Work Text:
Stan looks over at his phone.
No response.
Of course not. Why would there be? Why would anyone respond to him? They don’t give a shit about him.
Not that he blames them. He doesn’t really give that much of a shit about himself either, anymore.
He takes another swig of beer.
Its yeasty tang settles on his tongue and he swallows with a cringe. Better than liquor , he reminds himself.
He’d tried liquor before. Sure, it’d get you drunk faster, but you’d also be out on your ass and feeling it for the next three to five business days. Plus, it’s easier to get a guy to buy you a few beers than it is a handle of vodka.
Distinctly, he remembers the smell of peach Schnapps projecting out of his esophagus like a firehose -- nope. No more straight liquor for him. Henrietta’s area rug had never been the same since and he honestly wasn’t sure if she forgave him or not. It is what it is; she’s puked on his belongings (and on his person) enough times to make them both even.
He thinks vaguely about going down to the hangout spot. There’s bound to be at least one of the other goths there on any given night and, if Stan’s being honest with himself, it’s probably safer he not be alone right now.
With a sigh, he pulls his beanie from where it laid on the dresser. He takes one last swig of his beer, finishing off the bottle, before tossing it to the side and heading out of his room.
When he arrives, he can see two of them already standing around -- well, Firkle is standing around, waving one hand in the air as he speaks and smoking a cigarette with the other. Michael, on the other hand, is sitting casually next to him, taking infrequent sips out of a clear plastic bottle. The both of them are in pajamas, making Stan feel like an overdressed tool for having his jeans and flannel on.
Michael notices him first, giving him a lazy wave.
“‘sup, can I bum a smoke?” he says, catching Firkle’s attention.
“Stan, hey. You’re just in time for the tail end of my tirade on this fake poser bitch.” He reaches into the front pocket of his pants, revealing a mostly-empty carton of Lucky Strike.
Cheap bastard, Stan thinks to himself.
He takes one anyway.
“So anyway,” Firkle continues, “she really tried to say that I don’t know what goth is. I wanted to stab that conformist cunt in the throat. You can’t genuinely tell me that Fall Out Boy is goth music. And then--”
Stan tunes out. Once Michael passes him the lighter and the first hit of nicotine fills his lungs, it’s all he can focus on. The sheer relief of it all.
Michael motions to the water bottle between them.
“Want some?” he says. Stan should probably know better, but he picks the bottle up regardless. It doesn’t even make it to his lips before the smell hits him. With a sharp exhale from his nose, he returns the bottle to where it sat.
“Vodka?” he asks.
“Gin,” Michael corrects. They nod in unison. Stan isn’t one to talk, so he doesn’t.
“So anyways, I told that bitch to go cut herself to her stupid fucking Pierce the Veil because she wouldn’t know true goth if it drug a dagger across her throat and watched the crimson life drain from her conformist body. I mean seriously, she didn’t even know who Siouxsie and the Banshees were . That’s about as conformist as goth gets. If she doesn’t know them, there’s no hope for her.”
Firkle’s rant has come to a close, though Stan’s not entirely sure what he was on about in the first place. He simply nods in blind agreement as if he’d been listening the whole time.
‘ I told that bitch to go cut herself…’
…I wonder if that really helps.
He takes another drag.
They’re there for probably a couple of hours; sometimes trading stories or complaints, but otherwise simply sitting, silent, with only the smoke to hang in the air in its place.
It’s nearing three in the morning when he decides to head out. By now, whatever buzz he had from the beer is completely gone. Michael had gotten wasted enough for the both of them, leaving Firkle to ensure his passage home was a safe one. Stan would regret leaving him in charge of Michael if he hadn’t known the amount of times the situation had been reversed -- Firkle, stumbling over the air, speech so slurred you could compare it to cursive, leaning heavily on a sober Michael’s shoulder.
They bid each other farewell with a wave, and Stan begins his trek back.
It’s silent on the way home, aside from the few vehicles that pass. Stan wonders where they’re going so late. Maybe an early job? Or maybe they’re only just now headed home after a long night out. Maybe they’re one of those fitness freaks that goes before sunrise, or maybe they got a booty call.
The lives of others are so intricate, he thinks, so unlike my own. They’ve got friends, hobbies… purpose.
So unlike my own.
He makes no attempt to dampen the noise of the front door as it swings shut behind him. To make an effort would be to assume his parents care for his whereabouts, which he already knows to be absurd. The only one he may actually bother is Shelly, but fuck if he cares what she has to say about anything.
‘Screw you, Stan! Why don’t you just go cut yourself, you freak?!’
‘Shelly! We do not speak like that in this house! Apologize to your brother right now!’
For a moment, he lets his mind wander. Is it… really so bad? Even Firkle had mentioned it, about that girl. Does it really help?
The bathroom door tantalizes him as he walks toward his bedroom. Should he… just try? Once, to see what all the hubbub is about? It couldn’t really be that bad, could it?
Cautiously, he approaches the bathroom, as if it were a wild animal he was afraid to startle. He enters, clicking the door shut behind him and twisting the locking mechanism into place.
Now.
What the fuck does he use?
He feels ridiculous, digging through cupboards for the nearest sharp object. They’re already hard enough to find everyday items in -- crammed full with bullshit feminine hygiene products, countless facial soaps and masks, and a disassembled ShakeWeight in the back corner. Despite it all, he manages to find something.
A shaving razor.
Or, well, the top half of it, anyway.
He pries at the aluminum bars enclosing the plastic seam with a small pair of tweezers. It isn’t difficult to pull them off, rendering the blades useless for their intended purpose but perfectly accessible for his own.
He counts out four blades. He’s not sure he’ll really need that many; he doesn’t expect this will go any further than tonight. Despite his intentions, he still lays them out on the counter beside him.
Tentatively, he pulls his sleeve up and away from his forearm. His own bare, pale skin reflects back at him.
The blade is thin and cool between his fingers; he supposes it must be sharp with the amount of ease it has as it drags across his arm for the first time. He barely feels the pain. After a moment, the line fills with red and begins to swell into beads.
It’s small.
He drags the blade across his skin again.
The sharp edge digs deeper with ease -- not necessarily on purpose, but not unwelcome either. The red pools quicker this time. Is he… supposed to feel better now? He’s not really sure what he feels. He’s not sure if he… really feels anything.
And then it dawns on him.
He doesn’t feel anything.
His brain is fibrous cotton, thick, static, nothingness. He’s numb. And with this revelation comes the exhaustion.
He yearns now for his mattress; to be in that cocoon, free from burdens and societal pressures. He turns around to leave, but not before carefully placing all four blades back into the plastic container he had found them in. With a click, it shuts, and he stares at it in silence.
A moment passes, and then two.
He places it in his pocket and unlocks the door.