so i'm a bit nervous about this one, as it is my first fanfic i've EVER done.. not just of SP, but ever. yes, it's angsty, because i'm a depraved person like that, and no, it's not slash. this is the prologue; it's probably not that good right now, as i haven't really checked over it meticulously like i usually do with things like this, but i'm taking a risk and posting it anyway, just to see what people think. anyway. so this is in 1st-person POV, with butters narrating. the kids are around 14-15 years old (freshmen in high school) throughout most of the fic, but the prologue takes place a while later, so butters is a bit older here. nothing really happens in this little passage i'm giving you now, but it WILL pick up, i promise! (i have other parts written; they're just not in order, because i can't stand to write something strictly from beginning to end.)
anyway, enjoy the angstiness. O.o and remember, PLEASE be gentle with your reviews. (i might be editing this time and time again for continuity.)
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Once Alone, Always Alone
One picture. That’s all I have. One tangible memory of the time when they owned me. No, not “they” as in my parents; they tried as hard as they could to own me, but they couldn’t. My father is dead; my mother doesn’t much exist anymore, at least not the way I knew her. Everyone else – that’s who I’m talking about. From the beginning, they’d made me into their pet – pushing me around, coercing me to do everything for them that they didn’t want to do, laughing behind my back every step of the way. The only thing I regret is letting them use me the way they did. Well, they can’t do it anymore. Nobody can break you down if you don’t have an identity.
I suppose I keep this photograph because it’s part of my past. As much as it’s a past I would like to renounce from my memory, it certainly helps to remind me not to fall for the same scheme all over again. That’s something I’ve never been good at – standing up to people. Even those whom I knew were bad news after they revealed their true intentions to me – Eric Cartman and Kyle Broflovski, for instance – still managed to intimidate me into submission. I remember when I was a kid, maybe nine years old or so, I tried getting back at them by inventing a new character for myself. “Professor Chaos,” I called him. He was my alter-ego, something into which I could channel all my pain and frustration. Of course, I never ended up actually doing much to fight back; that was nothing more than a childhood fantasy. I’ve since learned the real way to defend myself against them and anyone else, and for me, that’s to fade away into the background. I was destined to disappear from people all my life; might as well accept it, right?
It disturbs me how happy I look in this picture. Two girls on either side of me, giggling and doing my hair up in little stubby pigtails with their hair-ties. One of the girls had long raven hair under a pink headband; the other had a mass of blond curls pulled back in a ponytail. There I was in the middle with a dumb grin stretched across my face, probably thinking they were laughing right along with me. They may have been, but who knew for sure? Only they did, and they sure as hell weren’t going to tell me if they weren’t. They liked seeing me make an ass out of myself. Everyone did, don’t you know.
There are people in the background worth mentioning as well.. I guess. Stan Marsh, Kyle Broflovski, and Eric Cartman were the kids sitting on the couch behind us, drinking sodas and probably watching a movie or something. Those guys were the perfect example of the fake attitude that the world seemed to love to exhibit around me – friendly and sweet on the surface, but a bunch of no-good, heartless assh*les underneath. Even now, it pains me to look at any of their faces, knowing how drastically they changed my life in a matter of minutes. It’s been two years exactly since that horrible night, but if any one of them apologized to my face this minute, I still wouldn’t forgive them. I have a hard enough time categorizing them as human beings.
Someone’s sitting outside the house, and you can see them through the window above the couch. At least, you can sort of see them; all there is is the top part of an orange hood and a hand holding a cigarette. Though his face isn’t visible, I can still instantly recall the name: Kenny McCormick. He was one of the more decent ones of the crowd. Though I didn’t get to hang out with him as much as the others, he was the one who seemed the most genuine and seemed to understand me the most. If I ever had to see anyone from that God-forsaken town again, it might be him. Maybe. That is, if he hasn’t gone the route of his bastard friends by now.
Well, those days are over, and I don’t need to worry about those particular people ever again. I haven’t taken even the slightest glance back in the direction of South Park, Colorado, and I don’t feel like doing so ever. The outside world is my home, yet the people living in it aren’t my family. Actually, nobody is family to me, but that’s what I’m used to by now. I’m a loner, and until some bright, shining day comes when I’m able to trust humanity again, that’s what I’ll always be.
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i'm currently working on the first chapter. can't wait until i can get to the random parts i've already written, haha.
“Red! Hey, Red, take a picture of us!” Wendy Testaburger called into the kitchen as she seated herself on the left arm of the chair and flung her arm around my shoulders. I sat in the chair between her and Bebe Stevens, who was brandishing a disposable camera as if it were on fire.
“Huh?” the short, ginger-haired girl asked as she rooted through the cooler on the kitchen table.
Bebe maneuvered a little closer to the archway so she could see Red more easily. “You’ve gotta see this,” she shouted over the cacophony of voices around us. It was quite loud in the Marsh household. This was understandable – Stan was having his fifteenth birthday party tonight, and he had invited at least twenty people over to the house, if not more. Some people were upstairs hitting the Gamecube, others were in the living room watching Saw II, and still others were getting their hair done up in pigtails by a couple of giddy girls. Actually, I was pretty sure that last category consisted solely of me.
Red returned to the living room with a can of root beer. As soon as her gaze reached the spot where we were, she looked directly at me and burst into laughter. “Oh my gosh,” she giggled. “He looks so adorable!”
I smiled and blushed a bit, unsure of how to react. “Thanks?” I replied uncertainly as I tugged at the yellow hair-tie attached to the left side of my head. As much as I was having fun, I still wished they hadn’t done those pigtails so tightly.
“How do you feel, Butters?” Bebe asked.
I considered the question. “Special? Yeah.. I feel special,” I responded. All three girls started cracking up again, and I joined them. It felt good to know that people were laughing with me for once.
Red received the camera from Bebe’s hand, stepped back a bit, and aimed it at the three of us. “Okay, smush in a little closer, you guys,” she instructed. Bebe wrapped her arm around my shoulders as she and Wendy huddled in close to me, and I offered a wide grin as the blinding flash hit my eyes.
“I am SO putting this picture on Facebook,” Bebe commented as she took the camera back from Red.
“ ‘Ay!” a brash voice yelled from behind. “Would ya go take pictures of your gay little hairstyles in the other room? I can’t hear the movie!”
“Oh, get over yourself, Cartman,” Wendy retorted. “Hey, Butters, let’s go show the guys upstairs!”
“Uh, no, I think the picture was enough,” I started to say, but Wendy had already grabbed my hand and was dragging me on up to Stan’s bedroom, where Craig, Token, Clyde, and Tweek were crowded around the Gamecube, playing some game I had never seen before. None of them lifted their gaze from the TV screen as we entered.
“Look what we did to Butters’ hair!” Wendy squealed, shoving me toward the group. I turned and gave her a Look of Death, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Uh, Wendy.. we don’t care,” Craig muttered as he furiously tapped buttons on his controller.
“GAH, CRAP!! C’mon-c’mon-c’mon-c’mon-c’mon-c’mon,” Tweek stammered, his right eye twitching as he jabbed at one button repeatedly.
Token glanced over at Tweek with a hint of annoyance. “Dude, that’s not fair. Tweek’s got so much caffeine in his system, he’ll kill us all in the first ten seconds.”
I looked around for the case the game came in, but didn’t see it anywhere. “What game is that?” I asked them.
“Shhh!” Clyde hissed. “Oh, dammit, I fell off the cliff. Thanks a ton, Butters.”
“What-ever,” Wendy announced. “Go play your stupid game. We’re outta here.” Before she could drag me off anywhere else, I walked out of the room as quickly as I could. She was starting to annoy the hell out of me. Maybe it was just that she was generally really happy and energetic tonight, but I was getting sick of it. Of course, I wouldn’t go right out and tell her that to her face; the best thing for me to do was escape from her. It was much easier that way.
With some effort, I removed the ponytail holders and ran my fingers through my hair so it would look at least somewhat normal. Then I went into the living room and joined Shelley, Stan, Kyle, and Cartman in front of the TV, where an image was being shown of a brunette girl screaming in a pit full of hypodermic needles.
“Ugh, man. I think I’m gonna barf,” Stan murmured, doubling over slightly.
“Stan, you’re such a pussy,” Cartman remarked. “This kicks ass!”
“This kicks ass?” I replied uneasily. Of course, anything depicting severe pain and gore was cool to him. I agreed with Stan; I was having a hard time watching the scene myself.
At that moment, Stan’s mother walked into the room. “Who wants cake?” she asked us all with a cheerful expression. Almost too cheerful, I observed.
Cartman looked up suddenly. “Cake? Where’s cake? I want cake!” he shouted as he got up and started to make a dash for the kitchen. Although his weight problem had diminished considerably since his elementary school days, he still had just as much of an appetite as ever, especially for junk. Actually, there was very little about his personality that had changed at all.
Mrs. Marsh stopped him gently. “Now, you know you’re supposed to wait until we sing to Stan, you guys,” she reminded everyone.
Cartman’s shoulders slumped. “Aw, man.”
Mrs. Marsh directed a concerned look toward her son, who quickly covered up for Cartman’s selfish behaviour. “He’s just kidding, Mom. I’ll go upstairs and tell the guys, okay?”
“All right,” she replied. “Shelley, do you want to get out the plates while I put the candles on the cake?”
Shelley rolled her eyes and sighed loudly and conspicuously, but she got up off the couch and did as her mother asked. Meanwhile, the rest of us made our way into the kitchen as well.
I noticed a distinctive odor coming from the orange-hooded boy next to me, and my nose wrinkled automatically. “Kenny, were you outside smoking?” I asked him.
“Shhh!” Kenny whispered, nodding toward Mrs. Marsh.
“Dude, it’s not like nobody’s going to smell it,” Kyle whispered back. “And besides, if she notices, she’s not going to care.”
Stan agreed. “Yeah. Shelley smokes all the time, and Mom doesn’t give a crap.”
“Shelley’s also eighteen,” I pointed out.
“Whatever, Butters. Kenny’s gonna be fine,” Kyle told me. “Hey, Stan, your dad’s here.”
Randy Marsh entered the room, his arms loaded with presents. Without saying a word to his wife, he turned to us and beamed. “Who’s ready to start?” he asked us, setting the brightly-wrapped boxes on the table with all the others.
“Me! Me!” Cartman yelled.
“Yes, we know you want cake. Shut the hell up,” said Craig.
Stan’s dad led us all in the birthday song, and Stan blew out all fifteen candle-flames in one long breath. As we clapped and cheered, Mrs. Marsh began to cut the cake into even slices and put each one on a paper plate for us to choose. Meanwhile, Shelley stuck a scoop in a gallon container of vanilla ice cream and set several bottles of chocolate syrup on the counter. All the desserts looked absolutely delicious.
“Didja make a good wish, Stan?” I asked. Without responding, the birthday-boy took a slice of cake and maneuvered past the crowd into the living room, and Kyle, Kenny, Cartman, and I followed him.
Cartman had already inhaled the contents of his plate by the time we got back to the couch. “That cake was totally awesome!” he stated. “I want that bitch to bake me some of that for my birthday!”
“Yeah, it's really good,” I told Stan. “Man, I wish I had your family.”
Stan gave me a confused look. “Why? You know they’re just acting all nice because it’s my birthday. My sister still hates me, and my parents have been fighting a lot more than they ever used to.”
“At least your family is still together,” I muttered.
Stan clearly didn’t know what to say; he merely shrugged and started talking to Kyle. Well, I couldn’t help it – ever since my parents went their separate ways three months before, I looked upon families like the Marshes with envy. Yes, I noticed that his mom and dad weren’t communicating very much recently, but in that situation, I saw hope. Not only had my parents not spoken with each other since August, but they didn’t show any signs of ever wanting to see each other’s faces again.
As the rest of the party guests chattered on and had a good time, I sank back into the couch cushion and set my plate on the coffee table. I didn’t really want to eat anymore now that I remembered where I had to go after the party was over. My mother’s house was a bit more bearable than my father’s, but it still wasn’t something I looked forward to all that much. She had been unbelievably stressed lately, and for good reason, but she never missed a chance to take it out on me – yelling at me for the slightest mishaps, even ones I hadn’t caused. I was beginning to grow tired of being the punching-bag for my parents and their stupid divorce. Maybe I could ask to stay the night here or something –I hated inviting myself anywhere, but as long as I could get away, it was worth the risk of seeming impolite.
“Stan?” I asked suddenly.
Stan turned to face me. “Yeah?”
Already, I could feel the old nervousness coming back – it wasn’t really my nature to ask for favours like this. “Uh.. w-would you mind if I stayed over here tonight? I don’t really want to go back to my mom’s.”
Stan grimaced and looked at the floor. “I’m sorry, man. I have to help clean up everything after the party’s over, and then I have to finish my English project. I waited until tonight to do most of it, and I can’t get a D this time or I’ll get grounded for three weeks.”
“Dude, that’s weak,” Cartman said. “My mom would’ve cleaned up everything herself.”
I looked at Stan. He really did seem sorry, so I couldn’t rightfully be angry at him. “That’s okay,” I sighed. “Ya gotta do what ya gotta do, I guess.”
As the party went on, I tried to act happy and forget about where I was going next. I’ll be fine, I repeated to myself over and over. I was okay the last time; I’ll be okay tonight. Just don’t let her get to you; you’ll survive. This was my mantra for every time I was forced to go to either one of my parents' houses; I could only pray that it would keep me from letting myself get hurt tonight.
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I really have to run off to class now, but that's what I've got so far for Chapter I. I'll probably edit it later, as I don't have time. Enjoy!
yeah.. the idea kind of came to me to write from butters' POV because i was almost exactly like that in elementary school. i'm not even kidding. i was really sheltered and innocent, and i got tricked into making an ass out of myself all the time. O.o
and i'm not planning on having ANY slash in this whatsoever.
Nine-thirty at night. That was when I was expected to be home. The windows in my mother's house were all dark except for one - the living room stayed partially lit. I scrutinized the front door in front of me - the elaborate designs carved into the wood, the burgundy paint chipping and peeling around the doorknob. Anyone who passed our house and saw this innocent door would never know exactly what it hid behind it. Maybe it was a good thing that they didn't. Why should they know and share the tension that abounded behind these walls?
I took my time as I withdrew the house key from my pocket. Here we go, I thought as I pressed the jagged piece of metal into the lock and turned it. Just remember your mantra, Butters. You'll be okay if you think you will.
I pushed the door open slowly. My mother was sitting calmly on the couch, her head ducked slightly forward, facing the muted television with a blank expression -- seeing, but not watching. The dark circles under her eyes were a sign that she hadn't slept well. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a loose, frazzled ponytail, and she wore a plain navy-blue T-shirt and sweatpants. A pair of knitting needles lay on the cushion next to her with a few rows of kelly-green yarn attached, and a coffee pot and mug stood on the end-table. Though no words had yet been exchanged, I could practically see the apprehension hanging in the air, stretching from wall to wall like cobwebs, waiting to be broken.
"Hi, Mom," I started, and my voice broke in the fragile atmosphere. She looked up at me; her expression didn't change. I moved over to the couch and sat down next to her.
"Hi, Butters. How was the party?" She pronounced the words like a tired robot; lethargically, deliberately, and without emotion.
"It was good. Stan got a lot of good stuff, like a new bass guitar. I wish I had one of those." I actually didn't really want one that badly; it was merely an attempt to try to break the ice.
"Wow, that's good for Stan," she responded artificially. "So you had fun?"
I smiled. "Yeah. We were all acting kinda silly, though. These girls put my hair up in pigtails and took a picture of it. I'll show it to ya sometime. It's pretty funny."
"That's nice." My mother picked up her knitting needles abruptly and started rapidly working on another row. It was clear that she was in another one of her moods and wanted to be left alone. But she looked so unhappy that I couldn't help slipping in one last comment.
"Ya know.. you really shouldn't let Dad get to you so much. It's bad for you."
She stopped and looked at me again, but this time her eyes contained a spark of anger. "Don't talk about him to me," she said sharply.
I was taken aback for a second, but recovered quickly. This sort of explosive behaviour had become typical of her since the divorce. "All I'm saying is that maybe you should focus on something else for a change. Think about something good, ya know?" I smiled at her, hoping that she would exhibit at least a little bit of a positive reaction.
But no -- she seemed to be determined to stay upset. "I'll think about what I want to think about. Now go upstairs to your room and watch TV or something." She continued to knit even faster.
I gave her an imploring look. "Mom, please.. just listen to me. You're always brooding about Dad. You hardly ever go out with your friends anymore. I know he hurt you a lot, and it's hard for me, too. But you've gotta be able to move on and be happy."
Now my mother threw her knitting needles onto the floor, stood up, and glowered at me. "Don't try to preach to me, young man!" she snapped.
Well, of course she'd react like that. Shaking off the instinctive feelings of guilt and fear, I straightened up and looked her in the eyes. "I was just trying to help you," I told her firmly. "Why do you have to act like this?"
She would not be budged. "You're not helping a damn thing. I wanted to be left alone, and I get this kind of crap from you? Well, you know what? I don't need your insolence." The fire in her gaze intensified as her eyes narrowed. "You know, whenever I look at you, I see your worthless, cheating, bastard father. It makes me sick, you know that?"
I put a hand to my face. "Well, I kinda can't help what I look like."
She didn't respond to me. Instead, the next words that came out of her mouth were the exact ones I had hoped she wouldn't say.
"You're going to your father's tonight. I'm taking you there right now. I need some peace and quiet."
I was outraged. "What!? But Mom--"
"Don't argue with me, you little brat!" she barked, giving me a good backhand across the cheek. "Now go outside and get in the car."
So THAT'S how she was going to start dealing with things now. Just shove the kid off on his dad; yes, because that was going to help matters. Why was it that both my parents chose to escape from their own emotional problems instead of facing them and taking the appropriate action to get past them? No matter where I was, I was still her kid, whether she liked it or not. She was supposed to be my mother, the one family member who loved and cared about me more than any other, and here she was, shrugging me off.
Before she could yell anything else at me, I hurried out the front door. The car was sitting in the driveway, and I opened the door and climbed into the back seat. Inside, I slammed my fist into the back of the seat in front of me. I wished I had asked other people if I could stay over at one of their houses. Kyle's, Kenny's, or Tweek's might have been nice. Even Cartman's house was beginning to look like a better place to stay than my father's - at least his mom acted like a mom and not like a mental patient. Why did I have to get stuck with the most unstable parents in the world?
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This is NOT the entire chapter; I'm still getting rid of the bugs in the last part of it. I just wanted to get something up here so it looks like the story is going somewhere.
MaxwellsSilverHammer wrote:I put a hand to my face. "Well, I kinda can't help what I look like."
Tee hee, that's so what Butter would say, even at fifteen!
The only good Slash is the one from Guns N' Roses.
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