South Park Running Up That Hill

It could have been raining. It should have been. Lightening should have been tearing the sky apart, accompanied by bone breaking, foundation shaking thunder. It should have been so cold. But the Pathetic Fallacy is aptly named, and it would not do to think that the world gave a damn.

Irony, too, is a human creation; lest it be said, on this warm, clear night, with the breeze rustling the pine needles, that the forces of nature were contriving to demonstrate a bitter sense of humour.

A man could spend his millions in pursuit of happiness. This boy had spent all he had. The man with his millions could, perhaps, afford the means to stave off the dark for as long as it mattered to him. He could buy new clothes, he could buy fast cars, he could buy sex, and pills, and powders, and all manner of concoctions and elixirs in order that he might transcend mere "living" for another day. Or a year. Or perhaps a lifetime, with the right balance of luck and prudence and enterprise. He could even buy company, and as good an impression of companionship as he needed to be satisfied. He could just as easily replace what had become boring to him.

The boy, slouched on the bench overlooking the pond, had spent all he had. An empty bottle by his feet, and another in his hand, half empty, bore the ever diminishing returns of that venture. But it was enough to carry him, in a blur which would likely be all he remembered of the experience come the sunrise, through the stage of bitter contemplation of the circumstances which had driven him to it. And he had passed the point of cursing the cloudless night for its lack of concern.

Nothing out there gave a shit. Nothing and no one.

"For fuck sake" he sighed. It had become a habit. The cracked display on his phone glared back at him. He had been waiting for a reply, for a period of time he did not care to determine, and that reply still hadn't come. However much time had passed, it felt far too long.

It didn't have to be this way. He could be socializing. Hell, he might not have had to buy his own drink. But no, it wasn't one of those nights. Or rather it was, but the thought of seeing...

The phone was vibrating against his palm. A phone call. Speak of the devil, and he shall call you back.

"Dude, you OK?" The voice on the other end was hushed.

"Err... yeah." he replied, the thoughts swirling around inside his brain were in danger of dissolving into the alcohol. "Aren't you at that party?"

"Well, I was" came whispered reply, "but this one next to me thought she had an ear infection,"

This was dull. He didn't care. He didn't want to care.

"So we had to walk all the way back, so she could pop pills and collapse on my bed."

He forced a laugh, hoping it didn't sound as hollow as it felt. "You're at home then. Wanna come to the pond?"

"Sorry dude. I'm under orders. Have to stay within four feet of the ear unless it, you know, explodes, or whatever."

"That'd be an improvement." Bitter.

"Ha. Dude, fuck off."

"Dump her." Sincere. Going well. He was a good liar; why stop now?! His phone laughed. It sounded uncertain. Shit, was it uncertain?! Silence wouldn't help, but if he spoke now, it'd either be more truth, or a bizarre and unintelligible collection of syllables. And then Kyle would know that he was drunk.

"Are you sure you're OK?"

"Yeeeah."

"What are you doing at the pond?"

"Err..." fuck. "Nothing, really. I'm just phili...philoph...I'm just thinking."

"Are you drunk?" Somehow, the whisper had become accusatory. "Jesus Christ Stan, what are you thinking?!"

"Fuck off, like you care!" The words came out so quickly, and with such force, that he was taken aback. He panicked, and ended the call. The seconds ticked by, and then the phone buzzed again. He accepted the call. "What?"

"Why do you keep doing this to us, dude?" Kyle wasn't whispering anymore. Perhaps he'd left his bedroom.

"Doing what?"

"This. We don't see you for days, you don't come out, and then you fucking phone us in the middle of the night, drunk. You're being a complete ass."

"You," was Stan's retort. "I only phone you. The others can go to hell."

"Oh good, so I get special treatment. Fuck you very much. I don't even know why I called you back, I... What the hell is wrong with you? Have I done something wrong? Have I stolen the love of your life, or something? Is it B-"

"Just...stop!" Stan interrupted. A thousand thoughts and emotions ricocheted around his head, pounding against bone. He couldn't put them into words. "It's just... it's all shit, dude. Everything. The world is full of it. I don't see you anymore!" Well, that was some of it out, at least.

"That's your choice. You could have come out with us tonight, and last night, and you could have come to Cartman's the night before."

"Not them!" Stan blurted out, "I don't want them! I said I don't see _you_ anymore, not since that fucking succubus fucking stole you and, like, chained you to a wall by your dick." It made sense in his head.

"Dude..."

"Look, just go fuck her or something. I'll be fine."

"Fuck, man, stop saying fuck. I don't believe you. I'm coming to the pond."

Suddenly, that seemed like the worst idea in the world. "No! Don't bother. There's no point; I can make you hate me over the phone." That, on the other hand, seemed like a good idea. At least there would be a clear definition. He could deal with being hated.

"What, and that's want you want?"

"I...," he could say yes. He could; it might be better than this, but... "No."

"Right, but you said... what is it, then? What's bothering you; you can tell me, dude."

"I want... I want to swap. I want to swap places." This seemed to be sufficiently cryptic. "If I only could," he added as an afterthought.

So it _is_ about Be..."

"No!" His mind was faltering. Drink was murder to his short-term memory; had he yelled that, or whispered it? More to the point, how much further could he allow this to go? "No, it's not about her. Well, it is, kind of. It's..."

"Wait."

Shit, he'd caught on. Of course he had. Hadn't he? Hang up, Stan. Hang up.

"You want to swap... No, that's stupid. You... do you want to swap with... with her? Oh, Stan..."

He made to speak, but no sound came out. What could he say, now, anyway?

"Dude, you know I love you," Kyle went on. "You're my best f-"

There. From Hephaistion to Sisyphus in the press of a button. He sat for a while, looking at the black, cracked screen. Presently the phone began to buzz again. He didn't need to look to know who was calling. Standing up, as best he could, he found some perverse resolve, and threw the phone into the pond.


End file.

South Park, Hurt-Comfort, Romance