Chapter Text
He drank until there was basically nothing left. Nothing left but self-hatred. Self-hatred for relapsing in such a god awful way.
Stan stared into the glass bottle, swirling the remainder of the liquid around. It was only a dribble, only the tiniest but, but it was enough to splash against the sides of the glass. The splashing sounds awoke something odd in him. But maybe not that odd. That would only be emphasis. Emphasis to worsen something stupid. It was still that same self-hatred - only way worse than what it was before. But then again, ripping his gaze from the liquid in the bottle, he looked around to all the other empty bottle and cans on the floor and on his desk. His floor was almost hidden with those same cans and bottles, along with piles upon piles of dirty clothes and other things that weren't particularly hygienic. Though, that was when he realised that drinking was the only thing that was there for him anymore. Drinking was like his only family. His biological family weren't shit in this situation. Alcohol was the only thing keeping him alive at this point. Even if the liver failure to come would be expected karma for his wrong-doings, that's talk for another time.
He put the rim of the glass back to his lips, reveling in the surrounding atmosphere, loud music blaring through his headphones. Doing so, he downed that last little dribble, leaving his lips wet with that aforementioned alcohol. It burnt his lips. It hurt. It got into the rips, tears and scabs on the delicate pink skin, freshening them up just as they had been a minute ago. And he winced a little, just as he did before, but it didn't really matter anyway. Pain was the only thing keeping him in touch with reality anymore. Just like the alcohol was the only thing keeping him alive at this current point in time.
But no matter what he tried to make himself believe, Stan still knew it was bad. He still knew it was some kind of sin. It took him a while, but he finally stood up and walked over to a mirror continently placed. He wasn't pretty, nor even remotely attractive. According to himself and society anyway. He had horrible acne - most on his forehead covered by his uncut hair, wonky yellow teeth, horribly noticeable eyebags and overall, a sense of exhaustion surrounding his entire being. He thought, just for a minute, that maybe he could get better. Maybe things could take a left turn in his life for the greater good. But here he was, watching himself in the reflecting glass. His reflection was gross. He looked kind of like an incel. It was a disgusting comparison, but maybe it was true. And it was stupid. Though, only looks counted in that context. Even so, physiognomy played a huge part in the situation, considering the fact he was essentially the definition of 'if a depressed dunkard was one singular individual'.
A horrible feeling rose in his gut. One of guilt, and pain, and that same depression he'd been feeling for the past few months. Maybe if he didn't exist the world would be a better place, perhaps? But even then, killing himself required too much effort. So maybe wallowing in self-pity would just be the better option. Which its not, but neither is killing yourself either, really.