A/N- I do not own South Park or any of these characters. This was written purely for fun and I am in no way making any money off this fic.
I wrote this monologue after reading the first couple chapters of 'Smashed' by Koren Zailckas. A must read. I was inspired by what I read and here we go.
The four of them are not my friends. They're not the type of people to have friends outside of themselves. They've been friends all their lives. They don't need any more. They're not the people you have for friends. They're not the people you want for friends. They're not the people you are friends with. They're just the people everyone knows. It's impossible not to know them. They're the kind of people who just scream 'know me for I am here and so you are to know me' without even acknowledging your presence.
I know them. They're Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman. I've known them all my life. I don't remember meeting them. I've just always known them. Years from now, I will still know them. They're unforgettable. Once they get inside your head, you don't forget. Like the first time you kissed the person you like or the first time you lay down and let someone touch you. You remember all the details, but never the big picture. That's how I know them. The details. The little things I can't get away from. But I'll never remember the day I met them. I'll never remember the first time they finally stopped ignoring me and turned their cold eyes in my direction to decide whether I was worth their time or not. I'll remember the way they looked at me, though. That stare that shoots through like a bullet and leaves just as big a hole when they turn away, concluding I am decidedly not worth the time and effort of a simple 'hello'.
They're the type of people I want to be. They fear nothing but boredom. When the worst comes around, they throw their heads back and laugh. I'm not that person. I hide in the corner, cover my ears, and wait for it to be over. I'm a coward and I know it. They know it, too. That's why I'm not worth the time. They only acknowledge the people who aren't weaklings. They are strong and they seek out strength. Like a pack of wild dogs, they smell fear and they attack it. They don't come over to it's house to play cards.
That's what they do with each other. They are the dogs and they hang together. They're not the type to be friends. If they hadn't met when they did or if they had ever been able to track down anyone stronger, they wouldn't be friends. Stan is an athlete. He likes girls and doing nothing for no reason. Kyle is smart. He reads books that are three inches thick with little print. Kenny is a dirty pervert. He stares at girls' chests and sketches those girls' privates. Cartman is an asshole. He like to be mean for the sake of being mean. They don't have anything in common except that they have nothing in common with anyone else. That and they're fearless outcasts.
I want to be an outcast, too. I want to go over to their houses to do nothing. Sometimes, I get to go. I sit on Stan's bed in his dark blue room littered with empty sodas cans and I pretend I'm one of them. They don't do anything. Stan plays video games on his personal computer. Kenny lays on his stomach on the floor, flipping through pornographic magazines. Kyle sits in the window sill and reads through novels with fancy titles. Cartman lays on the bed as he eats chips and reads comic books with more blood than words. I don't do anything with them. I just sit there, my knees pulled to my chest, and try to think of something cool to say. I'm not noticed. They have chosen to allow me entrance to their room, but not their world. I may sit there, but if I can't think of something clever, I might as well be sitting alone in my bedroom.
As it is, I am not clever. I can never think of something interesting to say. My comments are never as witty as Kyle's, as racy as Cartman's, as dirty as Kenny's, as cunning as Stan's. I know I should keep my mouth shut. The conversations aren't for me. They're a test. A test to see if I'm paying attention, listening in or day dreaming. One of them will mutter something either obscene or senseless, and they will begin what qualifies as conversation within their walls. Insults and personal attacks are what they really are. I have never been invited to a real conversation. Just the ones they throw on when they want to amuse the masses or pass the time when the images seem faded, the words have lost their zest, the violence has become meaningless. I am privy to these fake exchanges where they test to see where I stand.
I don't know how to answer. The way they communicate is as foreign to me as Latin or Greek. I hear the slurs and the snickers and my mind goes blank. It conjures up the image they are painting rather than a response. When it is my turn to bite back, I find my tail between my shivering legs. I am a deer caught in headlights but they don't brake for scared animals. In less than two seconds, I have missed my opportunity or overshot my landing. If I don't say anything, the colors of their eyes will converge in an unspoken mental laugh. If I say something, it is the wrong thing. They clamp their snarling mouths over my throat and tear me to shreds. There's no talking with them. I am not brave enough to brace the whirlwind of frantic attacks at my statement.
Usually, I say nothing. I pretend I can't hear them. Eventually, they move on. They don't need me to have a good time. I am an inconvenience. I don't need to be told this. I am well aware of it.
But I want to be included. They are the type of people I want to be. In a way, I know I want to be them because they don't want to be me. They fear the normal as they find it boring. All they fear is the mundane. I am mundane. I scare them in ways I assume they have noticed and despised. That's why I want to be them. I want a way to hate myself so that I can change myself. The logic doesn't make sense, but I find that chaotic confusion alluring. I long to be them. So, I stay with them, pretending.
They do not pretend. They are victorious in having become something. I don't know how they did it. I have spent many nights trying to figure it out. At the age of fourteen, I am a nobody. I am a fragile child with no identity. I wear clothes my grandmother sends me for my birthday. My room is still a baby blue color with old toys peeking out from the corners. I still wear my hair at a military acceptable length. I constantly check the mirror for facial hair. When my father isn't home, I sneak into his bathroom and try shaving. I have cut myself numerous times and had to stick paper to my face. In every way, I am still a child. They aren't. They found themselves somewhere in the mists of middle school hell and tossed on the new thems with grinning fox smiles.
Stan wears jerseys that support teams that no one likes. His black hair is cut by a razor. I know he cuts it himself because he carries the razor in his wallet like a medal. His jeans have holes in the knees. Sometimes, he wears a choker necklace with a rose on it. I don't know why. He only wears it when he's in a tank top with some loudly outspoken phrase written over his chest like 'Down with the System'.
Kyle has no preference of style. He pairs his button down workman's shirts with plaid cut off shorts and heavy leather boots. He keeps his curly red hair tucked below a green hat he never takes off. His style rotates with his mood. He gets dressed in the dark, is what they say. Yet he wears all his looks well. Fads mean nothing to him. He wears what he wants.
Kenny is always dirty. His jeans are the wearable equivalent to Swiss cheese. His boxers can be seen through them. Sometimes, he doesn't wear boxers. I don't know what shirts he wears since he has his parka. He always does up his hunter orange parka to his chin and flips the hood over his unkept blond hair. His parka doesn't go with anything, but he never takes it off. Not even in the summer, when the temperature reaches the hundreds.
Cartman doesn't care what people say about his clothes. His tee shirts always have something disrespectful on it. They say cuss words and have pictures of naked women and have racial slurs printed in big letters. He always gets in trouble in school and has to call his mother to bring him a change of shirt. When he gets in trouble, he just runs a hand over his messy brunette hair and laughs. He wears those things to offend and they always do.
They're not children anymore. They wear things that get them in trouble. Not wool sweaters with bunnies on the sleeves. They don't pretend to be grown up. They just are. They came out a time of childhood turmoil without a scratch. I didn't. I have plenty of scars that will haunt me well into my young adult life. That's why I hang out with them. I want their personas of adulthood to rub off on me. I want to throw off the shackles of my meek childhood to embrace what comes next. Still, I sit on Stan's bed, my knees pulled up, and I say nothing.
Saying nothing makes me boring. I only get to hang with them when they need entertainment before something else. When Kenny finds some dead animal they can go set on fire, they invite me over for lunch. Any time Cartman gets left alone at home for the weekend, they call me to see if I'm available for a movie marathon. They don't want me to be around when the fun starts. I am a preview, an appetizer for the entree of deviant activities they intend on finding later. I have done many things during these brief outlooks that I'm not proud of. They have convinced me to steal, to lie, to hurt, to hunt, and to prey on the weak ones they victimize. Still, when they head out for the main event, I am not called upon. I am boring. I say nothing to make them sneer, smirk, or snap back.
Yet, I continue to seek them out. They are like an addiction that grabs hold of your body and won't let go. This is why people don't seek out their company. They slip in and trickle into the blood until you need them to function. I need them. I have allowed myself to become obsessed with the world they offer. I have found myself in the throws of it all and I came crawling back.
They are an abusive bunch. I have left their homes with bruises and contusions the likes of which my mother has never seen. Kenny likes to bite. Cartman likes to beat. Kyle likes to punch. Stan likes to smack. They are not kind about it. They take the punches and they expect everyone else to. I don't hit back so I am easy prey. They snarl and spit and circle around with their eyes poised on my defenseless, spineless body. They all strike at once and grab hold of a body part. When they pull back, they tear me apart. Then, they sew me together and send me home. The abuse is mostly emotional, but my body has seen better days.
The abuse is an initiation. I was told by my father once that in many societies, hazing is a normal rite of passage. I need them to function so that I can learn to mimic their successful methods of finding identity in a sea of identical faces. So, I let them haze me. They find injuries that haven't healed to harass. Whatever baggage I claim, they grab hold of and dig in. They don't stop until the flesh wound is a gaping, festering infection. There is no remedy for this kind of abuse. They have found ways to make simple phrases become toxic cocktails of self destructive poison. Worse, they know all the methods of making sure you open your mouth and chug the burning words. Only when I'm staggering, do they let up. By then, they have found something else to entertain their sadistic minds. I am an after thought they leave by the side of the road.
I understand the hazing better than I thought I would when I first heard about it. They need to make sure that the person seeking their companionship is a dog, not a cat. They don't accept pussies into their select group. So, they weed them out. The bashing is only the beginning. I have spent enough time to know that the worse comes when I am friends with them. The terms of endearment they fasten to each other would make the nastiest asshole blanche. Somehow, they have perfected not only the way to maim, but the way to shield against it. Nothing that is said within the inner circle has a lasting effect. The attack is brutal sucker punch that has the reaction time of two seconds before the next punch is thrown and an all out fist fight breaks loose. They never stagger home to have their mother's lick their wounds, though. They finish up, panting and bleeding, and laugh about it.
They are dogs. They bark and bite and are fine with it. I am a pussy. I am not. They know this. They haze me to break every bone so that when I heal, I'll be able to fight back like a real man. They don't need to tell me so. I just don't know how to surrender and let them do it. They test me constantly. I sit there, knees to my chest, and they throw out the bait. A small phrase. Something raunchy or insulting, directed towards me, and they wait. They circle like vultures, awaiting the kill. I never know what to say, so I say nothing. I pretend I don't hear them. I lower my head onto my knees. They can't haze me, so they move on to each other. I am left out of the fight. I am deemed boring. It will be only a matter of time before they shoo me out the door to go play their real games, with their real conversations, with their real friends.
I am not their friend. They don't have friends. They have each other. They have no need for me. I want to be like that. I want to have no need for something, anything, anyone. Until I learn how to bite back, though, I will forever be sitting there, unable to play the game. So, I go with them. I listen in as they bicker and bitch and try to pick up their mannerisms. If I try hard enough, one day I will be able to lift my head, smile a smirk that tells the world to kiss my ass, and say something that will make them laugh. I will throw away my toys and donate all the sweaters from my grandmother and I'll cut my hair with a razor. I'll find a style that screams I am to be noticed because I have an identity, I am someone, and you should give me a second glance because I am worth the time. I will be like them. I will be a dog. I will bite back.
Until then, I will sit there, hugging my knees, and I will say nothing.