Disclaimer: South Park is not mine…
Author's Note: I was struck with this idea and just had to write it down.
Sorry for spelling or grammar mistakes, English is not my native language.
Before I Fall Asleep
No one likes the dark. It's foreboding and depressing, and he was always less energetic and cheerful whenever it was dark outside. It was dark in his house now. It wasn't dark outside, but he had to turn the light in his house on, for he refused to open the windows. It was autumn. He couldn't bear to look at the falling leaves right now, he won't be able to take it and he knew it. It's best for him, it's best for them, if the windows shall remain shut.
He walked slowly towards the closed door, his legs heavy and his breathing slow. He gulped slowly, silently, as he reached the door which was made from wood painted red. He touched where the paint managed to peel off, and a sad smile spread across his face as he stared at his finger, red bits of dry paint stuck to it. He'd have to paint it sometime.
He opened the door slowly and peeked inside, feeling almost at peace as he saw the rise and fall of the white blanket. He must be sleeping soundly, the one that he gave his heart to. A sound was heard, almost unnoticed, but he heard it. You can hear every little sound when it's so quiet. He gulped again. "A-are you awake?" he asked tentatively.
"Yeah," came the muffled reply. "Come on in."
He entered the room and closed the door quietly behind him, making the room darker. "I'm sorry if I woke you up…" he said.
"No, I wasn't asleep," his love replied, and he heard the sheets ruffle as that person adjusted his position on the bed, probably to get a better view. "Come sit with me."
"Are you sure? I don't want you to stay awake just for me," he replied, his hand not leaving the golden doorknob.
"No, I want you here now... to keep me company. I'm not tired, really." His love answered, and it made him feel warm inside. But even the warmth was colder when it was so dark. He approached the bed slowly, and stopped right next to it. "Are you sure?" he asked again. "You should sleep, it'll make you feel better."
His love laughed sadly. "No, no, it's alright. Come on." His love hit the mattress gently, signaling for him to take a sit there.
He sat slowly, enjoying the feel of the white blanket. His hand brushed against his love's, and he felt fingers wrapping it. He squeezed back and smiled at the lying person. "Do you want me to tell you a bedtime story?" he asked. He loved to tell his love stories, and his love loved them. It seemed like those times were the only times when they could be children again and not adults, when they could be free and happy. He wanted to be happy.
"Yeah, I do," his love said. "Maybe I'd be able to fall asleep then."
He chuckled. "Didn't you say you weren't tired?" but his love didn't reply, and his smile fell. "Alight, let me just get comfortable…" he rose from the bed and was about to pull the chair from under the desk, but his love's grip on his hand tightened. He could only imagine the expression his love wore now.
"No, not tonight," his love said, and he cocked an eyebrow in puzzlement. "I want you to lie next to me."
"But-" he started, but was cut off.
"Please," his love pleaded and he bit his lip. He couldn't refuse, not when his love's voice was so…
He sighed. "Alright," he said. Sheets ruffled again, and he took it as a sign that the blanket was lifted. He sat back on the bed and lay down slowly. As soon as his head hit the soft pillow he felt arms wrapping him in a warm hug.
"How long has it been?" his love asked quietly, his voice holding a tone of longing in it.
"Since what?" he asked, not quite catching on.
"Since…" a short silence. "Since we just embraced like this…"
His heart fell. "I don't know," he answered, and the reply he received was a body getting even closer to his own. He felt his love's head on his shoulder and tears filled his eyes. If they were from happiness or sadness, he did not know. "Which story do you want me to tell you?" he asked and glanced at the direction of the shelf in front of the bed. There were supposed to be many books piled on it, but he could see nothing now. For all he knows, his love could have taken them down, although he doubted his love would do that. His love enjoyed reading any kind of book, written words were his life, especially in the past few years.
"A story about… life," his love told him, and he nearly laughed at the request.
"Alright," he said, his voice already unstable like a leaf waiting to fall from a branch. "A story about life…" his mind searched for the words, for the plot, but gave him nothing. His mind was blank at the moment. "Once upon a time," he started and frowned at how cliché it sounded. "There was a young boy, who wanted… who wanted to be loved."
"That's not a story about life," his love interrupted, sounding sad.
"How do you know? I only started…" he answered, looking for the comic relief, needing it.
"Life and love are different. One cannot exist without the other, but they're different! Tell me about life… I've had enough of love," those words hurt him so much that he felt his heart wrenching in his chest. He won't tell that to his love, though. It was the last thing he needed to know.
"What do I know about life?" he asked the still air in the room.
"Sure as hell more than I do," his love said bitterly, and he felt like he needed to slap him for it, hard. How could his love say that? Why would his love say that? Yet he couldn't blame him, even though he wished he could. Things are so much easier when there's someone to blame.
"Life… ok. Once upon a time there was a young girl," he started again, quickly, and he hoped that his love didn't notice that he was suddenly in a hurry to finish. "And the girl's father was sick, very sick. The girl had to fish every day so she could bring food to her sick father and herself."
"What was her father sick with?" his love interrupted him again.
"Aids," he said, expecting laughter but receiving none. "I don't know," he said eventually, giving up.
"You must know, it's your story," was his love angry, or was he imagining things?
"Fine, he's sick with… cancer, alright?"
He wasn't in this room for fifteen minutes yet and already he was becoming tired and exhausted. He wanted to leave, but he couldn't. Not now when… "but the girl caught very little," he continued, preferring to talk rather than think. "Barely to fill her own stomach."
"Is she going to catch a fish which would make her wishes come true?" his lover asked, doubt in his voice.
"Jesus, stop interrupting." He shouldn't be so short-tempered…
"But I need to know, because if it's so then I know how it ends." His love kept on.
"It's not like this, alright?" he said back, annoyed.
"Are you sick of me?" his love asked suddenly, and it caught him off-guard.
"What?" he whispered.
"Are you sick of me? It's fine, dude, really, I understand. I can be a serious pain in the ass sometimes-"
"Don't say that!" the words left his mouth even before he got a chance to rethink and he squeezed his love in a tighter hug. "Never… say that." His heart felt heavy and his entire body shook with choked sobs. "Ever…"
His love put his forehead to his own, and he wondered what kind of expression he had. "It's fine if you don't want to tell me a story," he said, his voice quivering. "I'll tell it to myself."
"No, no," he said, breathing in the scent of his love. "I'll tell. So… this girl, right? She never had enough food for her father, and every day her and her father's condition got worse and worse. She didn't know what to do. One day she packed a bag and left her house-"
"That's cruel!" his love argued, and he felt arms crawling to his nape. "She shouldn't leave her sick father like that…"
"She didn't have a choice," he said, his hand twirling his love's hair "She went to look for another place to catch fish. But wherever she went, the fish didn't come, until she herself became sick. So she couldn't go fishing anymore because she was so sick, and stayed home with her father. No one was there to feed them and take care of them."
'They're going to die…" his love said sadly.
"One day her father said," he continued, ignoring his love's comment. "'It's great that we're going to die together. You never left my side, even in death'. The End."
"That's a story about death!" His love said angrily.
"But… not really, see, they'll be together in the next world, and-" the hug loosened.
"I don't care," his love said. "Tell me something else!"
"Picky today, aren't we?"
"Please… do it for me."
It's not that he didn't want to tell him something happy, he just… couldn't. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can't do it now."
"You shouldn't have suggested it then."
"I know," he replied. "My fault, sorry."
In the silence of the dark room they remained hugged, each in their on thoughts of sadness, until he decided to break the silence. "What am I going to do?" he asked.
"Live," the reply from his love was immediate, and he could feel his love's warm breath on his face.
"Life is hard," he said.
"And that's why it's interesting." Those words sounded weird when they came from his love.
He chuckled, his love chuckled, too. It's been so long since he heard him laugh last, and it made him happy. "I'll live, don't worry. You do the same," he said, and the silence that came then broke his heart more than the cruel words from earlier did. He pecked his love on the forehead, suddenly finding it hard to let go. Tears stung his eyes, and his lips quivered. "Good night, Kyle." he whispered, hating to pull away. He sat on the bed and then stood up, looking down sadly.
"Good night, Stan." his love replied in the same tone. Stan turned around and left slowly, not saying another word as Kyle closed his eyes finally, never to open them again.
The tears on Stan's face are the only thing that would keep him warm now.