middle school in a few months anyway and then they’d never see this travesty of a teacher again.
With a grunt, Eric half-heartedly straightens his back and pretends to gaze ahead at whatever Garrison is scribbling.
Sixth grade has been a nice year so far, but it isn’t as thrilling as Eric expected it to be. Sure, it is fun screwing around with the kids from smaller grades and letting them know their place, but the guys have been more or less avoiding him on more than one occasion, and it pisses him off. (Who are they to reject his delightful company? Eric is honestly doing them a favor by hanging out with them.)
But it isn’t like he cares. He hasn’t lost anything of value. None of them is equal to him, or truly worthy of his companionship. Not the poor piece of white trash, not the faggy hippy, and certainly not the conniving Jew.
So, whenever the douchebags pretend they’re busy, there is always Butters. Butters, the overly-trusting pushover who is obviously not deserving of his greatness either, but sometimes he is Eric’s last resort. Sometimes Butters is better than having to sit next to the aforementioned douchebags, only to be ignored numerous times when he speaks.
Life is boring without getting into fights with Kyle as frequently as he used to, though.
But he doesn’t need him. No, he doesn’t need any of them.
The familiar ring of the bell finally chimes, and they are all hopping off their seats and storming into the hallways.
Eric does not become aware of Butters shyly following him until they’ve almost reached the cafeteria. He doesn’t turn around to talk to him. He knows the little fag will eventually approach him first.
“Hiya-there, Eric!” He’s always right. Butters has quickened his strides and he’s walking next to him now.
"Butters". It's not a greeting, it's a mere acknowledgment. "What do you want?"
“Well, I was just wondering, if, maybe, we could sit together during lunch today…” He nearly trails off and there’s an unsureness in his voice, as there is most of the time.
God damn it, Eric doesn’t want to sit next to Butters. He’s annoying as hell. But he’s sick of the guys and sick of being ignored. And of course, doesn’t want to spend recess alone, like he’s some kind of marginalized retard with no friends, either.
“Yeah, whatever…”
Lunch is okay for the most part. Eric has begun formulating a new plan to get back at the guys for pretending he’s not there, and he shares his brilliant ideas with Butters. The plan is still at a very early stage of development, but he doesn’t mind much if the naïve blonde is the one who hears his thought process. Butters usually does little else other than reassure him of his loyalty and willingness to help and fret at the ideas he deems ‘extreme’.
The part where they would kidnap Kyle’s dildo of a brother has Butters going: “Jee-wiz, Eric, that’s very illegal!” which Eric finds irritating, but amusing at the same time.
“It’s gonna be great, Butters, don’t be a pussy”.
The only other noteworthy incident of the day is scaring off a measly fourth-grader who thought he could use the tetherball pole before him. But Eric tells him that if he doesn’t leave, he’ll hang him up there by the band of his underwear – like he'd done to Butters once – and leave him to rot. The kid quickly scrams, not long thereafter. It surely helped that Eric is almost a head taller than him and has a lot more muscle stored in his body.
Ah, yes, being a sixth-grader is liberating.
The rest of the school day is practically nothing but Garrison blabbering about bullcrap Eric is convinced he doesn’t need to memorize. When the bell that denotes their escape finally rings, he thinks God must have taken pity on them, and stopped Garrison from continuing his delirium.
He just hopes Mom is home. A powdered donut pancake surprise doesn’t sound bad at all at the moment. Mom usually makes him one when he is sad. (He is not sad now, though. No, why would he be?) Now he is just hungry.
Mom is not home.
Eric feels tension rise up in his chest as he clutches his school bag and stands in the empty living-room by himself.
God damn it, is it too much to ask for the bitch to be home more often when he comes back from school?
He tosses his yellow backpack somewhere on the floor and marches towards the kitchen. A note is left on the table.
‘Mommy had to go out to run some errands. I’ll be back as soon as I can. There’s chicken and fries from yesterday in the fridge. Love you, Poopsiekins!’ Read the note. There is a roughly sketched heart at the bottom of the page.
He crumples the paper angrily and flings it somewhere across the kitchen. No way is he eating stupid chicken and fries. He wants something sweet.
As he is rummaging the fridge, the only sweet he finds is a chocolate-frosted donut. (Mom needs to go grocery-shopping at once.) From the looks of it, it has probably stayed in the fridge for a few days. Eh, it’s still edible. Eric stuffs the donut in his mouth and grabs a Dr. Pepper before leaving the kitchen and going upstairs.
“Mr. Kitty?" He calls with his mouth still half-full.
No hungry meow comes in response, as it usually does. Where the hell is that cat? It is time for him to eat.
As Eric nears his room, a foul smell slips up his nostrils. He stops, trying to identify the stench, but when nothing comes to mind, he just goes on. “Mr. Kitty?" He yells again.
Once he opens his door the appalling smell hits him in the face like a strong wind on a winter day. It is metallic, and it reminds Eric of decay.
His eyes immediately catch on the dark red that is splattered across the floor and the carpet. The donut and the Dr. Pepper slip from his hands, which are suddenly paralyzed the moment he spots the mangled, bloodied, motionless body of what unmistakably was a grey-furred cat.
“Mr. Kitty?!” He rushes to his poor kitty’s side, forgetting about everything else for a moment, and kneeling next to him.
Mr. Kitty’s amber eyes are lifelessly staring at nothing, his mouth is left agape and his soft tummy is torn wide open with what looked like it could have been a kitchen knife. Blood has leaked out and intestines are hanging from the deformed cavity. With a trembling hand, he touches the side of the cat’s belly, unwilling to process the sight his eyes have witnessed. No movement at all. Not even the slightest of stirs come from the unfortunate, weathered pet before him.
Eric’s eyes sting as he tenderly pets the matted grey fur. He soon feels his cheeks getting wet. Sure, Mr. Kitty is a bad kitty sometimes – when he wants to steal Eric’s food, namely – but… He is Eric’s cat, damn it! He has been with him and Mom ever since Eric began having his first true memories. He has been keeping him company when Mom is working, or when for one reason or another he doesn’t meet up with the guys. He got Kenny high, he helped Eric make memes. He loves Eric.
He hears himself weeping loudly for the loss of his furry companion, as he carefully cradles the unmoving head into his palms.
But who could have committed such a cruel crime?
Mr. Kitty has never hurt anybody, and on top of that, whoever had so brutally hurt a cat certainly lacked a soul. And if they think Eric is going to let them get away after having murdered his kitty, they are dead wrong. When Eric finds the son of a bitch, they are going to wish they were never born.
His thought process is disturbed by the realization that the blood is not only staining the floor, but it has formed a thin trail up the wall, which leads to an image quite possibly as equally terrifying as Mr. Kitty lying on the carpet with his vital organs spread out for whomever to see. The blood on the wall has been deliberately smeared onto the surface, so that it will form letters, which in turn will form a crudely written sentence. He can decipher the meaning of the letters clearly, despite the tears in his eyes.
‘JUST YOU WAIT’
Now the asshole is making this way more personal.