Hunting For Love [ STYLE ]

🩸 .09 | KYLE

DECEMBER 16TH

Stan had been sulking the last few days at school, and I knew it was because of his mom. I didn't feel bad for him. The sadder he was, the happier I got. It was what he deserved, anyway. During the first period of the day, I could see Stan scribbling in his notebook. Every so often, he would stop, wipe his eyes and nose with his sleeve, and then go back to scribbling. He surely wasn't doing his work. My plan was working— hopefully, with grief overwhelming him, he would become a vulnerable and easy target.

The bell rang, and my classmates rushed out of the room. I headed to my locker to switch out my books and felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to see Stan's saddened face looking back at me.

"Stan?" I said.

"Come to my house after school, please." He whispered, waving goodbye before trudging to his next class.

Shit. I thought. He knows it was me. I'm going to die, and Stan is gonna be the one to kill me.

Usually, I would be happy to see the clock hit 3, but today, I was worried. I bit my at my nails all through the last period, thinking about what he was going to do to me. School wasn't exactly how I wanted to spend my last hours alive, but I wasn't able to leave. The bell rang, signaling the end of the day, and I slowly walked out of the school. I knew I couldn't just skip going to Stan's house; that would be suspicious. So, I just sucked it up and dealt with the anxiety, hoping that maybe if he did come at me, I would be able to save myself by killing him instead.

I walked in the direction of Stan's house. It had always looked the same anytime I went there, but this time, it was like a haunted house with a gloomy aura. I knocked on the door, waiting for a response. I was physically shaking in fear, expecting to get gunned down the moment the door opened. Stan opened the door and greeted me, still with a sad look on his face. I was surprised that he didn't attack me.

"Hey, dude," Stan said, moving to the side to let me in. "Can we go upstairs, maybe?"

"Yeah, sure," I replied nervously.

I walked into the house, following behind him up the stairs and into his room. He sat on the bed, fiddling with a string on his mattress.

"Do you wanna play a game?" He asked.

"Sure...?" I said with skepticism.

Stan set up the game Call of Duty on his TV and handed me a controller. He sat on his bed, and I stood, feeling an awkward tension between us. As we played, Stan seemed pretty out of it. He had this face that I could tell he was making because he was still sad over his mom— I recognized it because it was the same face Ma and Ike kept making when I told them that the hunters killed Dad last month. For a second, I had felt bad for Stan, but the thought of my own situation he put me in made me remember that he had it coming for him.

We continued to play in awkward silence for at least another hour before I broke it.

"Sorry about your mom," I said, knowing good and well that I wasn't sorry.

"Thanks," I heard him sniffle behind me.

I turned to face him, seeing him facing away from me. I raised an eyebrow in confusion, but he ended up turning off the game and standing up from his bed.

"I'm gonna get some water," He said, leaving the room.

I nodded, watching him leave before exploring his room a little. Might as well get to know this guy before I kill him. I looked at pictures he had on his walls. It was either pictures of him as a kid or pictures with him and his friends. A few of them were covered with construction paper, which I found odd. I lifted the paper up on one, revealing a picture with him hugging his mom on his 8th birthday.

Oopsie.

I chuckled to myself with the thought that he would never get to hug his mother again. I put the paper back over the picture and glanced at his desk. His notebook, the one he constantly scribbled in during class, laid on the dark wood. I grabbed it swiftly, flipping through the pages. The drawings started off as cats, dogs, bunnies... then to emoji faces and monsters... then to numbers. I kept flipping, laughing at the silly drawings, before getting to the most recent one. It looked like a character with big, cloud-like curves for what I assumed to be hair, chunky shoes, and jewelry similar to mine.

Oh, not similar to me: it was me.

My eyes widened. Why would Stan be drawing me in his notebook? I thought the worst; Stan was probably drawing me because I was his target. He was probably observing my features and my style so he would know where to find me when I least expect it. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs and quickly shut the notebook, jumping onto Stan's bed and laying down. Stan opened the door and looked at me.

"Uh, anyway..." I said, trying to make conversation. "Why did you invite only me and not Cartman or Kenny?"

Stan hesitated to answer me, walking up to the bed and standing over me. Without warning, he laid on top of me and pulled me into a sort of hug.

"Stan?" I asked, awaiting an answer.

"Cartman is too much of an asshole, and Kenny had shit to do," He finally said. "And I think that maybe I trust you more than both of them."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

Stan wasn't looking up at me and didn't say anything else. He sniffled against my chest. God, he better not get me sick with whatever he has, I thought. Stan held me tighter. The whole interaction confused me so much until I felt my shirt wet, where he laid. I realized that he was crying on me. I rolled my eyes in annoyance, putting a hand on his head and patting it comfortingly. With my other hand, I brushed my fingers against his neck, feeling his soft, easy to bite skin. I could kill him right now; we were alone, and he was vulnerable on top of me. But a part of me didn't want to. A part of me wanted to make him feel better, even if I was probably the reason he was crying right now.

It was then I realized something.

Oh, fuck.

⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆

words: 1141

sorry I haven't updated in 2 weeks, lol