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Stanford looked out his window at the commotion, glancing at a small person being dragged into an alley.
It left Ford feeling helpless. He knew what was probably going to happen to that kid, but he also knew that if he tried to intervene, he would be right there with him.
The voice was muffled, but the kid was clearly cursing up a storm. He shut the window.
Ford found himself looking at the home phone. He'd been doing that a lot, recently. For some reason.
(Who was he trying to kid. He was waiting for his brother to call. Because surely he would call, hungry and needing money...
Right?)
Stanley fought tooth and nail, if only just to get away from that building. The building. Where Ford was surely still living. It was still a month until college began.
“Oh, an alley, very ori-”
A kick landed right in his stomach, which promptly threatened to let go of the one meal he’d had. The meal that was stolen from the guys currently beating him up.
Stan caught his breath as best he could. “You know if you kick me in the stomach some more, you’ll definitely get your lunch back.”
And, yeah, maybe that wasn’t the smartest thing to say, especially with what precious breath he had. But, hey, the guys kicking him finally fulfilled his prophecy.
At the very least, throwing up made them leave.
And so, here he was, laying on the dirty ground in an alley not 30 feet away from the one place he was told never to return to, looking at the vomit (that had way too much blood to be healthy or normal), and he felt a strange peace swell over him.
He decided to leave the house, too antsy to do anything productive. He thought maybe a stroll around the block would help burn some energy.
As he rounded the corner towards the closest convenience store, two voices grew clearer.
“Yeah, Pines?"
Ford’s last name was a normal English word, but he’d learned to figure out in an instant when it was being used as a proper noun.
“Yeah,” a second voice said, “Stanley, the five-fingered one. Left him in that alley right over there. The kid puked blood all over us.”
Ford glanced down at the guy's leg and, lo and behold, a dark stain on his pants leg.
“Ew,” the first voice said. “You think he got away?”
“No telling” said the second voice, as if speculating. “I’m just worried the idiot mighta gave us a disease. Probably has rabies, the way he’s been sleepin’ out next to the dumps.”
Ford tried to listen to more, but they rounded another corner ahead, clearly oblivious to Ford's presence behind them.
He didn’t feel like getting a snack, anymore. He didn’t think he’d be able to eat for a while.
When he came to, his head hurt and his stomach hurt even more. He must have hit his head on his way down.
Stan looked around, trying to see as clearly as possible (meaning he was squinting as much as he could without actually closing his eyes.
His mouth tasted even worse than usual. He spat fresh blood on the ground. After looking around, He saw the puddle of blood he'd produced earlier. From the looks of it, he'd only been out of it for a few minutes at most.
He put his head down, and considered his options. He was close to his former home, obviously, but dragging himself off the ground to knock on the door was out of the question.
Maybe he could just let go of life here. Perhaps, a little selfishly, one of his family would find him, already dead, as they took out the trash. A post-mortem vengance. Too bad he wouldn't be able to stick around to feel the vindication. Or maybe he would stilll be around, he had no idea if ghosts were really real -
“Stanley?”
Stan's nervous system immediately hopped into overdrive. His muscles jumped unnaturally, but he didn't have the strength to do much else.
The familiar voice sounded timid. Timid, like those nights when he had to reassure its owner that having six fingers was not the sign of the devil.
He lifted his head and saw the face he thought he’d never seen again.
“Stanley?” Ford asked once again.
This isnt going to plan.
"Ford," he said weakly. The name sounded gross, like his mouth was full of blood (it was). "This isn't going to plan, you're supposed to find me after I'm dead."
"Lee..."
Stan sighed, although it turned into a groan as the deep breath aggravated the pain in his abdomen. "Are you just gonna keep saying my name? Come on Ford, do something. Maybe get Dad's shotgun or something. It'll be cheaper than the hospital."
Stan heard a strange wobble in Ford's breath, and then the sound of his footsteps, going away.
Guess he's gonna do it, thought Stan. I guess I'll let go.
He closed his eyes didn't feel a thing after.
That is, until he woke up to a white ceiling.