Chapter Text
“Just know that I will find my way from you, like flowers from a tomb while you decide who you are, and I can see right through, ooh, like shadows on the moon."
"And it's all bad news.”
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|September, Kyle's POV|
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September 12th, 1AM
Stan,
I won’t ever understand your need to drink. Why you feel the need to do it now after every inconvenience that happens to you.
Perhaps it’s because you don’t remember a single thing you do.
You don't have regrets because you don't remember what you do.
If you do find out eventually, it's from other people.
But you don't get to know how you feel in the moment because you're too drunk to even remember what is happening.
I find that scary. Terrifying. It irks me thinking about what I can accidentally do, possibly incriminate myself for something I don’t want anyone knowing about me.
Maybe that’s why I love like you. You just don’t care. You don’t care what others think.
I personally cannot comprehend how you don't find that terrifying. Knowing you did something, but not caring enough to get help, to stop drinking.
To stop the carelessness.
You can be screaming on the top of your lungs when you’re drunk, slurring and rambling on about how much you hate Wendy, yet the next day you can come into school, the only thing you’re worried about is the aspirin you took when the sun crept up in the morning not kicking in immediately. Mad that you can't find your car keys from the previous night after someone had to drive you home.
You’re not worried about the stares or whispers, the videos circulating around of your latest drunken monologue.
You’re more worried about your father finding out you took another one of his bottles of alcohol, and that you’ve been secretly taking and drinking his stash for months. You're worried about him finding out you took weed to the party, being a supply for multiple people, taking some of the last of your dad's weed he'd grown when you were forced to move onto a weed farm when we were 10.
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Do you even realize people people know about Wendy cheating on you?
That it's everywhere? Everybody knows that Stan Marsh got cheated on, again.
That Stan Marsh was gullible enough to not break up with her the first time she cheated, because he couldn't let go of a constant that's been in his life since he was 9.
That Stan Marsh was too scared to let go.
The only reason they know is because of the screams. Your screams.
I was pretty drunk. I couldn't comprehend anything at the point.
I was confused. You knew that.
But I heard your screams. I had to find you.
Running upstairs just to find you on the floor, on top of Tolkien Black, rolling around on his own bedroom floor while your fist lazily tries to strike at his face.
They recorded you sobbing, screaming, begging to be loved properly.
For someone to hold you.
That video circulated pretty quickly, and now everyone in my 3rd period is talking about how Stan Marsh lost it again. How his girlfriend cheated on him at a party, and it ended up being the party host himself. The exact person Wendy had cheated on you with before. Someone she had once dated.
Did you know that?
I’m assuming you do. But I don't think you care. You don’t care that your most personal problems are being shared across the internet, where millions could see.
Potential jobs or colleges can see that Stanley.
But you’re always so reckless.
I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand you Stan. I haven't for a very long time. I wish I did, I really did, but sometimes you're a stranger in my eyes. Someone I can never understand because you never open up to me anymore, claiming you don't want to worry me anymore than you already do.
I sometimes wish you did just come to me. Tell me everything that’s on your mind. The good. The bad. Everything, so that I finally understand what you think, how you really feel. I could help you. I wouldn't judge you, hell, I've known you since we were toddlers. I've seen what I believe was your worst.
I would hold you just to hold you.
To feel you curl up against me. To feel your calloused hands grip onto my shirt, hugging back just as tight.
I'd love you properly. I'd show you how love should be.
Like you truly want. To hug you tightly, wrapping my arms around you, keeping one hand steady against the nape of your neck, soothing your messy hair down.
Telling you that it’ll be okay.
But to be honest, I don’t know if everything will be okay.
I don’t know if everything is okay now.
Always,
Kyle Broflovski
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September 14th, 6pm
Stanley,
I hate you so much.
You’re a fucking coward selfish coward.
Just like Randy. Just like your dad.
Justlikehim.
You just nag, and nag, until you finally get what you want out of people.
Until you feel a satisfaction, the satisfaction that for once someone is more miserable you. That someone else is feeling whatever pain you're going through, and finally someone else feels it too.
So you are finally giving them the glimpse of how truly miserable you are.
How it feels to live like Stan Marsh.
How to feel like Stan Marsh.
How it sucks to be you.
You drain people. YOU are exhausting. Anytime something doesn’t go your way, instead of being rational you drown your sorrows in alcohol to find a momentary escape.
Being the genius you are, you decided today you would show up in the middle of the day at school, drunk, strutting in the cafeteria, slurring about your “bitchy-girlfriend” dumping you again.
Cheating on you, humiliating you in front of everyone.
You threw yourself on the table, nearly knocking over Kenny, and bumping into Cartman, who instantly started bitching about it. We tried to get you to sit down, tell us what was going on. Well, Kenny and I did. Cartman was more mad about getting "shoved" to the side.
Calming you down CLEARLY wasn’t a fucking option.
I tried Stanley, I did try, like I always do. It sometimes work. I hoped it worked this time.
I can't talk to you when you're drunk, because you don't care.
You've already gotten drunk, you'll forget about it anyways.
You haven’t cared for a long time.
I’m convinced you don’t care about anything, about anyone anymore.
I’m convinced you don’t care about me.
I proved myself right when you pulled back, and screamed in my face. The only thing I have ever begged you to never tell to anyone. Screaming it for everyone in the cafeteria to hear.
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“Stan, please, please don’t tell anyone. If..if my parents find out..or anyone. Especially Cartman. He’d make my life miserable, please for the love of God don’t tell anyone that-“
”Kyle. Please trust me. You can trust me. You’re my best friend.”
”I’ll never tell a soul.”
”I trust you Stan.”
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”I trusted you.”
Those were the only words that managed to come out of my mouth because I knew if I said more I would break down, adding more to the newest entertainment at SPHS.
But even then I thought I was going to vomit while I was speaking. My voice was shaky. My eyes burned as tears prickled, threatening to fall.
You told everyone.
Well, everyone who was listening. As well as everyone that was recording your drunken rambling. Everyone in the cafeteria.
I think my heart stopped for a second.
After you said it, God, the terrible face you made.
A twisted face of something unreadable. Something that wasn’t my Stan. A face that wasn't you. Like you were almost proud of what you just did.
As quick as that expression was, it quickly shifted, shifted into a face of absolute horror. You realized who exactly you were hurting.
Me.
I’ve never seen that face before.
I don’t think I ever want to see it again.
When that expression went away, your entire face went ghostly white. You're a tan person, and right before my eyes you were the complexion of Tweek, the boy who has done drugs for who knows how long after his parents got him addicted to meth through fucking coffee.
I thought you were going to pass out.
Your mouth parted ever so slightly, barely noticeable, like you were going to say something, but didn't
I hated I that was still affected in that moment, even after what you did.
Your breathing quickened and if I wasn’t in such a state of shock in that moment, I would've dug through your backpack and jacket pockets, forcing your inhaler in your mouth, administrating the medicine into your system.
Even then I wanted to ground you, hold your hands to my chest so you can feel that you’re real. That we’re real. To let you hold my hands tightly and whisper for you to breathe, talking softly, and counting while you inhale the medicine from your inhaler.
Even then I still found some way to care.
But I was frozen. Angry. Mortified. You told everyone the one thing I kept to myself. Not even my parents knew about it. Ike didn't know. No one knew.
I trusted you.
I TRUSTED YOU.
It kept repeating in my head, the words blurring together, screaming in my head.
Telling me I was an idiot.
That I shouldn't have trusted anyone, and I would've been okay.
I couldn’t stand seeing that expression on your face.
...Everything after that just blurred.
I could barely breathe myself.
I felt sick to my stomach, but I hadn't even eaten anything. It was only the start of lunch. I didn't eat breakfast in the morning because I had woken up late. Staggering through the halls felt like I was physically dying. It felt like something had actually hurt me physically.
I needed to throw up.
I forced my way to the bathroom, and dry heaved, until the only thing that came up was bile.
It felt so much worse.
It twisted like someone was physically inside of me and tugging at my insides, ripping into my stomach, gnawing, scratching at any way to hurt me.
Hot tears spilled down my eyes onto my cheeks, making me dizzier than I already was. I couldn't think. My brain couldn't full comprehend what just happened.
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The last thing I remember from this afternoon is seeing your face.
Tears were in your eyes. Your mouth was moving rapidly, but I couldn’t hear a word out of your mouth.
I made out a few words by reading your lips. You were stumbling over your words desperately, slurring.
You looked so much worse than I did.
Eyes bloodshot, looking like you hadn't slept at all and stayed up all night getting high or nearly drinking yourself to death.
”Ky...”
”...so sorry.”
”...an idiot.”
The ringing in my ears wouldn’t stop. It got worse with each word I managed to listen to.
Hearing you speak made it worse.
The same voice that ruined me.
I shoved past you, not caring for once in my life what happened to you. Not caring if I hurt you, or if you fall and hurt yourself trying to get up.
I didn't care. I needed to go home. Escape.
I had always had a general fear of losing people I love.
Losing you however was one of my biggest fears growing up, and even up until now. I didn't want to lose you to yourself.
The fear of ever losing you was erased from my mind, and replaced with the fear of seeing you again.
Having to face you. To talk to you.
Seeing your face, how you stand and lean against the lockers, waiting for me.
The love I had for you felt numb. Like it was shattered.
I couldn't feel that warmth.
I hate you Stan Marsh.
But I hate the tiny fraction of me that still longs for you even more.
Sincerely,
Kyle Broflovski