South Park Oneshots

Heavy, Blue Comforter (Stan Marsh)

Cold claws scratch at the pair of feet that are resting just outside the heavy blue comforter, the only thing keeping Stan from flying too far away from where he currently rests. 

He's sick. Though, the flu isn't the thing that's tearing him apart piece by piece, making his life a living hell to sit through.

It's depression.

The horrid monster that has been clinging to Stan's leg ever since he was a young boy- around ten, he thinks is whenever this thing latched itself to him and just hasn't felt the need to let go.

The room is cold- there's no doubt about it. The weather had dropped to below 0°F this morning, and Stan's room would have icicles hanging from the ceiling if water even dared to try and drip through. He's made plenty of mental notes that he should make the trek downstairs, dragging his sock covered feet across the wood, just so that he can reach the heaven of warmth that he knows is downstairs.

Yet, he can't.

His body won't let him move from this spot. No matter how many times he's mentally yelled at himself to 'just move already', he can't. It won't budge.

If it weren't for Sharon and Randy being downstairs and frequently coming up to remind their bedridden son to wash up from time to time, Stan swears he would just die laying in that very bed, with the heavy blue comforter crushing him.

Days and nights go by, the burning sun touching the now pale boy's skin every morning, and the dull shine of the moon burning into his eyes at night. He's losing track of time- he can't tell what day it is or how long he's even been laying here, staring at this stupid, plain, purple wall. 

He feels like he's losing his mind and yet, he can't do jack shit about it.

On the side table just to the right of the bed, there's full plates of untouched food from the days that Stan hasn't eaten. His mother has been kind and generous enough to bring him food every meal time- she seems to be the only one in this God forsaken household that cares for him.

The eggs on the breakfast plate from this morning has contracted a fly, who enjoys the feast of home cooked eggs and bacon, a side of toast and orange juice.

The half-cup of orange juice has a bendy straw coming out the top of the glass. It hasn't been touched, so all the pulp has sunk to the bottom of the glass and made a gross, sticky residue, or it's on the inside of the straw that has itself rested in the orange-yellow liquid.

Speaking of fluids, Stan hasn't had any intake of orange juice, or even water for that matter, in days. His tongue is dry- it feels like sandpaper. Sometimes he can feel it drag across the roof of his mouth, making a nasty friction that results in him bringing up any saliva he has left in his glands, hoping to relieve the disgusting feeling that is lingering there.

Kyle, Butters, and Kenny have all come by from time to time, trying to get the noir haired teen to cheer up a little bit.

Kyle will bring over his Nintendo for Stan to play with, but he doesn't budge, or even look his way.

Butters will try and show off the new Pokemon cards he's collected from the seniors at the high school, even with as childish as it may sound.

Kenny even tried bringing over his dad's Playboy magazines to try and get a boner out of Stan, just to try and see if he was alive in there. Alas, the sight of half naked women with their boobs almost out never even made him blink.

"Well, the mans dead, if I had any say in it." Kenny shrugged, slipping the dirty magazines back into the inside of his parka, a very distant, but sad look upon his young, bruised features before he's found wandering from the bedroom, only for Butters and Kyle to follow with a sigh.

That was days ago, if Stan can recall properly. But who even knows anymore, that could have been a year ago for all he knows!

Stan has a slight view to the outside of his window from where he's laying, and he can see his buddies with Craig's gang, out in their coats and mittens, playing football in the high feet of snow. It looks like a lot of fun, he notes mentally, and wishes his body would let him go.

Yet, he can't. So he's stuck laying here, under the heavy blue comforter.

It's been a little bit since the last time he felt water run through his hair, until it hits him abruptly, knocking him from his thoughts.

Wh- how did he- h u h ?

Huh.. he must have zoned out while climbing into the shower. In the back of his mind, there's the small ringing voice of his mother.

"Stanley, go shower. It smells in here and I think most of it is coming from you. Gah- why haven't you taken these downstairs yet? This is gross- this sandwich has mold on it!"

Her nagging, high pitched voice is annoying to recall. Yeah, she definitely cares about her son who's battling a mental battle right now. Yeah, she cares.

The hot water stings his back like a billion tiny tacks jabbing into the sensitive, cold skin. He flinches at the feeling, looking up at the shower wall with a nauseous feeling building up in his gut. He's dizzy, and he knows exactly why.

All of it feels too much- going from feeling almost nothing to all these sensations crawling under your skin is scary, and it makes his head pound, feeling like someone is taking a brick and smashing his head in with it, all while he's awake.

Tears spring to his blue eyes, and he's leaned forward, one forearm pressed against the tile wall of the shower, hot tears mixing with the water as it falls down his still cold cheeks.

He wants just to be normal, that's all he wants. He wants to be able to go out and play, and to enjoy his life with all of his friends! But he's stuck in bed, withering away into nothingness since his body and mind tell him no. They feel too heavy and sickly to move from their spot.

For days now, Stan has been wanting to get out from that blanket that he's been trapped under, but now, that's just where he wants to be.

Safe, under the heavy blue comforter.