𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Stan’s 18th birthday has arrived. Like the others, it doesn’t feel special—but at least he has you, right?
𝗖𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: Stan-centric; angst; alcoholism; depression; underage drinking; minor suicidal ideation
First ever oneshot! Written for day 6 of Stan Week 2025—Happy Birthday, Stan! ♡
Adulthood was something Stan had a hard time getting a clear image of. He didn’t know where it came from—how it developed. He wasn’t sure if it was a feeling or characterized by behaviors, including taxes and a mortgage. Despite these things, he wasn’t paranoid or anxious about the future. Eighteen was young. He was still young and had time to adjust to his ‘new’ self. After all, he still lived with his mom and dad. Even Shelley—who was turning twenty-one next month—still lived with their parents.
Stan was confused. He still had the rest of his senior year left, yet he had no plans of going to college. When asked by his mother before heading to the bus stop, he would simply respond with a quick “I don’t know” and proceed on with his breakfast, not missing the glimpse of concern behind her worn eyes. His dad didn’t care, of course, he didn’t. Stan figured it was hard for Randy to care about anything nowadays besides his latest high jinks. There was no denying the disconnect between his father and the rest of the family. Stan didn’t care if they could be closer.
Today was his eighteenth birthday. He had no desires, no wishes, only the growing urge to self-isolate. Stan awoke to the blaring sound of his alarm clock, its red numbers flashing repeatedly. It was obnoxious. His groggy eyes shifted to his nightstand. Why do I still have this thing?
He faintly pressed the black button on top to cease the noise before rolling over on his left side, dragging the old duvet over his back once again. His tired eyes adjusted to the morning light shining in through the cracks of the navy blue curtains. It wasn’t bright, but it was enough to alert the boy that it was a new day.
Stan groaned at the realization. With his right hand, he reached for his phone, tapping it to expose the date and time. 10:30, October 19th. Fuck. As if he didn’t already know it was his birthday. Stan dropped his phone behind his back, not ready to make contact with the outside world. He had already caught a glimpse of a few text notifications from his friends. In his fleeting glance at the time, he could see Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman’s contact names splayed across the dimly lit screen. Most importantly, he saw yours.
You had always been a comfort to Stan. His partner. Closing his eyes again, he thought of you. Fond memories from when you first got together swarmed his head—when you went on dates, goofed off in class, and cheered for him at his soccer games. The once prevalent memories were now clouded. All of that happened years ago.
You and Stan started dating in your freshman year of high school. Thinking back, you were both so young, too young for a relationship, Stan thought. Although it ended up working out. You were still together after almost five years. That’s a long time for a kid.
The relationship began when he was going through a rough patch. When wasn’t he going through a rough patch?
Wendy had just broken up with him—again. Their relationship wasn’t serious. At least, Stan didn’t take it seriously; that was his fault. He hadn’t regarded Wendy as important since the fourth grade. She wasn’t a good girlfriend, but she was all he knew at the time. Being ten years old in a relationship sounded ridiculous. It was ridiculous. Who in South Park Elementary normalized long-term partnerships, and why was he, of all people, a victim of one? Regardless, Stan had to acknowledge what he and Wendy had shared on and off throughout most of their childhood—‘dating,’ as they used to call it. If he didn’t, the long-haired girl would be sure to give him an earful.
You were completely different from her. Even though your relationship had begun when you were young, fourteen to be exact, you were never frivolous. Stan made you a priority, and that was something Wendy could have only dreamed of being.
Your relationship was good, stable, and predictable. It was just what Stan needed at the time—even more so when he started feeling sadder than usual.
It’s not something he liked to think—more or less talk about—but it couldn’t be escaped. Stan’s depression had persisted since he was ten. It came in waves; a particularly big one had sprung up, invading everyone’s lives at the start of sophomore year. At the time, he thought depression was something he had gotten over, never to return again. He thought his dad’s stash of liquor bottles in the cabinet would serve only as a temporary remedy for his spirit. Stan didn’t even realize he was struggling mentally until his mom forced him to see a psychiatrist when he was fifteen.
Therapy became a habit. Stan never seemed to have anything to share with the unfortunate individual whom he was assigned to. He had strongly preferred to just pick up his meds and go, skipping the seemingly useless conversation. He didn’t need this. If he ever felt truly bad again, he could just talk to you, right?
Stan’s supposed perpetual slumber hadn’t lasted long before he heard a quiet knock at the wooden door separating his sanctuary from the hallway outside. He could tell it was his mom—the only one who bothered to knock.
“Hey, sweetie!” she called from beyond the threshold. “Happy birthday!”
Stan knew she wouldn’t enter without permission. He rolled to his right to face the door. “Thanks, mom!” he called back.
“Can I come in?” Sharon asked. Stan let out a soft groan, rolling his eyes before scolding his annoyance. This was his mother, the most supportive family member he had. Yet here he lazily rested, agitated by her good parenting.
“Yeah, give me a sec.” Stan sat up and combed his fingers through the greasy hair to get the tangles out. He scrubbed the tiredness from his lethargic eyes and smoothed out his ragged band t-shirt. The bed creaked as he rose. Walking to the door, he straightened his black and red plaid pajama pants, making a mental note to tie the string a little tighter.
The bedroom door opened to reveal the shorter woman wearing a soft smile on her face. Stan returned the gesture before his face settled back into its usual emotionless look.
“Hi, honey,” she raked her lithe fingers through his grown-out bangs, “ how do you feel?”
It was almost as if he were sick, the way her saccharine voice enveloped him whole. “Good.” The succinct response earned a sympathetic nod from the woman.
“Excited for tonight?” She tried to keep her hopes up.
Oh, yeah. Stan had almost forgotten the unsettling event scheduled downstairs later that evening: a party. He wished he could skip it, cancel it, unsend every invitation, but he couldn’t do that to his mother. She was the one who organized everything.
“Yeah, should be fun.” His hands found solace in the loose pockets of his pajama bottoms.
This was starting to get awkward. Stan didn’t want to talk anymore, so he settled upon leaning against the doorframe while his mom's worn eyes took in his disheveled appearance. Every interaction took up far too much mental stamina. It was embarrassing, really. He used to have the ability to talk for hours—never to his mom—but to his friends—to you. He was pathetic.
“Alright, baby. I’ll leave you to get ready.” Sharon sighed, straining a pitiful smirk before disappearing to her shared bedroom.
Did she hate him? Stan already knew the answer was no, but the feeling lingered stubbornly. He felt guilty for the pain he had indirectly caused. Though his mother would never admit it, Stan had convinced himself that the bags under her eyes were his fault.
He didn’t want to get ready; if the party was tonight, he still had roughly five remaining hours to rot in bed. That should be enough time to get some sleep before dealing with his friends tonight. Unless his mother had plans for him this morning, Stan pushed the thought away as soon as it came. Often, Sharon wanted “mother-son bonding time” on his birthday—usually meaning shopping for party decorations and trying on new clothes at department stores. He put up with it but was most excited to get home and play video games with the guys on call. When was the last time he’d played with them?
Stan trudged back to his bed, flopping down face-first on the mattress. He pried his heavy head up from the softness to look toward his phone. Its dull light was glowing, signaling another notification. Guess it’s time to start the day after all.
Stan lifted the phone close to his face, scrolling through the notifications on his lock screen. His Face ID ensured that various “Happy Birthday!” texts appeared without him even opening the messages app. In truth, he was surprised at how many people texted him this early. The first was you, at 12:00 AM, right on the dot. “Happy birthday, Stan! I love you so much <3,” it read. You were too good for him.
Stan was awake at midnight. For some reason, he couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t on his phone, but it lay beside him in its usual spot, the ringer on. He heard the notification, picked up his phone, and saw your message. Staring blankly at the screen, he flipped the phone over, hiding it faced down on the sheets.
Before reading the other messages, Stan opened yours, bringing up the app where he would type his grateful reply. “Thanks, ilyt,” he typed, glanced over it, then pressed the blue arrow to send. Time to check everyone else’s.
The messages came in from Kyle, Kenny, Butters, Cartman, and... Uncle Jimbo. Stan’s eyes widened when he saw his uncle’s name pop up so early in the morning. Although he hadn’t heard from Jimbo last year, these days his uncle was one of his closest friends. After school, Stan often stopped by the gun store just to avoid going home. He wanted to be left alone, but sometimes found himself having decent conversations with Uncle Jimbo and Ned.
“Happy birthday to my favorite nephew! Thanks for keeping me company at the shop.” That was an unexpected message. Stan half-heartedly typed a reply and sent it.
Now to his friends. Kyle’s 12:03 message read, “Happy 18th birthday, Stan! Sorry, I was a few minutes late.” Cool.
“Happy birthday, big boy!” Kenny wrote, followed by multiple sunglasses emojis.
“Hey, Stan! I know we don’t talk much anymore, but I remembered that your birthday is today, and I just wanted to say happy birthday :) Looking forward to seeing you later! Have a great day!” Butters was too sweet for this world. Seriously, how had he remained so unbothered throughout all the years of being made fun of? Stan regretted how he treated his little friend; he’d have to properly make amends one day.
Cartman’s sarcastic birthday message read, “hbd oldie, get up and put those leg muscles to use today, yeah?” Classic Cartman.
His friends never really changed. In some ways, that brought him comfort. In others, he noticed subtle differences in his childhood companions. They had grown—not just physically—but matured whilst staying true to themselves. The boys held onto their personalities; they hadn’t undergone any drastic transformations that weren’t for the better. Looking at the young men they had become, Stan couldn’t help but feel a bittersweet mix of nostalgia and self-pity.
After replying to every message he’d received so far, Stan shoved his phone into his pocket and stepped out of his room. He had to go downstairs—he didn’t want to risk running into his father, but knew it was inevitable. Normally, the sweet aroma of waffles would greet him each morning, strong enough to fill the hallway as soon as he opened his door. Today, though, that sugary scent was noticeably absent, leaving him puzzled.
As he descended the staircase, his stomach growled, drawing the attention of his sister on the couch. She craned her neck to watch him, sizing him up from head to toe. Even she can see it.
“Happy birthday, turd,” Shelley called up the steps, turning back toward her phone. It wasn’t like her to be outside her room—something they had in common. Stan would be lying if he said he wasn’t dumbfounded by his sister's birthday regards. He was anticipating being ignored as always.
“Thanks.” He kept his eyes locked on her as he made his way to the kitchen—just in case she decided to chuck a slipper at him or something. Shelley never lost her edge, that was for sure.
His parents were absent from the kitchen—thank God. Unfortunately, that also meant no breakfast. Eggo waffles it is.
Stan opened the freezer beside the fridge. A wave of icy air hit his skin, making him feel more alive than he had in a long time. He breathed it in. Refreshing—the plasticky smell of frost. His eyes locked onto the bright yellow box. Stan brushed off the thin layer of rime coating it, then pulled the cold, waxy cardboard into his hands. The short walk to the counter left his fingers red from the chill. He set the box down and waited for the toaster to heat up before dropping the stiff frozen circles in.
As he added the first waffle, his mom snuck up behind him, “Oh, you’re hungry?” she gasped faintly. Stan jumped, turning around to look at her.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I would’ve made you something. I didn’t think you’d be hungry. You usually skip breakfast.” Sharon walked over to the coffee machine, pouring hot liquid into the mug she’d been carrying.
“It’s fine, Mom. I just wanted something small.” The waffles popped up in time to avoid further conversation.
Stan hastily reached for them, flinging the hot disks onto a paper plate. He grabbed the maple syrup from the cabinet and poured it over the waffles. A fork was snatched from the drawer before he shut it, his footsteps quick as he made his way to the dining table.
Stan felt a pang of guilt. He didn’t want to avoid his mom—she hadn’t done anything wrong. Quite the opposite, really. She was a good mom, always trying her best. But it never seemed to be enough for him. He knew he was high-maintenance, exhausting. Loving him was work—always give, never take. Draining.
Stan couldn’t ponder a reason why you would feel any differently. You were always taking care of him, conforming to his routine of exhaustion. Was love worth it?
Stan only managed to take a single bite of his soaked waffle before spiraling into thought. Unbeknownst to him, the one who so often plagued his thoughts was now approaching the front door, offering a soft, repetitive knock. Stan didn’t react—too lost in his own thoughts to care.
Shelley groaned as she stood up and walked to the door. She was the closest, so it shouldn’t have been a big deal. When she opened it, the bright blue sky spilled into the house, sunlight streaming in and landing directly on Stan’s face.
There you were. Bathed in sunlight, you looked ethereal—like an angel. You always did. But now, more than ever, Stan felt certain: you were his saving grace.
“Hi, Shelley!” Your voice rang through the house. “Is Stan still here?” You peered over her shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of your boyfriend.
“He’s always here,” Shelley mumbled before turning from the door, leaving it ajar for you to come in behind her.
Your eyes traced the room, eventually settling on Stan. Your entire expression lit up at the sight of him. “There’s the birthday boy!” You ran up to give him a peck on the cheek, “What’ve you been up to, sleepy?”
Your warm hands caressed his short black hair; he couldn’t help but lean into the touch. “Nothing. Just eating.” You looked down at the crispy waffles on his plate.
“Looks good.” You were unsure of what else to say. You pulled up a chair next to him. Your knees bumped together at the slightest shift.
“I was wondering if you wanted to go to the party store to get decorations for tonight.” You analyzed his facial expressions, knowing he wanted to say no. Stan didn’t enjoy going anywhere lately—always preferring his room.
“Yeah, sure.” He forced a smile and tried to meet your eyes, resisting the urge to push his waffles around in the gooey syrup.
“Great! After you’re done eating, you can get dressed, and we can go.” He caught the slight flash of pity behind your smile. You were sweet, too sweet for your own good.
Stan wished you were fed up with his bullshit so you could move on instead of staying trapped with him. He didn’t feel like a boyfriend—he felt like a sinner, dragging an angel down from heaven to earth. It sounded corny to even consider, but it was true.
“I’m done,” Stan muttered, pushing back his chair, making his way to the trash can. He stopped to look back at you, “Do you want the rest?”
“You only ate like a bite.” You blinked at the full plate, hoping for an explanation of some sort before continuing when you didn’t receive one, “No, I’m good.”
Stan threw the paper plate and its contents away, climbing the stairs to his room. You followed without another word.
His room was cluttered. Clothes were strewn across the floor, empty drink cans and bottles littered his desk and nightstand, and band posters hung loosely on the walls, barely held up by old Scotch tape that looked like it could give out at any moment. You hadn’t realized how long it had been since you were in his room. You barely saw him outside of school; he always made up a reason to go home as soon as possible. “Sorry about the mess,” Stan commented, facing his closet.
You uncomfotably moved to sit on his bed, continuing to peer around the room and take in as much as possible before you left. Who knew when you’d be back?
Stan scavenged his closet for a shirt. He settled on an old band t-shirt, like the one he was already wearing, but reserved for the public eye. You noted it was slightly less stained than the one he currently wore. Pulling the shirt from over his head, he threw it beside where you sat to be worn again tonight after the party was over. He slung on the new tee and moved to the dresser to grab some ripped, oversized blue jeans to put on.
You silently observed him. He was pasty—looked thinner, too. You weren’t stupid; you knew what this meant. It had happened before, it never ended, really, not for long enough to see a positive growth. You loved Stan with your entire being. This included his depressive episodes. You’d never even considered breaking up with him. You weren’t on-and-off like he was with Wendy. You were steady—consistent. You kept each other safe.
Something in the corner of your eye pulled your attention away. Your gaze shifted from Stan to the far side of the bed—seven empty alcohol bottles, neatly lined up. Different kinds. They were hidden well enough that you wouldn’t have seen them from the doorway; you had to be inside the room to notice. They hadn’t been there the last time you visited. Last time… how long had it been? Months, probably.
“Have you been drinking?” Your voice came out sharper than you meant it to—almost offended, like you’d just been betrayed. You didn’t intend to let your emotions slip, but they did.
“No?” Stan looked confused. When he glanced behind him and realized what you saw, his expression shifted.
“Those are old,” he said quickly. “They were in my closet. I moved them out here to make room for my guitar.” He wished he could drink. God, he wished he could numb it all. But he was miserably sober—for the sake of his mental health, or so they said. A cause he found himself caring less about with each passing day.
“Oh, they weren’t here last time...” you trialed off. “You ready to go?” You perked up again, like a switch had gone off, snapping you back to your usual self.
“Yeah.” Stan led you from his room and down the stairs like he had so many times before. It felt off this time, like everything inside him had gone stagnant. He wondered if you felt it too.
The party store was only a five-minute walk away from the neighborhood. Everyone felt so close in South Park. All the houses beside his were occupied by others he attended school with. It felt crowded, no matter the picket fences that distinguished their properties.
You took his hand in yours as you walked through the bright autumn day. It shouldn’t be this sunny in fall, Stan thought, holding your hand in a light grasp. It seemed like he couldn’t do anything without comparing things to how they used to be. You two used to go on walks often, no matter the weather. You’d swing your enclasped hands and talk about literally everything while circling the block. Stan thought fondly of the past. The days when it was just you both doing random shit around town were his favorites.
His friends reminded him of childhood. Times he would cherish forever. You reminded him of high school, a chapter that was soon coming to a close. Unlike the others, you weren’t just a memory; he prayed he was capable enough to carry you with him when he left. He hoped he’d be strong when the time came to leave everything else behind.
However, Stan doubted he’d be moving on anytime soon, despite the longing. He used to be desperate to make something of himself beyond South Park; now, he barely recognized the fire that once ignited him. Desire, passion, ambition—it was all lost somewhere.
Maybe it was after he finished an entire sixty-ounce bottle of vodka in a few days for the first time. Maybe it was when his dad screamed that his band would never be successful. Maybe it was after his parents first split, when he moved away with his mom and sister, being told that sometimes you have to settle for what you’re used to, even when the desire for it is gone. Or maybe it was lost somewhere on the walk home from school, when the breeze hit his face just right.
Before he knew it, the party store had appeared in front of him. Your hands were still intertwined, pushing open the double doors.
“Okay, what were you thinking? Do you have a theme you want to go for?” You let go of his hand to fidget with a rubber Halloween mask.
“No, just like typical party stuff, I guess.” He replied, following you down the aisle. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting a bluish glow over the party favors. The dull, vibrating hum grew louder the longer he wandered the aisles. The shop was empty—no one at the front checkout, either.
“Let’s just grab some balloons, ribbons, and stuff for food,” Stan said hurriedly, snatching up anything colorful he could find. You noticed his rush and quickly grabbed some paper plates that read “Happy Birthday” in bold letters, along with matching napkins and plastic confetti-patterned silverware.
“How are we going to pump the balloons?” You called to him from a different aisle across the store, unsure of where he had gone.
“I have a thingy at the house for that,” Stan spoke.
“Oh, let's get these!” You rushed to find him, bouncing up and down on your heels. You showed him a bag of blowing dragon whistles. God, those things are annoying.
“Yeah, sure.” Stan turned away to head toward the cash register.
Your smile faltered, following behind him. You made sure to snatch up some party hats on the way to checkout. Despite his mood, you were going to try to make this party as enjoyable as possible for him in any way you could.
The cashier eventually emerged from the back office after a few seconds of standing at the counter, loading it with all the goodies collected from today’s outing.
“Hi,” you smiled at the deadpan cashier, but he didn’t reciprocate.
“Find everything?” The fellow teen inquired monotonously.
“Yep.” You were notably less energetic.
This trip felt bland. It was supposed to be an excuse to spend time with Stan, but he seemed uninterested in the whole thing. You couldn’t help but wonder what he did outside of school—these days, that was the only place you ever saw him. He’d been skipping lately, too—providing you with no information.
Alone in your room, you would ponder if he was even on course to graduate anymore. The last time you spoke, he mentioned being behind on schoolwork. You didn’t spot any papers on his desk.
“Thanks, man,” Stan retrieved the plastic bags full of supplies.
Typically, his mom would gather supplies, adding an element of surprise to the experience. He used to get stoked on the idea of staying up late in his room while his mom decorated the entire downstairs for him. Stan would be bouncing around on FaceTime with Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman. They always acted excited, too, hyping up the “special event” happening later that day.
There was something about a party in the evening that made them feel grown-up. It felt cooler than the usual daytime stuff. Kenny would always say something about how it was practice for the college parties he’d go to when he was older.
Cartman would shoot back, “You’re too poor to even get into college, Kenny. What parties are you talking about?”
Kenny would cuss him out, insisting, “You don’t have to be in college to go to college parties, dumbass. You just sneak in.”
Kyle would just shake his head at both of them, always the reluctant voice of reason.
Anyway, Stan planned to pay for this year’s party supplies himself—give his mom a break. He hadn’t mentioned it to her, but he figured she’d appreciate the gesture when he walked through the door, arms full.
Departing from the store, Stan was once again silent. You carried a couple of bags, looking over at him occasionally as you walked down the sidewalk.
Unable to shake your concern, you asked, “So, how have you been? I feel like we haven’t talked in a while.” You tried to stay upbeat for him.
“I’m doing the same as always.” Stan’s head faced forward to concentrate on the path in front of him. “We talk every day.”
You sighed, “We don’t actually talk much, just do check-ups.”
“That’s the most I’ve spoken to anyone lately, it’s not just you.” Stan was blunt.
It was difficult for you to justify his words in your head. You wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt since he was going through it, but did he hear himself right now?
“We’re together, though. I want you to know that I’ll be here for you no matter what.” You were serious.
Looking over at him, you only saw a shell of the boy you loved.
“I know, thank you for putting up with me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
You were expecting some sort of argument to break out. You didn’t want to fight, but still couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just pushing the bigger issue further down the line.
Stan could manage ignoring the elephant in the room. He wasn’t half as bothered as you; he just wanted to go home—get today over with.
His childhood house finally came into view, and he was overcome with relief. He couldn’t wait to get away from the cloud of tension trailing down the sidewalk.
Stan walked ahead of you to the door. He hesitated before twisting the knob, waiting for you to catch up behind him. When he deemed you were close enough, he turned to open the door. Home sweet home.
“Oh, where’d you guys go?” Sharon’s head rose to look up at your arrival.
The smell was warm inside the house, with hints of vanilla and sugar. It wasn’t a coincidence; Sharon was baking Stan’s birthday cake, peeking inside the oven through the glass one last time. His mother moved to sit on the couch.
“We bought decorations and stuff.” You grinned; you weren’t one to sugar-coat your feelings, but you felt you had to for their sake.
You placed the plastic bags you were carrying on the coffee table, Stan following suit with his.
Sharon’s expression changed to one of sudden revelation, “Oh, you’re so sweet! I totally forgot about decorations. I was too busy with the cake.” She had batter lightly smeared on her cheek.
“That’s fine, you were doing something already. I can help decorate now if you’d like.” You offered, digging into the bags to pull out all the party supplies.
“That’d be great, thank you.” Sharon rose from the couch, meeting you at the table in front of her.
Stan stood awkwardly by the doorway. What was he about to do again?
He noticed Shelley was gone, probably retreated into her room. That’s what he was about to do.
Stan felt a familiar urge to help with the decorating, just as he had in years past. It wasn’t strong enough to sway him this time. Without a word, he turned to make his way up the stairs.
Before he could even take his first step up, your head snapped at the sound of shifting feet behind you.
“Stan,” He’d been caught and would most likely be forced to descend down the steps he didn’t even get the chance to come in contact with, “after I’m done decorating, I’m going to swing home real quick to change for tonight.”
You really were an angel, so patient with him. “Alright, I’ll see you later. I’m going to take a nap.” Why are you with me? Stan disputed over and over in his mind.
Simply nodding at him, you ripped open the package of party streamers. He just woke up a few hours ago.
Stan trudged up to his room, plopping down on his soft bed. He cozily curled up in his blankets, taking hold of the stuffed animal his father got him as a child.
Dad... where was he? He hadn’t seen or heard from him all day, and it was past noon. His birthday fell on a Saturday this year. Maybe his father spent all night at the bar again and was passed out somewhere. Stan considered the various possibilities as he drifted off to sleep.
Downstairs, you and Sharon got to work on the living room and kitchen. “Okay, let's start by moving the couch over by the door.” Sharon used hand gestures to indicate her layout plan. “Then, we can move the coffee table out of the way to make room for the dining table and chairs in the center of the living room.”
You had almost forgotten she used to have a home renovation show with Randy.
Where was Randy? You and Sharon took either side of the couch, lifting it effortlessly and setting it down where she directed. You’d always admired Sharon and her work ethic. Most of the time, she was calm, caring, and level-headed. The only times you ever saw her angry or stressed were when her husband was in her ear, spouting off ideas. She always showed up for her family—that’s what they counted on.
Next, the dining room table was carefully moved over the soft carpet of the living room, positioned in front of the television. Chairs were arranged neatly around the rectangular table. Sharon took her time weaving streamers through the open spaces in the backs of the chairs. A "Happy Birthday" banner was hung on both sides of the wall, and a strip of holographic fringe was pinned above the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.
You made small talk over the steady hum of the electric balloon pump, its whine filling the room as balloon after balloon inflated. You hoped Stan wouldn’t wake up from the noise.
You tried to hold back your question, but curiosity got the better of you.
“Where’s Randy?” you asked, glancing up at Sharon as you turned off the pump—each balloon nearly stretched to its limit.
The woman looked to the ceiling as if she were asking it the same thing, “I don’t know.” Her sarcastic words spewed.
“You’d think he would show up to his son’s birthday, but he’s not here. Hasn’t been since yesterday.” Sharon threw her hands up in frustration as if it wasn’t typical behavior from her husband.
“He’ll probably show up later.” You reassured, standing up from the floor.
You felt a sense of accomplishment as you scanned the decorated room. It looked great. You hoped Stan would like it, wishing that everything would go smoothly tonight.
“At this point, maybe it’s for the best that he doesn’t,” Sharon spoke, walking past the fringe doorway into the kitchen.
As soon as she crossed the threshold, a phone alarm went off. “Oh, the cake should be done.” She peered down into the lit oven. The cake had already risen, its golden top just peeking over the edge of the pan. Time to decorate.
You rested against the door frame, watching as she carefully pulled the gray pan from the oven with a bulky mitt encompassing her hand. She set it down on a baking rack, closing the door to the hot chamber with a swing of the hip.
“Oh, dear. I don’t want to keep you here waiting around on me. Everything's taken care of, sweetie. Thanks for helping. Stanley’s lucky to have you.” She said to you, facing away to fan the cake with her mitt.
You took it as your cue to head back to your place and get ready. “You’re welcome.” You hesitated, wanting to ask her a final question before your departure home, “Is Stan alright? "I know he has his ups and downs... but something about this time feels different. Maybe I’m just overthinking?"
Sharon halted, leaning against the counter so that should could face you, “I hope he’s alright. He doesn’t really talk to me, but he’s usually gloomy around his birthday. That’s probably it.”
You nodded, brushing off your worry. The words were coming from his mother, someone who knew him, probably better than you did. For your sanity, you had to believe them.
The conversation ended, and you retreated home. You still had a couple of hours until the party started. With nothing better to do, you put on your best outfit. Deeming it perfect for the occasion.
You wondered if Stan was still asleep. He seemed so tired lately. Granted, the blue-eyed boy always appeared drained during a depressive episode. Was he taking his meds? Could that possibly be why he seemed off?
Groaning, you shoved your throbbing head into your hands, craddling your skull in frustration. All you could do was hope he was taking care of himself. Trusting that if he needed any kind of support, he would come to you.
The lucious orange sky cast a soft glow on the drosy boy through the curtains' gap. Stan’s eyes fluttered open; he squinted at the sun making its way past the protective barrier of the curtains to his eyes. His unsteady hands reached across the bed for his phone, checking the time. 5:00, geez, how long had it been?
It was almost time for his yearly in-person check-up with everyone. For the first time in a year, he felt the urge to scream aloud into his pillow. It was good, though. That he could muster up that much emotion. Draining every feeling out through noise, he couldn’t quite understand. It would all build up again over the course of the year, only to spill out once more—just in time for his special day.
Stan didn’t bother to change clothes like you did; he couldn’t fathom having enough energy to zoom around like you did. God, he sounded pathetic, and he was making you out to be the crazy one when it was all him. Nonetheless, he needed you; he doubted the sentiment was reciprocated.
His phone let out a quiet ding, breaking through the solitude of the teenager's bedroom. It was Kyle. His best friend. Stan had almost forgotten about him today; it was unusual. Kyle usually took up a considerable chunk in his mind, probably not for good reasons. If he were being honest, his feelings for Kyle shifted long ago. Stan felt bound to Kyle and the others for life, a feeling that once brought him consolation. That despite everything, he would always have his friends.
Now, Stan felt as if Kyle was a massive weight tied to his ankle, being pulled in the opposite direction. With every stretch or exertion, he felt himself coming undone, swept away like grains of sand by the wind. Kyle was everything; he always had been. Stan was devalued into nothing.
There was once a time when Stan wanted Kyle to be his friend and sought his approval. That was before he realized change could be a good thing, that people could mutually grow apart, and that it was okay. Kyle didn’t want to be around Stan when he was a child, developing poor coping mechanisms. Stan didn’t want to dwell around someone who couldn’t understand him. The young boys didn’t move on; they were intertwined. As they got older, Kyle finally understood what Stan was going through; he felt bad for not keeping in touch for months at the beginning of middle school. Stan didn’t hold it against him; he couldn’t seem to care—always fantasizing about a life where his parents stayed separated. Too bad depression was kicking his ass, or he might’ve done something about it.
His mother's beliefs stuck with him. “Stick with what you’re used to.” “Settle.”
The words were etched behind Stan’s eyelids as he tossed and turned in the darkness of his room. He still loved Kyle—but he didn’t need him anymore. He didn’t need Cartman or Kenny; they went along with Kyle at first anyway. It wasn’t their fault; they didn’t know what caused their friend’s cynical behavior, and they were only nine, he was ten.
That was a long time ago—and a lot has happened since. They all eventually understood and were there when Stan needed them.
Throughout everything, the boys stuck together. But instead of growing apart, they twisted around each other like thorns on a bush. Stan felt suffocated—like every time he tried to move, a thorn grazed his neck, ready to draw blood.
“We’re about to head over, you ready?” His best friend’s text read.
Stan could hear multiple voices downstairs. The sound tore through his eardrums. It all felt ten times louder than it actually was. His perception had been off. He was so tired. The front door unlatched every few minutes.
His mom's voice was distinguishable in the crowd, the tone of her voice providing much-needed assurance to finally rise from the edge of the bed. Her laugh was warm, a melody of melancholy soothing him, causing him to shiver.
Stan dragged his feet toward the fateful door, holding a weak grasp on the handle. Mid-turn, he heard a new voice rupture throughout the living room, which made everything else seem meaningless.
His father’s voice shattered any plans he had made of leaving this room with even a little dignity. Stan found himself lost in another trance; the floor felt shaky.
If the carpet underneath him had decided it wanted to swallow him and descend him into some kind of purgatory, he wouldn’t fight it. He felt nauseous, his head was spinning. A familiar ache crept up his neck. He tried to focus on the one thing he still had—you.
You were here; you were probably the first to arrive. He’d run downstairs into your arms, the world would vanish behind him as you both ran out of this house—out of this town together. South Park was a curse; everyone was leaving just like they’d promised as kids.
Stan’s eyes crowded with tears he wouldn’t let fall. He scrubbed them, regretting not putting on a woolly sweater this morning that he could hide in.
The knob twisted like his gut; the door was open. He could see the dim lights downstairs, flickering from candles. Get through it, he told himself.
Before he even made it to the top of the stairway, he heard his parents' spiteful exchange.
“Look what I brought!” Randy called to the crowd. A few cheers were heard. He had always been performative—the life of the party.
“Where have you been?” His mom tried to subdue her anger, clenching her teeth in a scowl.
His dad muttered something unintelligible, clearly disinterested, and squeezed past his wife to chat with a few friends instead.
“Stephen’s here!” Randy slung his arm around the man.
Stan hoped he wasn’t drunk.
Finally, he made his way slowly down the steps, hoping to slip past the large crowd unnoticed.
Why was everyone and their mom here anyway? He didn’t talk to half of these people. He guessed it was his fault for not clarifying that he just wanted a small hangout with you and his friends, or nothing at all.
Unfortunately for Stan, the creaky stairs betrayed his trust.
He caught the eyes of everyone standing around in the living room. They all faced him. A brief silence fell over the room as they fumbled, unsure of what to do. It was as if they’d forgotten everything they had rehearsed. Their eyes darted back and forth between one another before finally settling on Stan. Then, in unison, they began to sing.
“Happy birthday to you!” This was the worst part of every year. Where everyone stared at him, mindlessly singing. He especially hated when his gaze would trail over everyone and catch a few pairs of eyes analyzing him, judging him, looking at him with love; all of it was too much.
“Happy birthday to you!” Stan found his dad, who was singing louder than the rest. It was the first time he’d seen him since yesterday afternoon. Why was he singing louder as if he loved him? He didn’t even send a fucking birthday text. Stan couldn’t prevent his brows from furrowing.
“Happy birthday, dear Stan-” Kenny gave a small “wooohoo!” accompanied by a couple of claps, causing Stan’s focus to shift over to the left side of the room. He was glad he looked because he saw you standing with his friends. You smiled brightly as you waved to him, causing his expression to soften.
“Happy birthday to you!” The song concluded, as everyone clapped and cheered.
Stan heard the dragon whistles blowing all around him. At least he made it to the bottom of the stairs.
It was only now that he noticed the cake on the table in front of him. It was a single-layer cake, covered in white frosting with a blue trim around the base. Blueberries lined the top rim, and already-lit candles spelled out “Happy Birthday.”
Stan didn’t have time to process every guest individually before his mom came up to him, dragging him over to the table. “Stanley, come blow out your candles before they melt and get wax all over the cake.” She giggled.
Chuckles were heard in the background. Stan was forcefully plopped into the chair at the head of the table, cake centered in front of him on its pedestal.
“Oh, wait! Don’t forget the hat!” Cartman hollered, bursting through anyone in his way to get to Stan. He placed a triangular party hat on his friend’s head. The string lightly snapped against his chin, causing him to flinch.
Cartman trailed away from the table, back to where he originated.
“Oh, wait!” It was Sharon’s moment of remembrance now. Stan paused as he was about to blow out his candles. The now eighteen-year-old inwardly sighed.
“I forgot to take a picture.” His mom pulled out her phone and aimed the camera at him.“Smile, Stanley!”
Stan gave a half-hearted smile at the device. Thankfully, she was able to snap a few shots before he spotted his dad standing behind her. Their eyes met for the first time.
Randy looked guilty, scratching the back of his neck as he searched for a way to shake off the intense stare his son was giving him. His dad broke contact fast, eyes darting awkwardly to a particular area of the kitchen. This small gesture didn’t go unnoticed by the birthday boy.
“Okay, now you can blow them out, sweetie. Sorry!” Sharon backed away some, leaning against the edge of the dining room table.
Stan hastily blew out the candles. His only wish was for this party to be over soon. More clapping. He felt various hands pat his shoulders and back—he didn’t know who.
“Did you want to open your presents now, baby? Or wait?” Sharon walked over to her son, petting his untamed bedhead.
“I’ll wait.” Stan stood from the table, unsure of where he was heading first.
He supposed that he should thank you for coming, even though there was no question that you’d be in attendance. In truth, Stan was overwhelmed and needed you for support.
Sharon nodded, contemplating how she could cut the small cake into enough pieces to feed everyone. There weren’t supposed to be this many people; most of them weren’t even invited.
On his way to be beside you, Stan noticed another table against the wall with multiple pizza boxes on it. He always had pizza for his birthday; people were already helping themselves to it, slinging it onto their paper plates.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, “Hi, baby. How are you feeling now?” He could smell your sweet perfume.
“Kinda overwhelmed.” His hands fell to your lower back, softly grasping the fabric of your shirt.
“Do you want to go outside? Get some fresh air.” You suggested, pulling back to look at his bleary face.
“Maybe later,” Stan gave a tepid response, taking another look around the room. Pretty much all his classmates were here. “I should probably do some socializing first.”
“Okay, I brought your present too, forgot to mention it earlier.” You chuckled, pulling back from the hug to stretch.
“Thanks, I’ll catch up with you later.” Stan moved you aside by the waist to focus on his friend group chatting in the kitchen. They stood chatting, already holding tiny slices of cake and adorned with party hats of their own in different colors and patterns.
Cartman spotted him approaching and called out, “Birthday boy decided to grace us with his presence!”
He absentmindedly slung his left arm over Stan’s shoulder. His friends were smiling.
“How’s the crippling weight of adulthood feel on these shoulders?” Cartman roughly massaged him with one hand.
Stan couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Cartman was going to college next year. He was in shock when his bulky friend announced that he’d already been accepted somewhere. He knew Cartman was smart; he always had been, despite his grades. Cartman, however, continually chose to use his intelligence for evil. Stan wouldn’t be surprised if he became a corrupt politician.
Although it wouldn’t be fair if he didn’t take Cartman’s developed maturity into consideration. His childhood friend was still a prick, but had substantially grown up. Stan could only wish he had shown as much progress. Maybe that’s what he should have wished while huffing out his candles.
“Fuck off.” Stan mustered up enough life in him to giggle.
Stan noticed this made Kyle grin.
The thing about Kyle was that he thought he knew everything. Any small sign of Stan “getting better” would send Kyle into a sappy high—sweeter than the cake he held delicately between his thumb and the rest of his fingers. Stan appreciated the sentiment that Kyle carried for him, but it wasn’t true. Kyle thought he could spot when Stan was doing better or worse, but he couldn’t. Every smile, every laugh was exaggerated. Stan prayed Kyle would be able to read people better once he graduated from university with his bachelor's degree in psychology.
Wait, Kyle wasn’t going for psychology. What was he going for again? Stan questioned.
Fuck, Stan was a bad friend. He didn’t even remember, despite it being the only thing Kyle talked about nowadays. He then assembled the buried memory of being told that Kyle and Cartman were going to be attending the same university in Denver. Yeah, they were going to the same college. The two would often playfully bicker about it. Stan always tuned them out. Who would’ve guessed that Kyle and Cartman would become the best friends of the group? Stan wondered if it had always been that way without him realizing.
“Tell your mom she’s a good baker for me,” Kenny commented, lifting another bite of cake to his frosting-coated lips.
Stan didn’t even know where to categorize Kenny. He was the most humble and mature of the group—always had been. He preferred staying out of drama; he enjoyed doing things solo, unlike the others. Nonetheless, he always had time for his friends. Stan hardly ever opened up to anyone, but when he did, it was more often than not Kenny.
Stan didn’t know where Kenny was headed—he couldn’t quite pinpoint it. He tended not to open up as much about his life. All Stan knew at the moment was that Kenny wasn’t going to college after graduating, like him. Maybe he’d get to have more one-on-one time with his friend in the near future, if Kenny would like that.
“It is good.” Kyle’s placid voice sounded out.
“Whoa, whoa, wait a second, Kenny-” Cartman caught their attention, “gotta save room for dessert.”
A perplexed expression plastered itself across Stan’s face. He wasn’t the only one.
“This is dessert, fatass!” Kyle glared at his frenemy.
Cartman’s eyebrows raised in fake bewilderment. He jolted his head to the side to gesture at what resided on the kitchen counter, “No, that’s dessert.” He giggled.
The boys looked to the area he was motioning toward. Lo and behold, a big bottle of whiskey sat on the countertop. Not only that, a twelve-pack case of longneck bottles of beer was beside it, one already being absent from its casing.
Kyle gave Cartman the most scornful look he’d ever seen, nudging him hard in the ribs. Cartman, puzzled at first, suddenly realized what the sharp nudge was for. His eyes abruptly enlarged before clearing his throat, trying to play it off.
“So, how’ve you been? You haven’t been to school.” A flustered Cartman choked out.
Stan sighed, “I’m not stupid.”
Kyle defensively waved his hands, trying to explain. “No one said you were. I’m trying to look out for you-”
He was cut off by Stan’s incensed tone, “I don’t need to be coddled.”
“Okay.” Kyle blankly stated, trying to avoid the increased tension.
The party roared on, centered in the living room. Music blasted from the large speakers beside the television. Stan stood in the corner, making idle chat with a few classmates he hadn’t seen in ages—Tolkien, Jimmy, and Clyde.
He and Tolkien used to be kind of close, though there wasn’t much to say about where they stood now. Jimmy had been part of Crimson Dawn back when it was still operational. Clyde was just... there—sloppily eating a slice of pizza, not really contributing to the conversation.
Not that Stan was, either. As usual, he didn’t have much to say to any of them.
Jimmy’s voice drifted in the background of Stan’s thoughts as he stared ahead with a vacant expression . He was abruptly pulled from his daze by a hand gripping his wrist, dragging him toward a mostly empty corner of the room.
The others barely registered their friend being whisked away by the black-haired girl.
Stan had no idea what was happening. He glanced down to see the back of Wendy’s head, her hand tight around his wrist, tugging him to and fro. Once they reached the corner, she let go and spun around to face him.
“Uh, hi.” Stan awkwardly kicked at the floor with his mismatched, sock-covered feet.
“What’s wrong with you?” Wendy looked up at him accusingly. He did not want to deal with her right now; his social battery was almost completely empty.
Stan knew his preachy ex would be the one to drain it completely after a few sentences.
“What did I do?” Stan was annoyed; everyone was extra irritating for some reason.
The blame couldn’t all be placed on teenage angst. Was puberty over yet?
“You’re all mopey, everyone can see. What’s wrong?” Wendy’s arms crossed, waiting for a quick response that wouldn’t come.
Stan needed time to think of what to say.
This is why they didn’t work out. Like Kyle, Wendy cared too much about everything. His ex had a habit of sticking her pert nose in other people's business.
He appreciated her concern, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of skepticism about why she cared. Her intentions weren’t always pure. She was a gossip—she used to talk about him all the time to the girls when they were together. He’d found that out on his own, and when he confronted her, she insisted she wasn’t talking shit, just “sharing information.”
“Nothing, I’m enjoying my party.” Stan didn’t try to hide his sarcasm; he didn’t have time for this.
“I’m just worried about you. You’re not at school. Is it getting bad again?” She was serious; her face sympathetic.
“Yeah, it’s bad. Nothing I can do but let it pass.” Stan shrugged; he was being honest. Albeit, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life swinging through the same repeating cycles.
The answer deepened Wendy’s concerned stare, “Well, you can always talk to someone. I’m here for you, too; we’re friends.”
Stan was taken aback by her last words, “How are we friends? We haven’t spoken more than a couple of words to each other in years.”
“You won’t talk, Stan.” She retorted, her voice rising before she took a breath and calmed herself. “Please just be safe.” With that, she walked away, returning to the girls of their class.
Everyone else seemed to be having a good time. Stan was standing alone, sipping some Pepsi from the two-litre bottle beside the now-empty pizza boxes.
He wasn’t thirsty, but he’d been masking long enough to know he had to look like he was doing something if he wanted people to leave him alone—even if that meant quietly sipping soda from a red Solo cup.
The plastic cups reminded him of his first high school party in ninth grade, where he got wasted and threw up in Bebe’s bathroom sink. He recalled her screaming about the toilet being right beside him.
Speaking of drinking... Stan’s vision trailed to the familiar kitchen counter he could ever so slightly view from his hunched position in the living room.
Something other than the fringed doorway unexpectedly blocked his view. It was Butters. Guess everyone found out there was alcohol.
Butters and booze were a bad combination. Oh well, that was someone else’s problem.
From the looks of it, it wasn’t Butters' first drink. The blonde was swaying back and forth, chatting with Craig.
This could end badly. Stan figured he should redeem himself by squirming to the kitchen to help his drunk buddy.
Once in the kitchen, he made note of how much whiskey there was left. Just enough to get a buzz.
“How much did you drink, Butters?” Stan leaned on the counter, gripping the other boy’s shoulder to settle him.
Craig took note of Stan’s unexpected appearance, casting a suspicious glance at the birthday boy standing across from him.
“Oh, Stan!” His naive classmate threw his arms around his shoulders. Stan wished he were this much of a lightweight.
“Only a little cup, it’s almost all empty now.” Butters pouted as he removed himself from Stan.
“Happy birthday,” Craig said, cutting through the air.
Stan barely noticed he was there. Craig already seemed to see right through Stan’s facade, penetrating his mind and uncovering his true intent of coming here.
Stan knew Craig knew, but this was his house, his party. “Thanks.”
Craig simply squinted in response, unnoticed by Stan as his focus shifted to Butters once again.
“Aw man, my dad’s gonna be so mad that I got drunk at Stan’s birthday.” Butters came to terms with the crashing reality of the situation he placed himself in, talking as if Stan wasn’t the one he was leaning against.
Stan rubbed his back. He recalled a couple of hours ago when he heard his dad call Stephen’s name.
Yeah, he was here. Hopefully, Butters didn’t get in too much trouble. Underage drinking was far from the most fucked up thing that happened in South Park.
Randy was probably the one who supplied the alcohol, considering the beer tucked inside the case was the same brand he’d been drinking since Stan was a kid. Craig was nursing one now. Warm beer was gross.
Tweek emerged through the holographic fringe and mumbled something to Craig. Butters then lurched forward slightly, holding onto Stan’s arm for support. That wasn’t good.
Stan caught Butters, “You okay?” He enquired.
“Uh, I think I’m going to puke.” Butters managed to get out, a hand covering his mouth.
“Ah! Butters, you can’t throw up on the floor—I’ll take you outside!” Tweek freaked out, quickly grabbing the nauseous boy’s hand and rushing toward the sliding glass door to get him outside.
For a brief moment, there was only Stan and Craig standing in silence.
His mom came in to break that.
“Hi, boys, having fun?” Sharon spoke, looking over to the counter.
It was almost as if all the air was sucked from her lungs. Her face paled in fright upon seeing the whiskey bottle sitting there. As if it had no business being in the vicinity of her son. Sharon’s expression turned to one of simmering rage.
“I thought he took it outside with him.” Even her tone had morphed from cheerful to indignant in a split second.
The “he” she was referring to could only have been his father. Who else would leave a bottle of alcohol out in plain sight for someone supposedly on a journey to sobriety to see?
Stan wasn’t sure if Randy had left it there on purpose or not. His father was a dick, but Stan hadn’t previously considered that he would do something as cruel as try to tempt him into relapse.
Stan chose to believe it was unintentional; his dad was ditsy, others might call him straight-up stupid. Either way, they were both true.
“I’ll be back. I love you, Stanley.” His mother's anger momentarily vanished as she turned to caress his arm reassuringly.
Oh God, she thought he was going to drink. It seemed like everyone at this party was anticipating his inevitable failure. Whether that be succumbing to his depression or relapsing on alcohol.
Sharon went outside through the sliding glass door, just as his friends had a moment ago.
“Love you too, mom,” Stan mumbled as she left.
Randy must be in the garage.
If he downed the rest of the whiskey right now, it probably wouldn’t even get him drunk—not even after his sober phase. So there wasn’t really anything wrong with pouring the remnants into his trusted red cup, right?
As he grabbed the bottle, he wondered how this might interact with his medication. He tipped it upside down, letting the last of it spill into the waiting cup.
It was sad, really—that out of everything that had happened today, this was the moment that made him feel most alive.
This was the happiest he’d felt in... who even knows how long?
Lifting the cup, Stan thought about the people closest to him.
How would they feel if they knew this was happening?
His mom had literally just hinted that he shouldn’t give in and drink, while still trusting him enough to be around alcohol without doing it. It was fucked up, what he was about to do—but it’s not like she’d ever know it was him who finished it.
Stan pictured your sweet face; he hadn’t seen you in like an hour or so.
He wondered if you were still around or if you had already left; he would understand if you did.
This party sucked worse than the rest. Was that what made it adulthood?
It started when he turned ten, and only got worse. Maybe eighteen was considered an adult because that’s when shit really hit the fan, and you were forced into reality whilst still dealing with your leftover cynicism developed on your tenth birthday.
You’d be disappointed in him, dejected by his choices. You were probably already carrying the weight of his burdens. At this point, he didn’t have burdens—he was the burden. If you found out, he’d hope you’d forgive him, not walk away. Even though you’d have every right to leave, he needed you. He couldn’t go on without you. He was pathetic.
Just as the rim of the cup touched his lips, Craig spoke.
“Aren’t you supposed to be sober?”
Stan had forgotten he was alone with Craig—too preoccupied to notice.
Craig raised an unamused eyebrow, waiting for a response.
“I don’t care,” Stan downed the small portion of whiskey.
The familiar taste burned, spilling down his throat, but coated his tongue in a smooth layer of redemption to counter it.
Stan was faced away as he took the shot. Craig shook his head, leaving the kitchen. He knew Stan was meant to be alcohol-free, but he’d long accepted that Stan would make his own choices—whether they were good for him or not. Craig couldn’t stop him, not really.
Stan felt a wave of relief wash over him after taking the shot. He wished there was more in the cup so he could get through the rest of his party a little easier. There was the beer, but it was gross, warm, and only five percent alcohol by volume.
He didn’t get drunk, didn’t get tipsy either, despite only having a singular bite of food all day. However, Stan consumed enough to acquire what he knew as liquid courage. He went on a mission to find his dad and spew whatever vile words remained in his head.
With confidence, Stan strode out the back door; he knew his father's sanctuary was the garage. He wondered if he’d walk in on his mom chewing Randy out about how much of a bad father he is.
The grass was wet from the sprinklers, soaking his socks. Once on the pavement, he was met with the closed side entry of the garage.
The hatch was swung open, uncovering a somewhat stunned and bewildered Randy. The unsuspecting man didn’t have time to think before he started talking out of his ass.
“Oh, Stan! Happy birthday, son.” He stood from the dingy couch he was sometimes sent to sleep on at night. When his son didn’t respond, he let out a nervous chuckle.
Stan stared at him in resentment.
“Why are you like this?” Stan uttered.
“Like what?” Randy walked to his son.
Stan wasn’t going to take this; he took two large steps back. He shook his head. Don’t cry in front of him.
“Everything’s bad, and I don’t think it’s ever going to get better.” Stan flailed his arms like a child protesting bedtime. “One moment it seems fine, and then it all comes crashing down. This time, it’s not going back up.”
“Stan...” Randy frowned at the revelation. “Why are you telling me this?”
Stan’s despair was momentarily recovered by anger, “I want you to care!”
He took a step toward him, “I want you to care about Mom and Shelley and me!”
“I don’t understand why you came in here to yell at me when you could be inside with your friends. I do love you all, you just don’t seem to appreciate it!” Randy let out a frustrated huff before taking a long swig of beer. The one that came from the case.
“Every day, I’m miserable-” Stan screamed.
Randy cut him off, “That’s not my fault, Stan!”
He was growing irritated by his son’s constant complaining. Lately, all Stan did was stay home all day, doing nothing but gripe.
“You should be grateful! I provided: a house, food, life itself—all thanks to me, and here you are bitching like your mother!”
It wasn’t often Stan got to see his father this angry; his scorn was usually reserved for back-and-forth insults with his mother. It was hardly ever directed at him, but he couldn’t ignore the repulsed glances his father sometimes threw his way when passing through the house. His dad thought he was a waste of space—Stan knew it.
“We try to communicate, but you only fucking care about yourself! That’s all you’ve ever cared about: what makes you happy. When we got off that farm, I thought things would change, but they didn’t! You became an even bigger piece of shit, you don’t love anyone!” Stan was on the verge of tears. He’d held onto this for too long.
“I don’t have to take this in my own house! Why do you think I’m always in the garage, huh, Stan?” Randy rhetorically asked, “I can’t fucking take the constant negativity from everyone. It used to be just your mom, but now it’s you, your sister! Fucking lay off. I can’t fix you!” He spouted.
“You’re fucked beyond repair, son. Congratulations!”
The first tear came down his right cheek—“You gave me a life I don’t even want!”—then the left.
His face was red with lividity. Stan wept; at least he felt something.
Randy watched his son’s breakdown with indifference. It made Stan choke on a broken sob, confirming what he’d already suspected—his dad didn’t love him.
“You left the—” Stan roughly tore at his face with his bare hands.
Now more than ever, he wished he had worn a sweater to dry his tears and drown out the noise of his pitiful weeps with the long sleeves.
“The whiskey bottle. Did you want me to drink? Do you even know anything that’s going on in my life?” Stan blubbered out.
Randy sighed, “I forgot I left them there. After the singing, I was going to bring them to the garage. Then I got preoccupied talking with Gerald, and I just went in here and forgot, okay. Sorry.” The shoddy apology hadn’t even attempted to sound genuine.
“Don’t bitch to me about that, your mother already came in here and gave me the whole rundown.” Randy wanted to be done with this; he flopped down onto the couch, beer still clutched in his squeezing fist.
This was his father—the man he’d lived with his entire life. The one who sang to him as a toddler to keep him entertained. The one who carried him on his back when his feet were sore from running around the playground all day. The one who high-fived him when he got a hundred on his spelling test and told him he was proud.
Stan used to go to KFC with Kyle, Cartman, Kenny, and him after practice.
He knew he wasn’t a saint. He knew he was a selfish hypocrite—but coming to terms with the fact that his father was cold and uncaring, as bad as his worst nightmares? He didn’t know why it appalled him so much.
Worst of all, that same monstrous blood coursed through his own veins.
If his friend group was a thorned bush, then his father was the gardener watering it.
The thought of that blood inside him made Stan want to retch up every drop of whiskey he’d swallowed.
Like him, he was going to end up like him.
He needed out—his DNA expelled from his chromosomes, his blood drained from his arteries and replaced with something pure, like you.
He needed you now more than ever.
Randy looked over the back of the couch at his son.
“Did you drink it?” The question escaped his lips with amusement, a slight smirk plastering his face.
“I-” Stan stared open-eyed at his damp socks, getting the cement floor wet.
“Hate you.” His tears had drained.
“I just want my mom.” He sounded broken, like his soul had finally been ripped from his carcass with a final tug.
“I want my dad, but you were never enough.”
Randy stifled a chuckle, “Now you sound like my dad.”
He finished the beer with a final gulp before setting it on the coffee table in front of him.
The man lounging casually on the couch in front of him wasn’t really there.
Sure, he showed up for dinner every night and slept in the room across the hall—but he was never present. Just a shell. A presence.
For a succinct moment, Stan felt sorry for Randy.
He was calm only because he couldn’t feel anything—for anyone but himself.
That, in itself, was a tragedy: to go through life without ever truly knowing what it meant to love.
Stan had felt love at some point.
He had felt it for you, his mom, Shelley, Wendy (sometime in the past), Kyle, Kenny, and even Cartman. He didn’t know what would become of himself; the feeling of helplessness remained. All he could do now was hold onto any love he’d ever felt, hoping he wasn’t hardened by life to the point his father was.
Randy was excitable yet hollow.
Stan turned from the blank gaze—back toward the door he entered from.
The sky was a dark blue, like the shade of the poof-ball hat he used to adorn. The fresh air hit his skin. He stepped through the wooden gate separating the back and front yard, wandering to the front door of his house.
On the curb, he spotted his sister, who was glaring down at her phone screen. Noticing him, she looked up for a second to make brief eye contact.
Throughout his life, he had never seen her satisfied. Stan wondered if she felt it too.
Before he could make his silent entrance back into the gathering, you popped out the door. Your eyes widened like you’d just seen a shooting star.
“Stan! There you are, I’ve been looking for you!”
Stan paused, taking a moment to take in what was in front of him. You were his, beautiful.
“Where were you?” Your expression faltered—gently smiling at him, the warm lighting from inside casting a soft glow over your shape.
“Been walking around.” Stan wanted to absorb you, become one, so he could share your bliss. He would never go a moment without your comfort again.
“Oh-” you shuffled, “there aren’t many people left inside, most of them went home. Friends are still here, though, you might be more comfortable now.”
You didn’t get to spend much time together, but you kept yourself entertained with the guests. You knew he needed space sometimes, increasingly often, but that was a private thought you kept to yourself.
Stan nodded, half-expecting to feel better after yelling at his dad. He realized that was the reason he sought him out in the first place.
He hoped you wouldn’t notice the dried tear streaks on his face—or the faint trace of whiskey still lingering on his breath.
Through the crack of the doorway, Sharon spotted her son lingering outside, “There you are! When I came back, you were gone.”
You moved to make room for her to lead her son back inside.
“Are you ready to open your presents now?” She spoke.
He could spot some of his remaining friends and their parents as he passed by on his way to the chair.
Only a little while longer, he didn’t want to get any older.
