Swimming Pools (STAN ANGST)

Cop car

The police car rumbled along the streets, the flashing lights illuminating the darkened corners of the night. Stan was slumped against the window, his head heavy, the world around him moving in slow motion. The alcohol was still thick in his system, making every movement feel sluggish, every thought clouded with dizziness. His hands were still handcuffed behind him, and he felt the sharp metal biting into his wrists, but the pain didn't register—not the way the deep, gnawing feeling of emptiness did.

His mind was a mess. He felt like he was drowning. His thoughts whirled, like a storm in his head. The rage he had felt earlier, the shame, the feeling that he was completely alone—he didn't know how to stop it.

But one thing was clear: he didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be stuck in this car, confined by these officers who had no clue what he was going through. The alcohol had made him reckless, and now, he felt the urge to run, to escape it all.

Stan's blurry gaze settled on the door handle, and for a moment, it felt like the solution to everything. Just get out. Just get away from it all. He could hear the thumping of his heart in his ears, and in that moment, all he wanted was to escape.

His hand reached toward the door handle, his fingers clumsy, but determined. He pulled at it once, then again, as the car rolled along the streets. He could feel the cold air brushing against his skin as the door unlocked, the feeling of freedom within reach.

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?" one of the officers snapped from the front, his voice cutting through the haze of alcohol.

Stan didn't care. His mind was spinning, and the thought of being trapped, of not having control over anything, was unbearable. He pulled again at the handle, this time harder. The door swung open a few inches, and Stan's breath quickened. He needed to get out. He needed to be free.

"Stop! Stop the car!" the officer in the passenger seat shouted to his partner, panic clear in his voice.

The car swerved slightly as the driver slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching against the pavement as they came to a sudden halt. Stan barely noticed, his whole focus on the door. He was ready to jump out, to run, to get away from this suffocating feeling. But as he made a move to slide out, the officer in the front seat reached over the seat, grabbing hold of Stan's arm, yanking it back with more force than Stan had expected.

"Don't even think about it, kid!" the officer growled, his grip tight around Stan's wrist.

Stan struggled, his body still woozy from the alcohol, but his frustration and panic fueled him. His mind raced—he couldn't be stuck in here. He couldn't be stuck with the suffocating weight of everything he had been avoiding. The officer jerked his arm again, and this time, Stan was too disoriented to stop himself from slamming back into the seat. He buckled under the force, but still, his hand went back to the door. His heart was pounding.

The second officer turned to his partner, a sense of urgency in his voice. "We have to cuff him now. He's losing it."

The first officer nodded sharply, grabbing the cuffs from his belt. "Hold him down!"

Before Stan could even register what was happening, the officers had moved swiftly, pinning his arms to the seat. One officer held him by the shoulders, while the other officer moved to slap the cuffs around his wrists. Stan struggled, his breath coming in quick, panicked gasps. His head was spinning—he couldn't think straight. The metal cuffs clicked into place, and Stan let out a groan of frustration.

"Goddammit," Stan spat, his words slurred from the alcohol, his head feeling like it was splitting in two. "Let me out! Let me go!"

The officer who had been holding him down, a gruff, older man, gave him a hard look. "You need to calm down, kid. You're making this harder on yourself."

"I don't give a shit! You don't understand! You don't—ugh—fuck!" Stan's voice cracked with emotion, his frustration mounting. He was still trapped, and it felt like he was suffocating. "I need out! I just want to be free!"

The officer in the passenger seat looked at his partner, a look of sympathy passing between them, but it quickly faded. "You're not getting out, Stan. Not like this. You can't just run from your problems."

Stan fell silent for a moment, the weight of the words crashing over him. He slumped back against the seat, his mind racing. He was angry, confused, and bitter. But there was a part of him—deep down—that knew they were right. He had been running from everything. From his parents, from his friends, from himself.

The silence stretched on, broken only by the sound of the car rolling down the road. Finally, Stan spoke again, his voice quiet and raw.

"I don't know what to do anymore," he muttered, his voice shaky, barely above a whisper. "It's... it's like... like everything's falling apart. My parents... my friends... they don't understand. I just want to stop feeling like this."

The officer in the front seat glanced back at him, his expression softening. "I get it, kid. But drinking's not the way to fix it."

Stan scoffed, the bitterness in his voice evident. "Then what the hell do I do? Nothing's working. Nothing ever works. I'm just... a fuck-up."

"You're not a fuck-up," the officer said firmly. "But you need help. You're pushing people away because you don't want to face what's really going on."

"I'm just... I'm just tired of it," Stan said, his voice thick with emotion. "Tired of pretending like I've got it all together when everything's falling apart. I started drinking to forget, and now... now it's the only way I feel anything. But it's not enough. It's never enough."

The officer's face softened as he took in Stan's words. "Stan, you don't have to do this on your own. But you need to face it. You need to get help before it gets worse."

Stan swallowed hard, the alcohol still clouding his thoughts, but there was a part of him that felt something. Something small but real. A glimmer of hope, perhaps. He wasn't sure. But for the first time in a long time, he felt like someone was actually listening.

"We're almost at the station," the officer said, his tone quieter now. "But when we get there, you need to understand that we're just trying to help you. You don't have to keep running."

Stan didn't know how to respond. He didn't know what to think. All he knew was that he was scared. Scared of what came next. Scared of what might happen when they got to the station.

The car slowed, turning into the parking lot of the juvenile detention center. The lights above buzzed faintly as they pulled up to the entrance. Stan looked out the window, the reality of where he was starting to sink in. This wasn't where he wanted to be, but maybe—just maybe—he could start figuring it out.

The officer glanced back at him one more time. "You're gonna get through this, Stan. But first, you've got to face it."

Stan didn't answer. He couldn't. All he could do was breathe, try to calm himself, and prepare for what came next.

As the officers got out of the car and motioned for him to follow, Stan took a deep breath, knowing that, despite everything, this was just the beginning.