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Stan hated himself.
Every single brand of hate could be applied to the attitude which held toward the concept and weight of his own being.
He hated himself the way studious kids hated the popular ones who took enjoyment out of disrupting the class and speaking during times of silence. That festering sort of annoyance that piled up with each instance, never truly fading away.
He hated himself the way people hate flies in the kitchen. Waves of annoyance and aggravation toward the frustrating buzzing that whizzed past in frequent cycles.
He hated himself the way people hate slow internet, the way he once hated the farm that was now no longer anything more than ashes.
He hated his very existence, he rued the heart that beat steadily in his chest. He despised the lungs that filled with air without cognitive intent, the way he got to breathe when Shelley and Sharon no longer had such a forsaken privilege. It made him sick to think about, a frown subconsciously etching its way onto his face whenever his mind wandered down the route of his own being.
Hate was a familiar discomfort. It writhed and twisted in his solar plexus like a dog making its bed on fresh sheets. Claws scratching and tearing through the fabric of his flesh. A constant, always he felt the press of self-loathing against his ribcage, compressing him into a concept smaller than his physical presence.
The hate expanded with him, flaring up on lonely nights into something larger than life, larger than his life at the very least. Daunting and evil as it loomed over his vitals like a wave that grew and grew, but never crashed.
Sometimes he could only think of one way to release that ever-expanding pressure.
Kyle heaved a great sigh as he cut off the gauze, reaching for the roll of medical-grade tape that rested on the coffee table without another sound.
As much as Stan hated loud noises, bangs booms and crashes, nothing curdled his gut and buzzed beneath his skin quite like any silence shared with Kyle.
Blinking back into awareness, Stan tried to catch his friend's gaze. They were on Jimbo's couch, a nasty-smelling piece of furniture that was lined with various animal furs. Stan doubted they were processed properly, despite his uncle's assurances. Even if they were, nothing could redeem the dirty task of turning wild animals into household decor in his eyes. Call him a pussy (admittedly, he was. It was so much an insult as it was a fact) but he detested how crudely his uncles treated animal death. As such, he hated the couch. Hell, he hated the whole cabin, every night he wallowed in self-pity for the state of his life. Sleeping on the booze-and-cetera stained couch because he killed the only other people who could’ve given him anything better.
"Are you mad?" Stan asked, knowing the answer but craving to hear Kyle's voice. A part of Stan was deeply afraid of killing Kyle too, or driving him far enough away for a different kind of death. The kind that can happen between two living people.
Kyle hadn't said a word since earlier at school when they made small talk in the halls. When Stan said he felt fine despite the elephant-like pressing against his chest. When he lied. Kyle left the incomprehensible text Stan had sent him twenty minutes ago on read and brushed past the body when he opened the door. Not being in a position to pry for more than the privileges of bond Kyle had already extended, Stan didn't attempt to make conversation between the soft involuntary breaths of pain as Kyle cleaned his cuts and wrapped his arm as he had done so many times before.
"Yes, Stan," Kyle bit, tearing off a piece of tape and pressing it to Stan's forearm with enough force for it to sting.
"Nh," Stan winced, the pain really wasn't that bad. The cuts weren't that deep in the first place. Just surface-level things that a feisty cat might inflict. He was always too anxious to do any real damage. Plus, blood was something he had a very small tolerance of.
He threw the roll of tape on the coffee table, Stan flinched at the sound.
Loud, nearly ringing as it clattered down the unfinished wood.
“… sorry?” Stan ventured, unsure of whether the admittance of guilt would help or hurt the situation. Kyle was sort of unpredictable like that, the inner musings of his mind were an enigma that remained locked behind his tense expression. Sometimes Stan yearned to venture deep into that place, to see what Kyle truly thought of the world, of him.
As it quickly became evident, Stan said the wrong thing.
“Seriously?” Kyle brought a hand up to massage the bridge of his nose, glasses pushing up his forehead. Stan watched the distortion around the edges of the lenses as it warped Kyle’s face, “if you were sorry then you wouldn’t do this shit anymore.”
Kyle was wearing jeans.
Dark blue, like the depths of a starless night sky with an occasional light thread squeezing through like glimmers of sun peaking through deadly storm clouds.
They stargazed when they were younger. When the atmosphere was something magical and wondrous rather than an invisible barrier that blocked them from falling infinitely into the void of space.
Stan supposed there was something still magical and wondrous about that concept, but he hadn’t the heart to care. It was easier to live in a monotonous world without fascination and curiosity.
Kyle filled his quota for specialness.
Kyle, in his jeans past midnight and sleepless circles beneath his eyes and a ruffled shirt and pen ink on his hands.
Stan thought that he was too hard on himself sometimes, though he hadn’t much room to speak considering his own lackluster attitude. But Stan didn't hold himself to the insane standards which Kyle did. He watched his grades fall, quit electives and sports, pretended like he didn't care. Kyle also pretended like he didn't care, but he was enrolled in all the "try-hard" classes and toured with the mock trial team and probably played chess too. So to say he cared would be an understatement.
"I didn't mean to," Stan said...? No, he didn't. Well, yes, he did, but it wasn't him. His lips undoubtedly moved and his tongue shaped the vowels and consonants but his heart wasn't supporting the phrase. It was illogical to say he didn't mean to do something as intentional as self-harm, because how could that be an accident?
He thought of his dad in that surreal moment.
"You don't accidentally kill someone Stanley!"
He had shouted after Shelley's wake. Drunk and angry, words thick and breath weighted with beer.
"You're a murderer. A ffffffffffuhhhhhking MURDERER."
Sharon held him close, covered his ears and whispered assurances. Promised Stan that he couldn't have known. That it wasn't his fault. That they would get through it together.
She was a damn good liar, because here Stan was
Two deaths on his hands
Going through it alone.
He liked to push the blame on other people sometimes. Try to convince himself that it was all Randy's fault. That if he never bought the stupid property, if he never locked Shelley in the barn.
If
If...
If.
But he did.
And Stan was the one who struck the match.
He wondered if he was the last thing Sharon thought of. It was a selfish curiosity, because of all those years of experience Sharon had walking the Earth-- all the people and places-- why should Stan think himself so special as to occupy her final moments?
"Are you high?!" Kyle exclaimed, almost offended. The suddenness of the question shocked Stan out of his wandering thoughts, his brain reeled back in like a dog on a leash.
"What? No."
Truth.
A pause began. Stan, trying to ground himself, tried to focus on things. Like the distant perpetual ringing from the old electrical. The clock in Jimbo and Ned's room going click. click. click. click. Kyle's eyes, bright in the darkness. His pursed lips, the acne that spotted his chin and cheeks. The scabs on his knuckles.
"Are you okay?" His voice came out quiet, secretive. As if he was suspicious. Not of Stan, but of the conversation that question might open up to. Maybe he was afraid of Stan returning the question, of being put under the surgical lights.
They were both irrevocably fucked. Doomed.
"Yeah."
Lie.
But Stan was also fearful of that conversation, of saying too much to Kyle. Of his problems becoming real once they got spoken into the world.
Because things weren't as serious if no one knew about them. His actions could be written off if no one held him accountable for them. If he kept everything bottled up then he could feign normalcy. Pretend like he never thought of what it would be like to do what his mom did. What he might think about during his final moments.
Probably Kyle, he mused.
That sounded gay.
Not that there was anything wrong with being gay.
He just meant gay in the corny, of-course-that's-who-you-would-think-about-way.
Super-best-friends.
"I should... get going," Kyle ventured, his voice still explorative. It almost sounded like a question, an invitation for Stan to object.
But he might've been reading that wrong.
So rather than ask Kyle to stay. Rather than offer him a pair of pants, a blanket, and a pillow. Stan nodded.
"It's late," he commented, looking down at his arm. Kyle did an exceptional job patching him up. It looked professional. Stan supposed he'd given Kyle enough experience for him to have expanded upon that useful skill quite well.
"Yea," Kyle, in his dark jeans and forest green shirt listed forward slightly. As if he were going in to tell Stan a secret, something sacred and special. Stan strained his ears, hearing the hummingbird beating of Kyle's heart and how it pumped 4 times between the metronome-like clicking of Jimbo's clock. It was musical, perfectly in time.
Then, his thoughts must've caught up to him, because only a breath away from Stan's face, his heart fell out of time with the clock and instantaneously, Kyle turned away and stood up.
"See you tomorrow," and his voice was back to normal and the walls were back up while he bent over to scoop up the first aid supplies from the table.
"Yea, tomorrow."