Chapter Text
Stan POV
Math starts in just a few minutes, but I take my chances of being late and detour to the bathroom. Once safely tucked into a stall, I pull out the once full water bottle of clear liquid. As soon as it’s opened, the stink of liquor wafts into my nostrils.
It’s half full now, I can take a swig to get me through this class, then lunch will be fine because I won’t be alone, and there should be enough to get through my last few classes of the day.
This calculating took more time than I thought, as the bell rang and I quickly drank more than a swig before shoving the bottle in my bag and heading out.
I quietly slipped into my seat, doubting the teacher even noticed my absence.
She should be glad I’m even here today, being a second late doesn’t matter.
“Hey Stan,” Kenny says as he elbows me in the ribs. I mutter a hello and put my head down, I’m glad he takes the hint to leave me alone.
The rest of the class is a drag, the worksheets and slide presentations blurring in my head. I sit as still as I can, copying down whatever seems most correct on my paper.
I don’t say a word as my table collaborates on whatever equation the teacher gave, ignoring the sideways glances from Kenny.
The teacher assigns homework just in time for the bell to ring, and I stumble into the hallway.
“Wanna head to our normal spot for lunch? I’m gonna get in the cafeteria line,” Kenny asks.
“Sure,” I answer promptly before heading down the stairwell.
I find our corner in the courtyard and slump against the wall, head in my hands.
With only 3 more classes in the day, I repeat to myself that I can get through this. I will. I have to.
We’re only a month into junior year and I already missed more days than I can count. Teachers barely know my name, and my few friends are growing distant. My dad, busy with his stupid farm, barely speaks to me, let alone notices or cares about the growing amount of letters from the school regarding my attendance.
My mom is exhausted between housework, keeping in touch with Shelley who’s away at college, and dealing with her asshole husband, to do more than nudge me out of bed in the morning and yell at me to get to school.
Finally I hear footsteps and conversation approaching, then more bodies next to mine. Against my better judgement, I lift my head.
Kyle and Kenny both turn to look at me.
Before I can manage a half-assed greeting, Kyle opens his mouth, “Holy shit dude you look like.. shit!”
Kenny nods in agreement before adding, “I didn’t believe he was alive in math.”
I just flipped them both the bird before burying my head deeper in my hands.
“That wasn’t an insult,” Kyle continued, “Just, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
I simply shrugged.
I shouldn’t have sat with them. I shouldn’t be here to begin with. Kyle and his fucking questions, always having a problem with everything. Kenny and his weird stare, it makes me feel like he knows something about me that I don’t even know.
For once, I’m glad to hear Cartman’s heavy footsteps approaching.
“Hey assholes, the lunch lady wouldn’t give me a hot dog AND peanut butter sandwich today. This is basically a concentration camp. I’m going to starve.”
Kenny chuckled at Cartman’s stupidity and Kyle opened his mouth once again, “Fatass, you’re not starving anytime soon. You’d survive a concentration camp with all the fat on your body.”
“Yeah Kyle, of course you’d know how a concentration camp would be,” Cartman retorted, adding quietly at the end, “fuckin jew.”
Kyle kept arguing with Cartman, his head is too far up his ass to realize that his response is feeding what Cartman wants.
I lift up my head, and open my bag to search for the sandwich my mom made for me, before handing it over to Cartman.
“THANK YOU STAN!” He exclaims, which turns Kyle’s attention back to me.
“Uh Stan, maybe you should eat your sandwich. It kinda looks like you haven’t eaten in days.”
Now all three of them were staring at me.
“Uh no, that’s fine. I feel kinda sick anyways,” I mumbled back. I instinctively reached for my ‘water’ bottle, but realize opening it around people would be a mistake.
“Should we go to the nurse? You’re sick a lot lately,” Kyle questioned.
I should be glad my best friend is caring enough to notice. Don’t I want people to notice? Instead the questioning just worsens the pounding in my head. I think I’m actually going to be sick.
I stand abruptly, “No, no nurse. I’m going to the bathroom I’ll be back,” and basically run inside and slam myself into the biggest bathroom stall. Bile rises in my throat and I shove my head into a toilet. Barely anything comes up, just spit and a sour tasting liquid. Heaving and coughing fill the room.
I barely notice the sound of someone else walking in the bathroom, only sitting back to try and take a deep breath when there’s a knock on the stall. I glance behind me and see Kyle’s shoes under the door.
“Stan?” He asks nervously. “I brought your water bottle,” His hand slides under the stall and the bottle bounces on the ground. Knowing what was in there only made me gag harder, forcing my head to return to the toilet.
“Can I come in?” Kyle’s voice asks sheepishly.
Against my better judgement, I turn and unlock the door.
He steps in and crouches next to my body. He rubs small circles on my back and gently reminds me to breathe.
Finally, I sit back on my heels and attempt to clear my head. Tears well in my eyes and I cover them quickly.
I hear the crinkle of my water bottle opening and glance up to see Kyle holding it near me. The smell makes me choke and I shove it backwards, making it fall out of his hands. Before I can even process what I’ve just done, the liquid is covering the floor and his face scrunches up in realization.
“That’s.. not water.” He concludes.
I don’t turn to face him.
“You’re drinking again?”
A million thoughts surface. I never stopped drinking. I lied to him. My secret is out. How can I get myself out of this one? Will he snitch? Please don’t snitch. What else am I supposed to do?
My breath hitches, but instead of a gag, a sob slips out. Tears run down my face. There’s no point in hiding anymore. Kyle stands and walks out of the stall, leaving me curled in a puddle of my own tears, spit, and vodka.
He returns with a bundle of paper towels and silently wipes up the floor, barely acknowledging me. I watch him silently through my tears.
Finally he turns to me and uses the rest of the towels to wipe off my face.
“Are you gonna last the rest of the day here?” His voice cut through the silence.
I shake my head.
“Wait here,” He says before walking out of the bathroom altogether.
I sit, unmoving, with no thoughts for once. I can’t even think of what to think about. Tears continue to spill. I could’ve been sitting on that cold tile floor for seconds or hours.
Before I realize what’s happening, Kyle has returned and has his hands under my armpits, hoisting me off of the ground. When did he get so strong? Or when did I become so frail?
When I’m finally on my feet, unsteady, but holding myself up, he grabs my wrist and leads me from the bathroom. I catch a glimpse in the mirror before we walk out. He has both of our backpacks slung over either shoulder, and I am being pulled behind like a lost and sick puppy. My face is completely white, except for the red blotches surrounding my eyes and cheeks. I don’t look like a person.
“What are you doing?” I manage to get out as Kyle continues dragging me down a hallway.
“We’re leaving. I’m taking you home.” He answers plainly.
He scans the hallway for teachers, before exiting quietly out a side door.
The sun is bright today, temporarily blinding me.
We walk into the parking lot and find my car.
“You’re not driving, give me your keys,” He instructs.
“They’re in my bag.”
He reaches into my backpack, grabs the keys, unlocks the car, and tosses our bags in the backseat. He sits in the driver’s seat, and I hoist myself into the passenger side.
The engine hums to life.
“Please don’t take me home,” I choke out.
Kyle turns to look at me.
Silence.
“Where else could we go?” He asks.
“I don’t know. Just not home, please.” I sound pathetic.
“Why not?”
I don’t have an answer for that, so I stay quiet.
“Okay Stan, what the fuck is going on?”
More silence. What could I even say? That I’m barely holding on anymore, that not being sober is my only reprieve. That my family doesn’t care and my house doesn’t feel like home. That killing myself is the only option left, but I’m too much of a pussy to do anything more than half-assed slices on my wrist.
Kyle continues staring.
“When did you start drinking again?”
The truth is I never stopped drinking. I started I don’t know how long ago now, whenever my parents got divorced the first time. Kyle and I were closer then, and I told him everything that was going on. He tried to help, but there’s not too much you can do as a child, trying to save another child. I basically lived at his house, but when his mom found their liquor bottles empty and Kyle admitted to her I had a problem, she went straight to my mom. She put me in therapy, which I lied through. My parents decided it was better for the kids and got back together. The lying only intensified. Things were back to normal, so I should be normal again too. I tried so hard to be normal, I really did, but I kept feeling worse. So I kept my mouth shut and lied to everyone that I was fine.
But I wasn’t telling Kyle that. I didn’t want anything getting back to my parents.
Finally he sighed, and put the car into drive.
“We can go back to my house, my dad is at work and my mom should be out.”
“Thank you,” was all I could get out.
The drive was silent except for my occasional sniffle or sob. Kyle kept glancing over at me, and I could tell he was nervous. I didn’t mean to make him worry.
When we finally pulled into his driveway, he hopped out first and grabbed our bags. I slipped out of my seat and followed him into his house.
Neither of us said a word as we walked up the stairs and entered his room. I sat on the edge of his bed while he walked around nervously.
We didn’t have anything to say. I just watched him pace, my head spinning. I couldn’t tell if it was from the vodka or just nerves.
Finally, Kyle stopped in front of his closet, pulled out a t-shirt and sweat pants, and handed them to me.
“Go take a shower and put on clean clothes. You smell,” He instructed. “You smell” was a statement of fact, not an insult, but it made me feel worse about my state.
I took the clothes and headed into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I stripped and started the shower, but didn’t get in just yet. I stood in front of the mirror, not recognizing who was looking back.
When did I let it get this bad?
My face was still pale and splotchy from crying, and the bags beneath my eyes were sagging. I looked gaunt. Barely alive. That’s how I felt. A walking corpse.
Against my better judgement, I opened the medicine cabinet and scanned the contents, my eyes landing upon a bottle of cough syrup. I chugged about half before putting it back and closing the cabinet.
I finally broke away from the mirror and stepped into the now steaming shower, letting the scalding water wash over my skin.
Suddenly more tears arose, and they mixed with the water beating down on me. The weight of everything was too much.
I collapsed onto the ground of the shower, feeling everything.
The noises coming from me were gutteral, half screams. There was nothing left for me. What am I doing? Crying in my best friend’s shower, when I should be at school. Kyle never missed school, I’m ruining him too. Wasting his water, clean clothes, and time.
People go through worse than divorced parents and depression, why am I acting like this?
My wallowing was cut short by Kyle pounding on the door and yelling, “Stan don’t lock the door, what are you doing in there?”
I could hear him talking to himself about how he shouldn’t have let me be by myself.
I force myself off the ground, holding my breath to stop more noises from coming out.
“Please say something so I know you’re okay,” Kyle was pleading from behind the door.
“I’m alive,” was all I gargled out.
“I’m staying right outside the door,” Kyle said.
“Okay”
After another minute of standing under the water, I finally shut it off and stepped out. This time, I avoided looking in the fogged up mirror. I toweled myself off and slipped into the clothes Kyle gave me, also putting my jacket back on. It would only make things worse if he saw the scars running down my arms.
I unlocked and opened the door to see Kyle sitting cross-legged in the hallway.
“Give me your dirty clothes, I’ll put them in the wash,” Kyle instructed.
I handed him the pile.
“Especially your jacket, dude,”
I shook my head.
He gave me a sideways look, but offered to lend me a hoodie, which I agreed to.
I sat in his room again, waiting for him to return from the laundry, when I realized how utterly exhausted I was.
I searched under his bed and pulled out the sleeping bag and pillow I kept here, for all the old days like this one. I curled up in it beside his bed, and waited.
Kyle finally returned holding a roll of crackers and a glass of water. He set it next to me before sitting against his bed.
“You need to eat something, and especially drink water,” He said.
I sat up next to him and took a sip. The cold water felt good on my raw throat.
“Talk.” Was all he said now.
I met his eyes, which were tired now. I felt so guilty for putting this all on him.
“I don’t know what to say,” I muttered.
“Just say anything. Please dude, I only want what’s best for you. I thought this stuff was in the past,” He sounded defeated.
Suddenly, words and tears were spilling out.
“I never stopped, I swear I have it under control, it’s the only thing that helps. I feel like utter shit all the time, none of my family cares. I can’t go to school, I don’t talk to people. I can’t fucking do this anymore, Kyle. I’m done, I'm over everything.”
He stared at me like I was a stranger.
I guess I am now.
“I just cry and cry and cry. I don’t move, don’t eat, just drink and rot. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I’m like this. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,
I’m sorry
I’m sorry”
I kept repeating apologies, like that would fix anything.
Kyle didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.
“I’m just gonna go,” I said before attempting to get up. I nearly fell over, catching myself on the bed, before pushing myself up and starting for the door. My limbs tripped over each other, my mind not working anymore.
Kyle stood up and grabbed me before I could get out, holding me tightly in a hug.
His breath was shallow now. Was he crying too?
I couldn’t care about what was happening, I tried shoving him off, but he dug his fingers into my arms.
“Stop, no, don’t leave,” He begged. “Where are you gonna go? What are you gonna do? Just stay please, I'll help you figure it out.”
Maybe it was the terror in his voice that made me stop fighting him.
Maybe it was hope that we really could figure something out.
“I want to go to fucking bed,” I said coldly. If I want help I should stop being mean, but not today.
“Okay, that’s fine. Just lay down. C’mon,” Kyle led me back to the sleeping bag and zipped it up around me.
I closed my eyes and welcomed sleep.
When I woke up, the room was dark and I was alone. The hallway light seeped in through the door, which was open a crack, and I heard faint voices downstairs.
For a moment I felt small again, like I was back in a memory of my and Kyle’s seemingly endless sleepovers.
The feeling didn’t last long though, as the events of the day replayed in my head, a deep pit settled back in my chest.
I decided against going downstairs, and just waited for Kyle to return.
While I was waiting, I got up and dug around in my backpack, finding my phone.
It was a little past 8pm, and there were no notifications. Not even from my mom. This just solidified the fact that she didn’t care, I should’ve been home hours ago. I doubt she even realized I was gone, or maybe she was glad I wasn’t there.
After about 15 minutes, Kyle came upstairs, entering the room with a plate of food. He jumped a little when he saw my empty sleeping bag, but quickly relaxed when he saw I was just sitting there.
“Hey dude, my mom made you a plate. Chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans,” He held the plate out to me.
“Thank you,” I said and took the plate, then asking, “Do they care that I’m here? Did you tell them anything?” I really hoped that he hadn’t, I didn’t feel like dealing with Mrs. Broflofski.
“Nah, I just said you weren’t feeling well at school and didn’t want to go home since you’d be by yourself.” He responded.
I nodded, feeling relieved.
“You can sit at my desk and eat,” Kyle offered.
My stomach flipped at the thought of eating anything. The crackers from earlier remained untouched on the floor.
As if Kyle could tell what I was thinking, he said desperately, “You really should eat something. At least the mashed potatoes, you need something in your stomach,” Then added, “When was the last time you ate anything?”
I thought for a second, I’d been surviving on mostly fast food for the past months, but I rarely eat even that. My mom stopped cooking meals when Shelly left for college, nobody would sit down to eat dinner so there was no point. I guess the potato chips I ate yesterday was my answer.
“I had dinner yesterday,” I half lied, they could be a meal.
“That’s not enough. No wonder you’re so skinny.” Kyle responded. “Eat the fucking mashed potatoes!”
We both giggled at that exclamation.
I finally got up and sat down at his desk with the plate of food. I managed a few small spoonfuls. I don’t think Kyle took his eyes off me at all.
“I think we should talk about earlier,” Kyle said the words I’d been dreading.
I just stared at the floor. And noticed how hard the spoon in my hand was shaking. I nearly slammed it down on the plate and clenched my hands in my lap, like that would stop the shivering.
“How often are you drinking?” Kyle asked. He sounds like my old therapist. She told me I wasn’t an alcoholic, just depressed and looking for a way out. I tried her coping skills, but nothing worked. I lied well enough that she and my parents were convinced I didn’t have to see her anymore.
I thought about lying to Kyle, too, but I guess it was too late for that now. “Like, everyday.” I finally responded.
“Do you do anything else?”
I chain smoke cigarettes and steal weed from my dad all the time. I guess raiding the medicine cabinet counts as something too. “Smoking I guess,” I answered.
“Do your parents know about anything?”
I shook my head quickly in response to that. “They can’t know anything. They don’t care anyways.”
Kyle pursed his lips.
“What was your plan? To just keep living like this?” He asked.
I didn’t have an answer to that. I planned on being dead within the year. I kept my eyes down and didn’t say anything.
Kyle started talking again, “I mean I noticed you weren’t coming to school and you were acting distant, but I didn’t realize how bad it was. Why didn’t you say anything? I thought you were in therapy?”
I didn't want to be around him anymore. I want to go home and forget anything happened.
“My parents said I didn’t need to go to therapy anymore. Speaking of my parents, I should get home before my mom gets too mad,” I lied. My mom doesn’t care. I just needed an excuse.
“Oh right. Are you going to be okay at home?” He asked.
“Yes,” I lied again.
“Maybe you could just stay here the night, we’ll go to school together tomorrow. Like we used to,” Kyle said hopefully.
That sounded like hell.
“That’s a nice offer but it’s probably best that I just get home, y’know get some good sleep in my own bed.” I answered, now getting up to grab my bag.
Kyle jumped up too, “I’ll drive you home then.”
I sighed. I wasn’t getting out of that. “Okay.”
We headed downstairs, and walking out into the light reminded me of my headache. It was so bad I felt dizzy. I clutched the banister going downstairs, trying to stay steady. I was actually relieved that Kyle would drive.
As we headed for the door, Mrs. Broflofski’s voice echoed from the living room, “Oh hi Stan! So nice to see you, I hope you’re feeling better.”
I turned and gave a tight smile, “Hello, thank you,”
“Tell your mom I said hi! Get home safe.” She continued.
I nodded and walked out the door, Kyle close behind me.
We climbed back into my truck, and I guess Kyle still had my keys from earlier.
We made the 10 minute drive back to my house in silence. I caught myself staring a little too hard at my old house as we drove past. I missed living basically next door to everyone.
When we pulled into the farm drive, I was hit with a wave of dread. I knew I wouldn’t be okay by myself. Suddenly all I wanted was for Kyle to stay.
Kyle parked and we just sat for a minute.
“How are you going to get home Kyle?” I asked, suddenly realizing I had an opportunity to invite him in.
“Oh, um I didn’t really think of that.” He said.
“Do you wanna come in? Maybe my mom could drive you home,” But at that moment I realized there were no other cars in the driveway and all the lights inside were off.
“Sure,” Kyle said, turning off the car and getting out.
As we walked into the empty house Kyle asked, “Where is everyone?”
“I don’t know.” I was used to being home alone most of the time, with dad out partying and mom at various men’s houses. It was better to act oblivious to her cheating.
As we approached my room, I remembered the awful state of it. Before I opened the door I warned Kyle, “It’s a mess, sorry.”
He shrugged, probably assuming it was just a normal messiness. It was much worse. As we walked in, the familiar stench of weed and cigarettes wafted in my nose. My ash tray sitting full on my windowsill, clothes askew on every possible surface, tons of cups and cans and discarded take out bags everywhere. I glanced at Kyle from the corner of my eyes and saw him trying to mask his face of disgust. I shoved a pile of clothes and whatever else from my bed and sat down, leaving room beside me for Kyle.
“I don’t know the last time I’ve been in this house,” He said carefully.
“Yeah,” was all I got out.
“I could just walk home, it wouldn’t be too bad,” Kyle offered, and stood up.
“No!” I basically screamed, I didn’t mean to sound that desperate. Kyle’s face twisted into something I didn’t recognize.
“I can clean up, my mom shouldn’t be out too much longer,” then added sheepishly, “please stay.”
Kyle nodded, “Okay. I’ll help you clean.”
“Thank you, thank you.” I repeated, relief washing over me. You don’t realize how awful it is being alone all the time until you have real company.
“Go get a trash bag.. or three,” Kyle joked.
I managed a half smile and headed downstairs into the kitchen to grab them. On the way, I saw fresh jars of weed sitting there, practically calling my name. I wonder if Kyle would smoke with me, I know he has with the guys. If I was going to clean my room, I wasn’t doing it sober. I don’t do anything sober. I grabbed a jar and trash bags and headed upstairs.
When I returned to my room, Kyle was sitting again on the bed. He saw what I was holding and immediately said, “Oh no dude, you want to smoke? Is that a good idea?”
“Yes, if you want me to be productive I’m not going to be sober. And I need something for my headache.” I responded simply. Then added, “It’s better than drinking.”
He didn’t seem to approve by the look on his face, but he also didn’t stop me.
I sat on the edge of my bed closest to the window and produced rolling paper and a lighter from beneath my bed. Kyle watched intently as I rolled a blunt. My hands seemed oddly steady now.
“Don’t your parents smell it? Or notice product missing? Or even walk in your room and see all this?” He asked worriedly.
“No.”
“How?”
Kyle was already annoying me. But I begged him to stay, so I answered. “Well this is a marijiana farm, so I don’t know if you’ve noticed but the entire place reeks of weed. And there’s so many jars of this shit everywhere that my dad won’t notice one going missing every once in a while. Also my parents don’t give a fuck about me or what I’m doing. They think I’m great, or just being difficult.”
With that, I stuck the blunt in my mouth, opened the window, and lit it. I took a big inhale, enjoying the feeling of smoke filling up my lungs entirely. I blew it all out with a sigh. This is the closest I get to deep breathing.
I glanced at Kyle, who was still staring, and held the blunt out to him. He looked unsure, but took it from my hands.
Before he brought it to his lips he said, “If I’m smoking I’m staying the night, if my mom finds out she’ll kill me.”
I chuckled and nodded okay.
He took a small hit, which still resulted in him dying coughing. He sputtered out, “I don’t understand how you do this,”
I only shrugged.
With that, we passed it back and forth, Kyle only taking a singular pussy hit each time and needing a full minute to catch his breath again. I smoked most of it, which I was more than okay with.
By the time we were finished, Kyle’s eyes were bright red and he was giggling like a little school girl. I quickly realized my mistake, and knew I would have to spend the rest of the night caring for him. I guess it was the least I could do after the day I caused him.
He found an unopened bag of Dorito’s somewhere and sat unmoving on the bed shoving them in his mouth. I pulled up Terrance and Philip on my laptop for him, and began cleaning.
I piled clothes into a laundry basket, horrendous amounts of garbage into a trash bag, and even wiped down my desk. I actually felt a little good about myself.
By the time I finished, it was almost 10pm, and Kyle was still watching the show intently. I sat down next to him, and began rolling another blunt. I deserved one after my hard work, and if I wanted to sleep. He saw what I was doing and immediately shook his head.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m not smoking anymore,” He answered, sounding scared.
I couldn’t help but laugh at him. He seemed so pathetic, like a little kid again. “Then this isn’t for you,” I replied with a chuckle and a reassuring pat on the back. He seemed to accept that answer and turned his attention back to the screen.
Just as I was about to light this one, I heard a car pulling into the driveway. My mom. I forgot about her.
Kyle heard it too and started to freak out, “HOLY SHIT DUDE I CAN’T SPEAK TO YOUR MOM LIKE THIS OH MY GOD!!!”
“It’s okay dude, you don’t have to talk to her, I’ll just go downstairs and see what’s up. She won’t even realize you’re here.” I tried to calm him down, but it wasn’t really working. Why did I think Kyle being high was a good idea?
Eventually I just told him to shut up and that I’d be right back, which seemed to work. With that I headed downstairs.
“Hi mom,” I said from the kitchen. She walked in, her make-up smeared and hair disheveled. “What happened?” I asked.
“Oh nothing sweetie, just an evening out with the girls,” She said as she pulled a wine glass out from a cabinet. Suddenly her voice became more stern and she turned to look at me, “I sent you to school today, why did the PE teacher call saying you weren’t there again?”
Why did she have to choose now to give a fuck?
“I wasn’t feeling good so I sat out of PE. I was sick today, y'know.” That wasn’t a lie. “The nurse tried calling you and dad but you didn’t pick up,” That was a lie. But she wouldn’t know.
“Oh,” was her only response before turning back around to pour a full cup of wine and collapse onto the couch. “Feel better hon,” she called out. And people wonder where I got my substance use issues from.
I just went back upstairs.
I walked back in my room to find Kyle now only in his t-shirt and boxers passed out on my bed. I sighed and pulled the covers over him, also grabbing my laptop in the process.
I left the blunt untouched on the windowsill, figuring I’d save it for the morning.
Kyle is going to insist on going to school, so I’ll need it then. I set an alarm for 7am on my phone, and headed to my dresser. I grabbed a fresh hoodie and shorts, as well as my bottle of vodka. I quickly took a swig and put it back, telling myself it’s just so I can sleep. Then I headed into the bathroom.
I pissed and changed quickly, finding myself staring at my reflection again as I washed my hands. With my sleeves rolled up, I stared at my arms too. I felt an urge to do more, and my eyes wandered to the cabinet holding my razor.
No, I can’t, Kyle is just in the next room. It would be wrong. I’m not a fucking cutter, not like those emo kids at school. I cut to kill myself, just happen to fail every time.
Every night my mind seems to wander back to the possibility of death. That’s what I’m waiting for anyways. Who cares if I die now or in 50 years, it’ll happen eventually. I won’t be scared anymore once I finally do it. One day I’ll finally cut deep enough and not wake up. Maybe that could be tonight.
But I shove the thoughts from my mind, knowing I’ll just drink more and forget about it. I can’t do that to Kyle.
I wander back into my room, ready to collapse in bed, before being reminded of the sleeping boy already there. I sigh, dig around in my dresser for extra blankets (taking another drink of vodka as I do) and make a small nest on the floor. I pass out once again.