Chapter Text
It was late summer (August) and school was starting soon. Actually, scratch that. Shit. School starts today. The ray of sunshine lit up Stans' bedroom, like a wake up call. Stan groans, not wanting to get out of bed. Another shit day in the same shit high-school, but fortunately for him, it's his senior year.
Stan pulls his phone from under his pillow and doom-scrolls on TikTok for a little while. God, he didnt want to see anybody today. Especially not Kyle. Kyle and him had a little falling out, which was surprising because they used to be super-best friends.
Stan gets dressed in a band pull-over hoodie, some baggy jeans that were ripped after he wore them for so long. He puts on his eyeliner and shoes, not having to worry about his beanie because- well- he sleeps with it on, but it's fine.
He walks downstairs, hoping Randy wasn't still home. Lucky for him he wasn't. Unfortunately, his mother was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Mom was never on his side. So, he chooses to shut them both out.
"Where you going?" Sharon asks.
"School." Stan mumbles.
No shit. It's the first day of school.
Sharon focuses her eyes back on her phone, obviously having a hangover of some sorts. Stan scoffs. He walks towards the door, grabbing his keys off the hook. He gets in his car and just stares.
Eventually, he makes it to school. He spots Wendy Testaburger, his "girlfriend". Shes laughing with her friends, Bebe and Nichole. He wont go bother her.
First period, P.E. He dropped out of sports around 7th grade due to him and Kyles' falling out. He couldn't continue doing something he loved without his best friend, or a good mental health.
Walking through the halls, he spots Kenny.
"Hey man, ready to be back at school?" Kenny grins.
"Anything to get away from my shit excuse of parents." He chuckles. "Hey, what your first period?" Stan asks.
"P.E"
"Sick dude, me too." Stan states with an awkward smirk on his face.
"Walk with me to first period?"
"Sure."
(Section B)
Kenny and Him walk to class, talking about usual boy stuff, seems as if Kenny was high or some shit. A little too calm. Anyways, that's not the point. I walk into P.E.
Cluelessly, Kenny and Stan come out of the locker room after getting dressed. "Holy shit dude." Kenny gulps.
"What-" Stan glances at Kenny then follows his line of sight.
It was Kyle Broflovski, Sitting on the bleachers. About 10 Feet away from him. He really never HAD been this close to him in a while. He makes direct fucking eye contact with him. He glances away so quick he thinks his eyes are shot to the ground as far as they can go. "Im gonna skip." Stan mumbles, walking back to the locker room. Only one person was in there still, Eric Cartman. This fatass was sitting here eating food. In P.E class.
Whats up with you, Stan?" Eric shoots out his mouth, glaring at the greasy haired boy. "It's nothing. Just don't feel good, going to the nurse." He grits through his teeth. The rest of the time is just silence, filled with Eric chewing his chips. I get dressed and practically run out the back door, leading to the back hallway towards the A.P wing. He looks at his schedule in his pocket,
1st: Physical Education
2nd: A.P Calculus
3rd: Psychology
LUNCH
4th: Creative Writing.
5th: AP Physics
6th: Literacy Lab
End
Stan had never been good at literacy or reading in general. But you know what he had been good at? Writing. He also liked reading comics and graphic novels, but hated boring ass chapter books. He was either too high to see straight, or too hungover from the night before. Maybe both at sometimes.
Stan walks towards the back of the school, walks out the doors, and sits on the concrete stairs. He digs through his bag and eventually finds a joint. Huh, when did this get here? Oh well. He takes a long, hard drag before he hears chitter in the distance. He peeks around the corner and- Oh, just the goth kids. He wouldn't consider himself one of them, but they hung out and smoked a couple of times. He also just liked that kind of style. He sits out there for what seems like hours, just taking small drags. The bell rings, and lucky for him, A.P Calculus is literally right next to that door. The teacher is already familiar to him, he had a mathematical class with him last year. Stan sits at the bottom left of the classroom, a dark, dimly litten corner. He pulls a journal out of his bag and gets to writing some things down from the board.
He glances up from his notebook, taking a break from writing. And you know who he sees? Not just Cartman. Not just Tolkien. Kyle Broflovski.
His heart literally drops to his ass.
What the fuck? Why did we have so many classes this year? Kyle sits about 2 desks diagonally across from him. Damn, why so close?
He feels his face getting fuzzy, not even the high from the weed, but because he was thinking so damn hard about how many classes they could have. He doesn't know what this feeling is, because he's not a fag. Kyle is glaring at him, he finally gets a chance to analyze what he was wearing, an orange zip up with a black tank top under, long shorts, sitting right above the knee, and some Jordans. I see his lips move, but I cant exactly make out what he said. My heart was beating so fast, everything was a blur. He looks away and stares at his sleeves of his jacket, pulls one up, already lined with scars, most are extremely old. He hadn't cut in around 3 years, he made a promise to himself he wouldn't anymore, but that ship has sailed. He starts scratching at his arm, putting more pressure every rhythmic motion. He just wants to see blood, feel some sort of pain. He draws blood and it's like he snaps back to reality. Everyone is face down, writing in their journals. He pulls out his phone, checking the time. Great, 10 Minutes before the bell. He bites his lip and raises his hand. The teacher looks up and Stan mumbles, "Can I go to the bathroom?" He nods his head, telling him to take his backpack incase he didn't make it back in time. He makes it to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He rips his backpack open, looking for some sort of shaving razor, blade, anything sharp. He needs that pain, that feeling would help him calm down. He finds a travel sized disposable razor, and dissembles it so fast. He rips a blade out of the socket after getting the top off and pulls his sleeves up. He shakes in fear and despair, swiping fast and lengthy. He sees blood, a wide cut sitting on the edge of his wrist, not the back, he wasn't trying to kill himself yet. He swipes again, and again, until he feels queasy. He loved the sight of blood, that feeling, the pain, he didn't realize but tears were rolling down his cheeks, he grins. He wasn't getting better, he didn't want to. He didn't want help. The day was far from over. He decides he will just walk to his car, and go back home.
He pulls in, turning the car off and getting out. He grabs his wrist tight. He pulls his keys out, and unlocks the door. He runs to his room, locks the door, and drops his bag next to his bed. He lays down and checks the time. 10:45. This pussy couldn't even make it halfway through the day without viscously cutting himself. He doesn't regret the decision.
He opens the window and grabs a cigarette from his drawer. He sits on the window sill, smoking a few. A few turns into half the pack. He looks down, the second story. Not high enough that he would die, no that wouldn't work, I'd fail miserably. He thinks to himself. He turns around and closes the window. Cigarettes laying on that sill. He decides to sleep away his problems.