A Tale [SOUTH PARK OC X MICHAEL]

chapter 15, Eric FUCKING Cartman and a mouthful.

Oh how sweet the anti-christ may seem, as Eric Cartman is a devil incarnate. The session at therapy had stirred up the room in anger more than it ever had. All because of this fucking fourth grader whose nose was permanently offset. Morris did keep his promise to Michael and talk today, but the cost was too great.

Obviously, Eric sat next to Morris. Eric learned that Morris didn't usually talk when the therapist commented on it when the fifth grader raised his hand. You know the introduction, think any alcoholic anonymous meeting ever, but replace the alcohol with eternal, primal rage.

"Ah, Morris. You're finally speaking today?" The therapist said, not meaning to gloat on the boy. But then again, it could be chalked up to be a test to see if he was actually learning anything here.

"Yes, hi. I'm Morris Park and I go to South Park Elementary." Morris was standing, hands in his pockets as he spoke to the ground. "I'm in here because of the two counts of battery and one count of assault I was charged with and it was thoroughly explained to me that I either do this or land in juvie. I have the tendency to fly off the handle when someone gets into my personal space, and actually hurt people who do touch me. People don't like how much the bridling rage that grows in me relies upon simple touch and I suppose I was thrown in here to change that. If I had gone to juvie, I think I would have already taken a life."

The therapist was writing down notes, nodding along. Morris sat down, still not looking away from the spot on the floor, going back into the comatose zone. The adults were left to realize how fucked up this kid was, and how scary it was to relate to this fucker. Michael had a doe-eyed expression of sorts, trying to hide his half-chub as he thought about his friend's internal affairs, pulling lines from Nightpain's greatest and meshing it with his own.

However, Eric pulled a psychotic headache on the therapy session. The therapist was sitting there with his head in his hands as everyone in the room fell for a 9 year old's fearmongering against this 12 year old, creating a riled up group of messed up adults with severe anger issues. Morris had moved more out of the circle, looking at the commotion Eric had created, watching out for any stray hands.

He vomited because something wet and warm touched the back of his neck, the bile spitting onto the floor. Morris looked back after he launch himself from his chair, hand clapped over his mouth, a horrified look stamped onto his face. It did not morph as a he saw Eric holding a small, yippie dog outwards, a half pleased, half disgusted look plastered onto his own fat fucking face.

"What's wrong, Morey? Afraid of a little dog?" Eric's voice damning amongst the chaos.

Morris was still focused on the fact that a tongue had been on his neck. A tongue. On his neck. His face paled and he rushed for the exit, hand now full of vomit as he reached the outside.

Morris managed to slip to the side of the building, collapsing into fresh snow. His non-vomit hand scratched and scratched and scratched at the spot, until it was bleeding red. It hurt like a bitch, scratching at muscle and tearing at flesh. Pain, pain, throbbing pain. This was better, way, way better than that feeling.

Oh wow, it was late. What's that smell? Vomit? Mom?

Morris looked up from his spot in the indented snow, taking in the curly black hair and hooked nose, the owner's black eyes piercing.

"You look like a corpse," Micheal commented, woolen hand held out.

Morris got onto his hands and knees, head immediately spinning. He crawled away, collapsing two inches into the unsolicited snow. Morris was really feeling the cold once he hit that untouched powder. He saw the red dripping before he felt the warm hand on his shoulder. The small buzz of pain rendered him weak, too weak to fight the goth off. So he lays in the icy snow, the prickling fear presenting itself at a fool's pace.

Michael looked around for anything to carry the kid in, but nothing was immediate. He could technically go off and bug Henrietta for her toboggan that her parents got her one year, but that would take too long. Some homeless guys could come around and get their crummy hands on him. That would be bad.

"Can you stand or whatever?"

He got a groan in response.

Michael rolled his eyes, bracing himself. The goth shoved his hands under the incapacitated boy, nudging him upwards. Michael's knees were already weak when he managed to get Morris to his feet. The smell of bile, blood and cologne was a dastardly thing.

A bloody hand pushed at Michael's side when they started walking, Morris wearily trying to push him away. Michael steadied him, the goth's arm holding the swell of his back. He braced Morris's shoulder with his other arm. He only gripped tighter at the frail wiggling.

Michael looked to the boy's face when they were waiting for a line of cars to pass them. The streetlight illuminated the pale, frightful face the boy gave. The sweat and the nauseating fear apparent. Mouth downturned, eyes wide, cheeks hollow, eyebrows raised in horror. The goth would have dropped his hold on him if it weren't so crucial.

They slowly made it to Morris's house, avoiding the police station made the trip even longer than it could have been. Morris never dropped his expression, but seemed to lean into Michael more and more as they went. He must be tired.

The lights of the house were off, windows staring out with bleakness, and nothing to illuminate the doorways. Michael tried the front door, finding it locked.

"Key," Morris rasped out, shakey hands groping at his stained jacket. "In my- in my pocket. Wait."

The key was in his inside pocket, and it took him a couple tries to get it to the door. Once inside, Micheal got Morris upstairs to the bathroom. Michael let him go.

Morris immediately started stripping, gasping loudly for air as he headed for the tub. Micheal averted his eyes, flipping on the light before he left the room. The running water dismissing the goth.