The Dreams of The Tortured(Style)[StanxKyle]{South Park}

Chapter 2- Kyle's POV

They sent me to take care of the mental ward.

It isn't teaching me shit. I asked them why I have to be here, they said it's like my job now, and I'll have to get promoted.

I don't get it.

Tweek comes in here about twice a day, today I'll ask why he isn't here all the time like the rest of the nuts in here. He's worse than all of them together.

They hand me the tray of lunches to give the patients. I check the file at the front of their bed.

"Here you go, Leopold." I try to sound sweet and trustworthy. This is just practice.

"Uh, if you wouldn't mind, I've asked you to call me Butters."

"Oh yeah. Sorry."

I give him his food, and go to the next bed.

"Here, Henrietta."

"Fuck off."

She seems normal... Ish. "Why are you here?"

"My fucking conformist parents didn't want to deal with my ass and said I have 'severe depression.' "

"And you don't have that?"

"No, you goddamn idiot. They abuse me and hate me."

"Really?"

"Yes. Before I got sent here, my mom called me emo."

"What's emo?"

"Self-pitying assholes who have the need to mutilate themselves for them to feel that others feel their pain. They aren't even depressed, just attention whores."

"Damn." I mutter.

"Preach, Henrietta!" I hear a voice call.

"Emo's can go fucking die." Another says.

"What assholes."

"So, you're not the only one here with fake depression?" I ask slowly.

"There's four of us, then there's a few who might actually have it."

"Ah. Okay." I hand her the food and give more food to others.

There were three adults, Mr. Marsh, Mr. Mackey, and Mr. Adler.

Was at the end of the second row, the one before the last and then I got a break unless one of them freaked out.

"Okay..." I look at the name in the file. "Here's your food, Stan."

I glance at his file again. He's in for depression and alcoholism, whatever alcoholism is.

"Your dad is Mr. Marsh?"

"Yea, unfortunately."

"So, he seemed to pass on alcoholism."

"I guess."

"May I ask a question about it?"

"Sure?"

"What is it?"

"I'm addicted to getting drunk, appearently."

"Drunk?"

"Drinking beer? Euphoric wasteland? Ring a bell?"

"No."

"Are you blond under that hat?"

"No, why?"

He sighs and I hand him his food, leaving to the last bed.

"Here you go, Ike."

He doesn't have any mental conditions listed.