starpower ━ [south park]

10. mother

"oh mother, i can feel."
- Jeff Buckley.

3:48 am, monday, 2007

The commute home from his weekend getaway to the colorado mountains moved in a blur for Stan, almost in the same way it did on the way up.
he fell in & out of sleep, the consistent chatter of his friends drowned out by whatever music played in his headphones. he clung to his backpack most of the ride, cradling it in his arms atop his lap as his head found comfort against the window.

because of this, he was the last of his friends to be dropped off. he managed to be home a little before the clock hit five to nine pm; waving a lazy hand to Kyle as he hurried his way through the front door.
but, as quickly as his elation to be home had risen, it fell into a hollowing pit in his stomach.

a sudden bout of disappointment began to fester within Stan's heart, heavy on his shoulders.
the mere sight of his house was one to behold— in almost complete disarray. the living room was a pigsty; glass beer bottles littered the disheveled carpet, the coffee table sticky with an unknown substance. half finished joints & cigarette butts homed snug between the stained couch cushions; the brown leather stunk of bodily fluids— vomit, piss, that of the like.

the tv in the living room blared a late night infomercial, as if whoever was watching was deaf, or close to it. but that wasn't all too important.
Stan closed the front door behind him, making his way slowly through the mess, anticipating his steps carefully.

he whispered an array of confused curses under his breath, but he was completely certain as to what had happened. he came to a slow stop at the dining room, where chairs laid knocked against the tile floor, the table so far out of place the discoloration of where it once stood became apparent. broken glass decorated the ground, the tiny crunch of it under Stan's sneaker making him jolt with surprise.

he set his hefty bag on the table, his skateboard leaned against its leg. he progressed further into the house, shyly peeking behind the doorframe leading into the kitchen. no one was inside. but, waiting for him was a running sink, broken ceramic plates & open cabinets, as if someone was in search of something. he made his way in, turned off the rushing water; but only then did he realize the figure sitting outside in the back.

on his porch, his mother sat hunched out, greedily puffing on a cigarette. Sharon Marsh promised to stop smoking, but the circumstances never really seemed to be in her favor. Stan watched her for a moment behind the smudged glass, her shoulders so tense they looked to be aching; the colder late summer wind brushing through her short brunette hair. her deranged fingers made an attempt to fix it every time, but to no avail, her trembling hands only made it worse.

it took a lot within Stan to slide the door open, met with the biting wind. Sharon almost jumped at the sound of the scraping door, but she couldn't find it within herself to turn back. Stan understood; he stepped along the creaky floorboards & took his seat next to her, taking in her state & form from his peripheral. time was kind to her, her hair was still short & brunette, healthy with a few gray hairs here & there. she was still beautiful. although, she had become much smaller in recent years, thinner. her favorite clothes fit much looser; but he assumes that's what happens when you're sucked dry of your spirit.