You Don't Mean It ||Staig||

||Part Three||

TW: Cursing, Violence, Mention of Drugs, Drugs, ED, Abuse

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Stan had ended up sneaking Craig back into his room, but the raven haired boy made it extremely clear that he didn't want Stan to see his room. He made Stan close his eyes and set him onto the floor. 

"How are you going to fix your ankle?" Stan asked him, his hand still placed firmly over his blue eyes. He waited for a little while, feeling dumb as his hand was still covering his eyes. 

Stan jumped back once he heard a loud noise. His eyes fluttered open. Craig had slammed his window shut and closed dark blue shades. 

Stan felt a frown settle against his face as he turned away. He didn't know why he couldn't just learn his lesson the first time. Was he going to accept that he couldn't be friends with everyone? Or keep on trying?

Craig stayed still on his carpet for quite sometime. His back was against the floor as he stared up at the plastic, glowing stars that littered his ceiling. His foot was sticking out awkwardly, Craig only hoped that it wasn't broken. 

"I fucking hate my life..." He mumbled to himself. Craig let his hand rest atop his chest as he closed his eyes. The floor wasn't comfortable at all, but he didn't have the energy nor the mindset to try and pull himself up. 

He stayed against the carpet for a little while, feeling his blue chello hat slip away from his hair a little bit. He got tired of the ticklish fabric and threw his hat across his room. For once in his life, Craig wished that someone was holding him close now. 

He really hated to admit that, hated it with all he had, but there was no way he was going to get through this. He hadn't the first clue on how to fix anything. The only thing he knew how to do way poorly wrap his hands up in bandages and smoke himself sick. 

He let out a sad chuckle that quickly progressed into a shaky sigh. His ankle burned like hell. Craig felt that he acted foolish and pushed away the only person that actually wanted to help him. Craig didn't know what was wrong with him. 

Clearly his parents were right. Craig curled up on his floor, hoping that the pain would just go away so that he could fall asleep to let his thoughts die down. Only, sleeping wouldn't help at all, nor would it arrive. Nightmares were the only thing poking around in his brain whenever he tried to sleep. 

The only sounds in his room were the blades on his fan spinning around in circles and his shallow breathing. 

Stan wished everything was that quiet in his house hold, though he wasn't so lucky. 

"Stan! Tell me why the fucking school called today?! You skipping class again?!" His mother, Sharon, screamed. She held her phone in her hand, and a slowly burning cigarette in the other. Stan's father was passed out on the couch due to his daily drinking. He would never back Stan up in the first place, not that he ever noticed his existence.

Stan was red faced, standing in his football uniform as his mother yelled at him. She practically threw her phone at his head, yelling something about how she didn't answer it, not wanting to hear another disappointing thing from him. 

Stan furrowed his eye brows as the corners of his lips dropped onto a frown. He leaned away from his mother, dialing the number that had rung earlier. He held it close to his ear, flinching as his mother mumbled hurtful things under her breath. 

"Hello...?" Stan asked softly once the phone stopped ringing. He hoped that the call wouldn't progress into voice mail so that he could get it over with and go to sleep. 

"Hey, hello! Is this Stan Marsh?" The person asked from the other side of the phone in a positive yet tired tone. Stan nodded to himself but then quickly spoke up, realizing and feeling dumb as he'd forgotten that the person could not see him.