Chapter Text
Friday at half past four, Cartman wiped out on the hill behind the mall bad enough to give the game up. He slouched home with his sled and his snow drenched hat, rubbing his sore ass and grumbling something offensive to the chilled air. Stan couldn't hear him - his ears still buzzing from the wind howling by him and his head all cottoned from the thrill of the ride. He practically screamed his enthusiasm when Kyle asked if he wanted to go down again.
They made the trek back up and the dash back down four more times before Kenny just missed cracking his head open on a parked car. Kyle sobered up sensibly, and pointed to the sun nearing the horizon.
"Kenny, wanna come round for dinner again?" he asked, beating snow off the fuzz lining his hat.
"You bet!" Kenny whooped.
"Aw man, you said you were gonna bring round that GTA bootleg," Stan whined, "Shelly's at some dumb sleepover, we've got the TV all night."
Kyle laughed. "Dude, he can just come round after dinner. Not like there's anything to do at my place on a Friday night."
"Yeah, I'll just come round after," Kenny said cheerfully, "... If I feel like it."
"C'mon man! My mom won't care — you can even take more food from our fridge."
"Don’t bribe me with handouts, man! I'll come if I feel like it."
Kenny picked up the rope of his sled and began dragging it in the direction of Kyle's house. Kyle looked over at Stan and shrugged, before tagging along behind him.
When Stan got home no one greeted him. No noise from upstairs, no bag, coat, and shoes dumped by the door - his dad was still out and his mom was probably cooking. Suited him fine. He booted up the TV and picked something to play while he waited for Kenny to come round or dinner to be ready.
Time flowed by unchecked, the room quickly darkening as the sun set fully. He only looked up when he felt his stomach churn in hunger, realising more time had passed than he thought — it was past 7:30 and still his dad wasn't home and his mom hadn't called for him to eat.
He paused his game and listened closely, catching the faint sound of chopping from the kitchen. Okay, probably not too long til food.
The front door rattled. Stan rolled his eyes and put down his controller, grumbling as he stood to open it.
“Kenny, dude,” he called, “Just knock—“
It wasn’t Kenny.
The door opened with a bang just before he reached it, narrowly missing him. His dad stumbled over the threshold, wafting in stale alcohol with him and not looking at his son as he pulled off his shoes.
“Stan!” Randy slurred, “Has mom made dinner yet?”
“Uh, no – I think she’s doing it now,” Stan said quietly.
Randy nodded, muttered something about a man and his hot meal after work, and walked on stilted sea legs into the kitchen. He slammed the door behind him, probably accidentally.
Stan sighed and went back to his game.
The voices of his parents were a muffled soundtrack as he aimlessly messed around, waiting for Kenny to show up. Distantly he recognised the beginnings of an argument from behind the closed door, but ignored it. His parents would just fight out whatever stupid issue they had till his dad got fed up and headed upstairs. No point disturbing his own life for their fucked up one, he told himself.
Until he heard something smash.
Stan jumped at the shattering sound, and immediately covered his ears as his mother screamed at his father. He paused his game again and crept hesitantly towards the door, almost reaching to open it before he heard his dad’s next hollered sentence.
“No wonder Stan’s such a coward, since he’s got such a weak bitch for a mom!”
Stan pressed up to the wall beside the door and stood frozen.
“Weak bitch?” Sharon screamed, hysterical.
“Yeah Sharon, this is taking the easy way out!”
He heard his mom scoff, cold malice in the short noise. His lungs felt twisted.
“You think this is easy for me? My mother told me not to marry you, and I have to tell her she was right. Again ."
Stan’s blood felt cold running through his limbs. His empty stomach turned over on itself, sickening origami.
Another divorce.
“I cook for you, I clean for you, I take your kids to every event,” Sharon was still ranting, voice beginning to tremble dangerously, “I tell them you’re fine, but you’re an alcoholic! I make excuses for you, I- I let you touch me— I’m sick of you , Randy, and I’m sick of being your wife when I don’t even want to look at you!”
She was screaming again by the end, the sound piercing through Stan. A droning started up in his ears, a pumping noise as he distantly heard his dad spluttering indignantly.
Another divorce.
The fight raged on, each thrown insult barely registering to Stan as he stared ahead at the opposite wall– the front door his dad has stumbled through– the ratty couch he’d been playing on– the picture on the side table of his whole, soon-to-be-split, pitiful little family—
The door to the kitchen whizzed open, missing Stan by inches again, and once more Randy stumbled through it. He didn’t seem to notice his son — he just charged to the front door, grabbing his bag, coat, and shoes. He slammed the door behind him, forceful. Intentional.
Stan was still frozen in place against the wall, now breathing heavily.
He could hear his mom crying softly in the kitchen.
The pause screen on his game glowed blue through the room.
Sharon sobbed heavily.
It could have been two minutes, it could have been twenty, but eventually she flicked off the kitchen light and walked out to stagger, bawling, up the stairs. She either didn’t see Stan through her tears or ignored him, leaving only the sound of her footsteps ascending then trudging heavily across the floor above. Another slammed door.
The bang seemed to suddenly unfreeze Stan, left him feeling unsteady on his feet like his parents, and he wandered into the dark empty kitchen. His eyes were blurring as he took in the cold remains of the argument — a shattered wine glass on the tiles, chopped carrots abandoned halfway through, an oven fully preheated, a pot of peas removed from the stove and turning cold.
A pile of papers on the table. A pen poised to be signing them.
Another divorce.
In a cupboard beneath the sink, he pushed aside stacks of rat poison and detergent and pulled out the bottle of whiskey Randy had stashed there. It was opened of course — all the booze in the house was doomed to slowly disappear. Maybe if he drank enough of the stuff, Stan could too.
The bottle didn’t seem to last very long. It left him swimming, lying stationary on the frigid floor washed by the blue light from his paused game in the next room. The blackness encroaching. He stared at the ceiling.
We’re gonna move away again. They’re gonna take me away. No sledding. No walking home. No bus stop. No family dinners. No holidays.
His neck felt stiff, though he could swear his brain was being flung around the room.
I’m not gonna live next to Kyle.
The ceiling was blurry. Alcohol? Was he crying?
Everything felt urgent and time wasn’t moving.
I’m not gonna live next to Kyle.
It all began to muddle in his mind: images of Kyle and images of his parents laughing together and the day at the Photo Dojo immortalised in a frame in the front room and his birthday and his room and Shelly’s room and sleepovers and car trips; horrible visions of embarrassment at his dad, soft memories of his mom’s hugs, water running cold in the shower and the deep disappointment in both their eyes at his every move; a sign was flashing it’s over it’s over it’s over and some alarm was blaring pain signals down his spinal cord and where could he run? Would his legs even work? Where was his mom and why wasn’t she holding him, hugging him— couldn’t she fix this? Stop it before it happens? Why did he do this to his family? What did he do?
Why am I like this? Why am I this way?
Could the universe throw up? It felt like it was about to throw up.
Tap tap tap.
His senses picked up a sound and delivered it dutifully to his cortex, which tried desperately to decipher it and only came up with “knock.”
After a beat, another sound was delivered and the output came back as “rattling door.”
Door. Kitchen door. Back door. Person at back door.
Oh fuck. Dad’s back.
He felt his throat sob and his dry eyes squeeze shut tight, but his limbs wouldn’t move, couldn’t run, didn’t work.
He held still and waited for his dad to walk in.