Stan heard the beeping of his alarm and groaned. Slowly fluttering his eyes open, his vision adjusted to the brightness of his room. He felt terrible, expected but unpleasant regardless. Throwing the now empty gin and sprite cup into his bedside trash, he staggered to his closet.
After he got dressed he crept down the stairs, evidently not quiet enough as he heard Randy grumbling from his room. Stan cursed himself out in his head. This isn't what he needed this morning.
"Fuck are you doing this early?" Randy slurred from his room. "I'm just trying to go to school Dad" Stan spoke "I'm sorry I woke you up". He kept inching towards the door, hoping he could just get out.
*Smash*
Pain and warmth instantly enveloped Stan's face as he fell over from the impact of the bottle hitting him. "I don't want you to apologise, I want you to stay fucking quiet!" Randy's voice filled the room. Stan barely heard him, still trying to reacclimate to his surroundings.
He managed to get his strength together enough to get out of his front door, hearing his Dad hurl obscenities at his back. He took his phone out of his pocket, opening the camera to see his bloodied appearence. He had a gash above his eye and a swath of aggravated red skin that would almost certainly bruise over the coming days. Great.
Making it to the bus stop he sat down on the curb, not caring about the snow on the ground. He was here before his peers as per usual. Looking at the chipped paint on the sign he remembered all the times he had with his friends on the very same bus he was waiting on. How foreign those memories seemed now.
He saw an orange parka walking alongside a green ushanka towards the stop. They seemed happy without him. Most people did nowadays. They arrived at the stop, glancing at Stan, seemingly weighing their next words. Stan wasn't eager for the silence to break, dreading whatever bullshit the redhead would spout.
Kyle cleared his throat before speaking, "Um listen dude. We uh, me and Kenny, have been kind of worried lately. He's notic- er we noticed you've been looking, well um, different lately." It was what Stan had expected to hear. Generic garbage that was as helpful as saying nothing.
"Listen Kyle", Stan said, a bite to his voice. "You don't get to do this. You chose, you both chose, that I was a cancer. Those were your words. You cannot waltz back into my life as my savior because you want to be the hero again. Fuck. Off".
The bus pulled in as he finished speaking. He climbed on as the two stunned people he called friends silently followed. He sat in the back, while they sat in the front. He sat alone, while they were greeted by a mass of people eager to see them. He sighed, itching the cuts on his arm, accidently re-opening some. It wasn't like anyone would notice anyways.
