TO THE READERS:
It is said that no one mourns the wicked. No one cries over the damned. For every hero there must be a villain. For every day, a night must follow. This story embraces that night. Instead of condemning the vile and hated, it looks at them through different eyes so we can see their pain.
In Gregory Paul's 2001 novel, Wicked: The Life & Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, this same point is illustrated. Elphaba, a young woman with green skin and great power, is despised for little reason beyond her skin color and negative moral outlook. She is slandered and eventually hunted down to be killed. No one mourns the wicked, until you take the journey they did. For who can define who is truly wicked? When each story has two sides and each antagonist his own tale?
It is no exaggeration that South Park is one of the most fucked up places on the planet. While Trey Parker and Matt Stone utilize this fact for comedy, if you were to take the time to go deeper the residents of this little mountain town have more psychological problems than chapters in a Psychology textbook. Garrison has sexuality and gender-issues, not to mention daddy-drama. Craig acts out to be noticed. Clyde is a narcissist. Mackey was a in his late-forties when he lost his virginity and an eventual murderer (his girlfriend choked on his sperm). The Stoches are psychologically and emotionally abusive to their son. LeAnne is a notorious slut.
This, of course, leads us to Eric Theodore Cartman. This boy has more problems than a simple case study could handle. This story delves into as many as I could find, while creating more for drama, taking in the consideration of age and personal development over time.
This story was researched in detail. I write from personal experience as well as testimony from readers, friends, family, and many psychology texts. I pull out all the punches to make it as authentic as possible because in the end, this is meant to help.
THIS STORY CONTAINS: homosexuality, profanity, sexual innuendo, bulimia, anorexia, self-mutilation, alcohol use, drug use, child abuse, partner abuse, animal abuse, homophobia, intimidation, violent assault, gang rape, female-on-male sexual assault, sexual battery, etc.
This story is dedicated to every reader and reviewer. It is dedicated to every person who has ever forced themselves to vomit or cut. To every person whose parent has ever struck him. To every person who has ever been abused at school for simply being themselves. This is for you. This is to let you know, you are not alone. There is always someone out there who wants it to improve for you. I am here for you.
Main Pair: Eric/Kyle
Secondary Pair: Stan/Wendy
Featured Pairs: Kyle/Rebecca, Bebe/Mark
Mentioned Pairs: Bebe/Clyde, Tweek/Craig, Butters/Token
Warnings: In this story, Eric becomes bulimic and begins cutting. There is mention of homosexuality, sex, violence, and abuse. This story is all about angst. So deal. There is a lot of focus on recovery and self-mutilation, both physical and emotional. Those with weak stomachs should not read this.
South Park © Trey Parker and Matt Stone
Fanfiction © Courtney Dracon (Me)
"Let It Bleed" © The Used
"I'm Not Okay" © My Chemical Romance
Chapter One: Hate
They call me fatass; some vexatious nickname given to me to represent all seven of the deadly sins. Spawn of a disgusting drunken union of only the unholiest of people. I am evil itself. I could challenge the (fairy) son of the devil to a contest to see who is the most evil… and win.
I smile at other's pain and misfortune; enjoying the twisted pleasure that can only be derived from another's misery. Finally, they're as unhappy as me…
But there's a thin line between love and hate, they say. I've never crossed it before, but there's a first time for everything, isn't there? And I found it, in the form of a little red-haired Jew boy...
- 0 -
I wasn't always a hateful person you know, but I grew into a sordid little asshole as the abuse about my weight intensified. I hid behind my hateful façade. I mean, I had to blame someone for what I was; because it was their cruelty that made me seek solace in food. It was them that made me eat endlessly. My "friends"…
Assholes. The whole lot of them.
Stan Marsh. That romantic sap. What a dick! He got good grades and was the fucking quarterback. He'd even gotten back together with his girlfriend, Wendy and they'd been inseparable ever since. It seemed like all they did was neck, regardless of where they were or who they were near.
Next was that blonde Ghetto trash, Kenny McCormick. Slut. At sixteen, he'd already managed to match my motherwith his whore behavior; screwing girls and guys alike. I'm surprised he hasn't contracted some sort of fatal sexual disease. As if it'd last, though. God would only send him back the very next day to gallop about and fuck once more.
And that Jew… God I hated him so much. He had the fucking perfect life. He was thin and taught. He was in all honors classes and got only A's. He even had a girlfriend. Some home schooled bitch, Rebecca, or something like that. She was a spaz, like that schizoid Tweek kid; except with boobs, albeit tiny ones.
It was jackasses like them that made me what I am: a fat, depressed, asshole that takes out his endless pain on everyone around him. It's all their fault.
I'm their fault.
- 0 -
One dreary morning in October, my alarm sounded as usual and I propped myself up; smacking the snooze button before lazily rolling out of bed. I padded into the bathroom, ignoring the scale. I stopped at the mirror.
I hated that pig that stared back at me; chubby face, tousled brown hair, squinty hazel eyes. Ugh. Disgusting. I tossed a towel over the mirror and went into the shower. The warm water seemed to melt away my anxiety, washing it down the drain with my sweat and tears.
I started to think while shampooing my hair. Maybe today would be different. Maybe today I'd start over and make myself a better person. Maybe today's the day! Maybe…
My happy thoughts always stop there as I realize, I'm useless and my feeble goals will never be realized. I don't have the drive or discipline for a diet. I can't handle the ridicule for it either. I hate myself. I can't believe I could be so useless.
And so, my thoughts progress into a downward spiral of self-loathing… and I wonder:
- 0 -
After dressing in my usual huge tee shirt and waterproof jeans, I pulled on my old red jacket. It was the only one of my childhood clothing items that still fit and to me, it was the most important. We'd been through so much together. I loved the frayed ends of the jacket sleeves and the occasional stain from some misadventure.
I'd always liked our adventures. I felt like I was part of something. Even if the guys didn't really make me feel welcome, I still enjoyed being around. Sometimes, it almost felt like we were real friends. Even with Kyle…
- 0 -
I left my house, walking down the sidewalk to the bus stop. I left deep imprints in the snow from my weight, so I hated to look down. It was beginning to snow and the dust was furling quietly around my ankles as the wind picked up the top layer of powder. I ignored everything around me as I walked down the street.
I stepped over the legs of our local homeless man, who had fallen asleep next to a garbage can by the end of my street, an empty vodka bottle in hand. I held my nose and breathed through my teeth, trying to disregard the terrible stench of vodka and stale sex of the unwashed soul.
I let myself sink into the music I was listening to. My iPod clutched in my meaty hand, I found the words of The Used quite soothing.
I'm lying to myself
And this dagger's my excuse
I'm a pawn
I should have paid up
And I left an hour late
I was laid up
I must abuse myself
I'm against all that I've made up
Set in stone the sun will come
And I hate light
You know I hate light
To me it looks so pretty burning
I knew their words were for me and me alone, and I needed to hear them. I closed my eyes as I walked down the street.
The roads were familiar to me; I knew every groove and turn. Sight was useless. I preferred the blindness anyway, because at least then, I couldn't see myself. I could live in the illusion of a perfect existence. Even if it would never happen.
When I opened my eyes, it was to find Stan and Wendy going at it at the bus stop. I was disgusted by the display they put on. Hadn't they ever heard of privacy!
I watched in abhorrence as Stan ran his tongue down Wendy's neck. She whimpered slightly, and he moved his hands from her waist up to her shirt. I turned away. I didn't want to see anymore. Why couldn't pretty people just stop flaunting it?
Wendy spotted me out of the corner of her eye and pushed Stan away, adjusting her aged pink beret. She pulled her coat closed, but not before I saw her rumpled blouse, a pink bra peeking out. The buttons around the chest were opened with obvious haste. Ew.
"Sorry Cartman," she coughed apologetically and turned away to adjust herself, trying to hide her shame.
Stan was less penitent. He glared at me with obvious distaste, clearly saying: Couldn't you have picked a better time? I supposed I couldn't blame him, I guess I'd be pissed too if I'd been interrupted like that. But, I didn't really give a fuck. Why should I?
"Are you listening to that shitty emo music again, Cartman?" he asked snidely, indicating the iPod in my hand with a quick jerk of his head. I grinned. Sweet, a fight. I loved a good debate. Who didn't?
"It's better than the heavy metal shit you listen to, dickweed."
Stan fumed and opened his mouth to say another insult. Sensing danger, Wendy clamped her mouth overtop of his for another long, incredibly annoying, kiss. I turned away and tuned out the sounds of love for something more Gothic.
What will it take to show you that it's not the life it seems?
(I'm not okay)
I told you time and time again you sing the words but don't know what it means
(I'm not okay)
To be a joke and look, another line without a hook
I held you close as we both shook for the last time take a good hard look!
I'm not okay
I'm not okay
I'm not okay
You wear me out
Forget about the dirty looks
The photographs your boyfriend took
You said you read me like a book, but the pages all are torn and frayed
Amidst the despondent lyrical prowess of Gerard Way, I didn't even notice the arrival of the Ghetto skank and the Jew.
"Could you two lighten up a bit?" I opened my eyes at Kyle's voice. He was standing with his little brother, Ike; his hand clamped solidly over the ten year old's eyes. Ike struggled vainly to still watch the show.
Ike may have been only ten, but he went to high school for his math and science classes anyway. He was some sort of Canadian prodigy, it probably didn't hurt that he was Jewish either. He'd grown into his head more since he was a baby. He was cute little kid, with bright brown eyes and birch hair. Well, he was cute; until he opened his mouth that is, because as soon as that happened, a string of ruthless, unforgiving, grammatically correct insults would spew out. He may have been only ten, but he could still make you feel like his inferior.
"Oh, right." Stan and Wendy let go of one another, straightening their clothing; grinning sheepishly at Kyle. He rolled his eyes and smiled back at them, a great smile. Kyle released Ike, who looked immediately depressed as he noticed the lack of soft porn for his enjoyment.
I watched them all exchange their good mornings and hellos; gazing on as they drifted smoothly into light conversation. I noticed that no one greeted me, although I wasn't horribly surprised. I just barely listened as they chatted, tuning in and out as I saw fit. Not even bothering to insert my usual snide comments. I didn't feel mean today. I never really did, I was only an asshole because that's what was expected of me.
I contented myself for the next ten minutes or so by pushing around chunks of dirty slush with my foot. I watched as the slush turned the white snow brown and dirty. The slow seeping of filth as it bled into the once pure snow repulsed me.
I was that slush, turning all around me as hateful as myself with just one touch. My hate was contagious.
The slush at my feet sprayed up over my pants as the bus pulled to a stop in front of us. "Fuck," I mumbled angrily, shaking the dirt from my pant legs as I followed the others onto the bus. I had to turn sideways to fit through the tiny little door. I saw Clyde snickering.
I moved to the back of the bus and took up residence in my usual seat, the one I had all to myself because no one could fit in it with me, nor did anyone want to. After all, no one likes Hitler reincarnate.
I gazed absentmindedly out the window, watching the snow whip in the wind as it fell to the ground. It piled upon itself. Just like my hate, growing, gaining strength. Forever cold… Just like South Park. Gerard Way had a point:
I'm Not Okay…