South Park Oneshots

The Blood of Innocence - Goth Kids

Tw: abuse, mentions alcoholism, self harm, suicide baiting, deadnaming, misgendering, underage marijuana use, suicidal ideations
Cw: trans male Firkle

Requested by Marissa465

Firkle knew it wasn't Goth of him, having sentimental feelings of longing, but he missed his friends. He was the only one in their group who wasn't an adult, and because Michael, Pete, and Henrietta all had jobs and lives of their own, they couldn't hang out the way they could as kids. He missed it. He missed them. I shouldn't have gotten so close. He thought while dragging a blade across the inside of his arm. This is so emo. They'd be ashamed of me. They can't ever find out about this.

It wouldn't be so bad, he supposed, if it weren't for his parents. His mother had become a nasty, heartless alcoholic, and his father was just cold and mean. His mother developed the habit of hitting her son when something went wrong. His father blamed him for it, and told him it wouldn't happen if he was a better kid, if he wasn't so combative and defensive. She'd hit me either way.

Neither were very supportive of him being trans either. It was draining to hear nothing but "Darla" day in and day out. He only had his friends, who were more like family at this point, for support, even if they didn't know he was trans, and now that they were gone, he never heard "Firkle" anymore. It was only "Darla" now, and that was exhausting. He guessed he was lucky, at least, to have a small enough cup size for a binder to give him an almost completely flat chest. What was still visible, which was barely anything, was easily hidden with a baggy hoodie.

Firkle felt tears prick his eyes, but he willed himself to not cry. No matter how badly his arm stung and throbbed, no matter how much he wanted his parents to be parents, and no matter how damned much he needed his friends. He stopped texting them a week ago; what was the point if he only got responses hours after the fact, or even worse, never received a text back?

He barely spoke anymore, either. He no longer had his friends around (and no one else wanted to be his friend), he refused to speak to his parents, and he never participated in class, even if the teacher singled him out. The only time he spoke was to cry in pain after he was beaten. He'd given up on everything.

His grades were in the drain, and he did nothing but get high or hurt himself to numb the emotional pain he couldn't escape from otherwise. He was on the verge of getting expelled, with how many fights he'd gotten into lately, or the number of times he'd been caught smoking in the bathroom. He didn't care, though. Not about his grades, not about the possibility of getting expelled, and not about his friends ditching him.

He sighed and grabbed the blunts off of his nightstand, then the lighter. He placed one in his mouth and lit the opposite end, inhaling the gross tasting smoke. He used to think weed was for posers, but now? The highs were the only reason he could keep himself going. It was pathetic, he knew that, but it didn't matter. He'd do anything to feel better.

He finished three blunts and put the rest away, sighing in content. His world was spinning, and he felt as if he might throw up, but he felt relaxed and happy. His head felt as if it were floating, and his body was no longer so uptight and achy.

"Darla, you little shit!" His mom yelled, out of the blue. He flinched, tossing the blade under his pillow and yanking his sleeves down. Moments later, she barged in, her nostrils flaring with rage.

"What did I say about the laundry?! I had to do it so the smell wouldn't get to the whole house!" She screamed, grabbing him by the arm. Firkle winced with pain, instinctively trying to pull away from her.

"Don't you dare put up a fight now, young lady! I've had it with your pathetic, lazy shit! And I've had it with the weed! God, that shit is so disgusting, you're a fucking disgusting freak, you damned faggot!" She slapped him at first, and then it was as if no amount of violence would appease her anger. There was blood spilling from Firkle's nose, and his forehead was gashed from being thrown into his nightstand, busting his skin open on the corner of the wood. He refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing him cry, which only seemed to toss gas on the fire.