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Stan sits in the weights section of the gym, in a wheelchair. Heidi stands in front of him, a cheery smile on her face. It makes Stan furious.
“Alright,” she says, turning around. There’s a five pound dumbbell in her hand that Stan glares at. She gently rests in his open right hand. His right hand is much weaker than his left, since the left half of his brain was the damaged one, and the left half controls the right side of his body. “Close your hand around it.”
Stan continues to glare at the weight as his fingers shakily wrap around it. It’s the smallest weight they have, and it’s the first time Stan is being forced to try and lift it. It’s his first physical therapy session, and Heidi, though doing her best, has no idea what she’s doing.
His arm shakes as he tries to pick up the weight. It’s just five pounds, he can clearly see it printed on the side of the rubber coating, but it feels like it’s five hundred. His right arm just refuses to rise, and he is quickly becoming agitated.
With frustrated tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, he uses his left hand to grab the offending object and throw it as far as he can. ‘As far as he can’ is not very far, though, and the weight lands on the ground with a dull ‘thump’.
Heidi, unsure how to proceed, stands in front of him, staring at the weight, rubbing her hand on her arm.
“Do you want to… try again?” she asks, uncomfortably. Stan sits in his chair, staring at the floor. His arms are weakly wrapped around himself in a mock hug.
“No,” he says. “I’m done.”
“We were supposed to-”
“I know we were su-sup- meant to be here for an hour!” he shouts, tangling one hand in his remaining patch of hair and covering his face with his palm. “I know, I know, I know!” They’d been working for close to forty five minutes, mostly on his speech and coordination. Stan had never been known for his patience, and his inability to grasp what seemed like simple objects is wearing on him.
“Should I go get Kyle?” Heidi steps back from him, as if he possessed the ability to jump up and strangle her.
“No, you should not,” Stan snaps, shifting in his wheelchair. “You should-dn’t-t tell him we’re ending early. He’d get mad-d.” Heidi looks both apprehensive and like she wants to flee, so Stan playcates her. “Go get Kenny.”
She nods and quickly rushes away. Stan feels bad for frightening her, but he’s still fuming. He’s in pain as well; he’s had a headache since he woke up weeks ago in that bed, sick and injured. His left leg throbs painfully at all times, since it is still a broken bone with only sticks and bandages holding it together. He’s in a state of perpetual agony, and not even Advil has been able to aid him.
Kenny is not on the school council. He never has been, though because of his closeness to Butters, he often gets to sit in on meetings. Kenny appears a few minutes later with his hands in his pockets.
“Yo,” he greets, standing in front of Stan. He appreciates the way Kenny behaves around him. He doesn’t crouch down like Kyle does, or talk slower like Stan can’t understand. “Heidi said you wanted me.”
“She didn’t want to be here,” Stan says, grumpy. “I want to go back to my room.” They had moved all of Stan’s things from the shared council room upstairs to one on the main floor, which he shares with Kyle.
“You were supposed to do an hour of physical therapy,” Kenny pulls up his sleeve to check his watch. There is no watch. “It hasn’t been an hour.”
“I don’t care,” Stan bites, pulling his arms tighter around himself. “I’m done.” Kenny watches him with sad eyes.
“You have to actually try, if you want to get better,” he says. Stan huffs at him, and keeps his eyes averted.
“I am trying, Kenny.”
Kenny sighs and shrugs.
“That’s all we ask,” he moves behind Stan, taking the handles of the wheelchair and pushing. “Let’s get you to your room then.” They are quiet on their journey, and Stan keeps his hands over his face. He hates being taken through the school halls. He feels like a million eyes are on him, waiting for him to be better, judging him. It burns him like fire.
“Kenny, can you do me a f-favor?” Stan asks, once they’re safely tucked away in his room. Kenny nods as he gets ready to help Stan out of the wheelchair. “Down in the basement, in one of the abandoned storage closets, tucked deep in the back behind some old science experiments, there’s these little bottles I brought back from the store.” He swallows when Kenny raises an eyebrow at him. “Can you bring me a few?”
“What are they?” Kenny asks, straightening and crossing his arms. Stan looks at him helplessly and softly whines in pain. The message gets across, and Kenny sighs. “Do you want me to get you down first, or go get the bottles?”
“Bottles first,” Stan decides, gratefully. Kenny nods and leaves, though he looks upset. Stan slumps where he sits, wincing at the pain running through his leg. Getting out of his wheelchair is an excruciating feat, one he would find much less terrible with a bit of whiskey in his blood.
Kenny returns several agonizing minutes later, a couple small bottles held between his fingers. He hands a couple to Stan, then opens one for himself. Stan tries valiantly to peel away the wax coating and pop off the cap, but his fingers shake and fumble, unable to grip it properly. Kenny silently takes it back and opens it for Stan, who mumbles his thanks in embarrassment.
He then downs the bottle in one quick swallow. It burns his mouth and throat, the way it has so many times before, but he manages to get it all down before taking a gasp of air. His stomach feels warm, though the liquid still stings. Kenny stares at him, mildly bewildered.
“Let’s jus-st give it a min-nute,” Stan says, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Then I can- can get down.” Kenny nods and leans against a desk in the corner. They stay like that for several minutes. Stan’s head begins to feel light, and his body feels dumb.
It’s refreshing in a way he hasn’t felt in months. The pain is gone, having been swept away by the alcohol. It feels amazing. Stan sighs, sinking into the blissful numbness.
“I’m gonna help you down now,” Kenny says, a minute slur to his words. He has a much higher tolerance than Stan, but he also drank another small bottle. Stan allows himself to be half lifted, half dropped onto his makeshift bed, hardly feeling anything when his leg is jostled. He lays back, watching Kenny stumble around the room.
Stan’s tired, eyes slipping closed against his will. He wants to enjoy the lack of feeling for a while longer, knowing he will wake up in agony, like he has for so many weeks, but his mind is fighting against him, and he falls asleep.
Kenny is, decidedly, Stan’s new best friend.
Stan understands that he’s too much for Kyle to deal with, what with all his leader duties he must attend to.
So, instead of Kyle, Kenny sits diligently by Stan’s side. He takes him where he asks to go, and gives him alcohol when he needs it. And he does need it after a few weeks. The agony he feels at every moment is no longer a staple, a constant. He can make it go away with just a few sips of liquor.
He wakes up in pain, gasping and trying not to scream as the gentle buzz wears off. It’s more of an adjustment to go back to sudden pain than it was to get used to it in the first place.
He can’t stand it anymore, chugging whatever he can get his hands on to make it stop. It’s unhealthy, and he’s already addicted, but there’s nothing he can do about it.
Physical therapy is a chore, but it becomes much more enjoyable when he doesn’t have to think hard. His coordination is suffering, cloudy brain unable to send proper signals to his hands.
He’s convinced, though, as he tells Kenny, that the alcohol has nothing to do with his slow recovery. He tells Kenny that he believes he’s just too far beyond healing, at this point.
Many months after the original incident, the subject of amputation is brought up during one of Stan’s health screenings. Bebe and Heidi flit around the room, inspecting his impeccably healed head injury, and his mangled leg.
Even without all of the shredding, his muscles have atrophied significantly. The bones have tried valiantly to heal themselves, but in all the wrong ways. All in all, the limb will never heal correctly, it will never be functional, and it has to go.
Stan is too far gone to understand the implications of what they’re saying, but he knows, in the back of his mind, that he’s going to be down one leg. He can’t find it in himself to care even a little bit.
Stan sits in his wheelchair in front of a window. This window looks over the schoolyard.
Footsteps sound behind him, and he doesn’t have to look to know it’s Kyle.
“Hi, Stan,” Kyle says, standing beside his friend. “How’ve you been recently?”
“Fine,” Stan replies. His breathing is a bit quick, pain dancing up his leg. His head hurts, but it feels different. It isn’t because of his injury, he thinks. “You?”
“Fine,” Kyle agrees, holding his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry we’ve not been able to hang out so much lately. I’ve been super busy.”
‘Too busy to deal with you,’ is what Stan hears.
“Don’t worry about it,” Stan shrugs, trying to stay impeccably still from the waist down, even if this position he’s sitting in is uncomfortable. “Kenny’s been keeping me company.”
“Yeah,” Kyle mumbles. Stan could almost think he sounds jealous, but that couldn’t be true. Kyle is neglecting Stan, not the other way around. “Heidi and Bebe told me about the… y’know… amputation.” He sounds so hesitant, like this is something Stan cares about.
He would never say it out loud, not to anyone, but part of him hopes that he won’t make it out of surgery.
“What about it?” Stan asks.
“Just that it’s happening,” Kyle shrugs. “I was wondering if you wanted me to be there?”
“I’ll be asleep, it won’t matter,” Stan shrugs again, carefully. Kyle shifts on his feet, and the hairs on the back of Stan’s neck prickle anxiously. “What?”
“We don’t have anything to knock you out with, dude,” Kyle says, regretfully. “They’re just gonna… I dunno, give you Advil?”
“I’ll sort it out,” Stan waves him off, unbothered. “Don’t worry.” Kyle does not seem soothed, but also does not press the issue. They lapse into silence, then Kyle pats Stan’s shoulder and leaves without saying a word.
Stan leans his head back, directing his gaze from the yard to the ceiling. Kenny will be back soon with their drinks, and then the pain will end.
Kenny does appear a few minutes later, dutifully holding a bottle of Vodka and two glasses. Stan smiles and sighs.
Something is off about Stan, Kyle knows. He’s withdrawn, quiet. He’s spending a lot of time with Kenny, too, which Kyle tries not to take offense to.
He’s been too busy to hang out with Stan, so Stan replaced him. Fine, Kyle doesn’t care.
He does care. He cares a lot.
It doesn’t matter what he thinks, though, because he’s too busy to act on anything. He isn’t too busy to make it to Stan’s surgery though.
Stan is completely plastered when Kyle arrives in the nurse’s office. Where Stan got the booze, Kyle doesn’t know, but Stan is definitely drunk. He smells like alcohol, his eyes are unfocused, and there’s a lazy smile on his face.
“Kyle!” he cheers when Kyle arrives, laying back on what would soon become the operating table. “Good to- to see you, Kyle.” Kyle stays a few feet away, glancing at Bebe and Heidi. They shrug and continue working. “Told you I’d take care of it.” Stan continues, head lolling to meet his shoulder. “Can’t- can’t-t feel anythin’ if-f ‘m drunk.”
“Uh huh,” Kyle nods, grimacing. He doesn’t approve of this method one bit, but if it works, it works. He’s not Stan’s father, he’s not in charge of him. “Great.”
“We’re hoping he passes out,” Bebe chimes in, moving to Stan’s bedside with the tools she’ll need. “It’ll be easier for everyone that way.” Stan nods sagely, frowning.
“I don-n’t pass out so often,” he says. “Usually- sometimes.” He isn’t very coherent, and no one is sure what message he was trying to convey. “I’m- am tired, though.”
“Right,” Heidi hums, taking scissors to one of Stan’s pant legs.
“Hey! What’re’y doin’?” Stan grumbles. He attempts to move his leg from her grasp, but fails. “Takin’ m’ pants!”
Heidi sighs and continues her work, cutting off one full pant leg but leaving the waistband and the other. Stan grumbled a bit more, but stayed mostly silent.
“Alright, Stan, are you ready?” Bebe had gloves on her hands now, hovering them above his mangled leg. It was still tightly wrapped in bandages, and Kyle shook in the corner, anxious. Beside her, an open textbook lays. It is some medical book, with a section on field amputations. Stan nods groggily, and Kyle wonders if he really knows what he’s agreeing to. “Ok.”
Heidi and Bebe begin by taking off the bandages. The more they remove, the more Kyle is forced to see. Stan’s leg is as much of a mess as it was when he had dragged himself home. Torn skin and shredded muscles that never healed, bones practically dust.
Kyle shuts his eyes to spare the gruesome sight after a moment, but he can still hear Stan marveling at what he probably doesn’t know is his own limb.
Then they start cutting. Kyle can’t bring himself to watch, but he refuses to cover his ears. They saw through bones and muscles, though at this point there isn’t much to go through.
“Heidi, you’ve got to put gauze there,” Bebe’s voice rings through the room, stern but not harsh. “And get the thread ready while I do this.”
Kyle peeks an eye open, maybe out of morbid curiosity, maybe out of solidarity for his friend. Stan’s face is ghostly pale, and his eyes are looking at his leg. There’s nothing in his eyes, not a thought, no fear, nothing.
There’s blood everywhere. On the floor, the table, on Stan, on the girls. It seems like everything has been painted red, and Kyle is reminded of how much he’s grown to hate that color. His best friend’s leg is about halfway still attached, though it’s hard to tell from his angle.
Kyle covers his mouth with his hand and closes his eyes again. Bebe and Heidi are better than him. How they can stand to do what they’re doing is a mystery.
The surgery lasts several hours, during which Stan passes out. He loses a lot of blood, but it’s probably not more than when he had sustained the injury in the first place.
Then the surgery is finished, and Kyle’s best friend is missing one of his legs. He sits himself by Stan’s side, hands tangled together.
Stan breathes softly, peacefully. Kyle does not sleep.
When Stan wakes, it is in agony. Pain is his constant state of being. There’s always something wrong, a part of his body screaming about an injury he cannot soothe. This time is different. The pain is more excruciating than usual, all encompassing.
He whines and gasps as first as his eyes fly open. He is soaked with sweat, sticking his light clothes to his skin and his hair to his forehead.
He moves to sit up, but he feels frozen. Nothing will move, and he is unsure if it is the debilitating pain or something else.
He whines again, a breathy sound, and finally manages to move his hand. There’s something holding it down, and he is unable to free himself.
There’s a muffled sound from somewhere to his right, someone talking no doubt, and the thing around his hand tightens. He feels trapped, seeing nothing but blurry white and being completely imobile. He gasps again, feeling breath enter his chest but not feeling the effects of it.
He hears nothing, he sees nothing, and he feels only pain. His heart races in his chest and he fears briefly that it’s going to explode.
‘That’s alright,’ he thinks. ‘Maybe it won’t hurt.’
There’s something in his view, then. A flash of purple, or maybe it isn’t purple, he doesn’t know. He hopes it was purple, because purple means Wendy, Wendy means safe.
“Wendy?” is all he manages to choke out. Wendy doesn’t say anything, and he’s not even sure she’s really there. He feels something wet on his face, and his eyes sting. “Wendy?” But she’s gone, replaced with something red and yellow. He can’t assign this new person a name.
He waits in pain, though he’s not entirely sure of what he’s waiting for. It’s cold and isolated in nothingness, and Stan is oh so lonely.
He wants his mom, and his sister, and god dammit he wants his dad too. It’s an indescribable amount of time before his eyes slip shut and everything goes black.
It’s silent and painless in the void. He thinks he likes it.