the boy in room 5 ; style

1: Stanley Marsh

• "Stan, you messed up, big time, be lucky you're not grounded for the next three years!" Mom yells, trying to keep herself together as she drives me to my punishment. "Seriously Stan? Nine times? I just wish you'd stop drinking, before you end up worse than your father!" She scoffed, focusing her eyes on the road ahead.
"Its an addiction..." I roll my eyes in response, not really wanting to look at her.
"It is not an addiction, Stanley, you're just being an annoying teenager. You're doing it for the fun of it and to rebel, you're using the word addiction to get out of punishment."
"No the fuck I'm not!" I yelled, slamming my hand against the car door.
"Don't speak to me like that, young man. You know you can stop whenever you want to, you just don't want to."
"Of course i don't want to, it stops me wanting to kill myself!" She doesn't get it. Mom groans, probably wanting to kick me out the car. She never usually gets angry like this, she's usually the bearable parent.

"You were such a good kid Stan, stop it, stop begging for attention like this, you get enough already." The car fell silent, and Mom probably thinks she's won, and this meant she was right. Really, she couldn't be more wrong. I'm depressed, severely depressed. I'm addicted to alcohol, the way it makes me feel, the way it makes school easier, the way it makes the bad thoughts that swarm my head go away. There's only the sound of the tires against the road, and moms heavy breathing. The engine running quietly as we speed down. I feel like a monster. I'm a bad son, I know I am. God, I used to be so good. I'd just go on stupid adventures with my friends, Kenny, Butters and Cartman. Everything's changed, everything

Butters is fine, but Cartmans even more of a dick, and a bigot, then he used to be and Kenny, she turned to drugs. He does whatever he can find. He's not all that different than me.

I press my elbow against the door and lean on my hand. We're almost there. I have to do this 5 times a week, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, and I'm stuck in the house for the other two days. Being grounded sucks ass. I watch the world zoom by outside, bushes disappearing in a blur, people gone before I could check if I knew them. I was trying to entertain myself, take my mind off the pit in my stomach, but it didn't seem to be working.

Mom pulls into the hospital carpark, and climbs out. I can't bring myself to move. This isn't the first time I've come here. It's Sunday, I've come four other times. All these times I've had to deal with old people recovering from heart attacks, and little kids with broken limbs.

"Stanley, move." I hadn't even noticed mom had opened my door, but she undid my seatbelt and dragged me out of the car with a right, painful grip on my arm.

"Ow, ow, Mom stop, you're hurting me, stop." I complain, trying to pull my arm away. I fail at first, but am successful once she finally gives up trying to drag me. She says nothing. A dirty look is all I get as she continues to walk. I know if I don't follow her, I'll be in even more trouble than I was before, so I follow behind.

"Ah, welcome back Mrs Marsh, Stanley." The lady at the front desk smiles. Her face is bright and happy. Unsure how she's so happy in a place filled with suffering and death. "Is Stan still resenting this?" The woman asks, earning a laugh from mom. She's changed again. Just minutes ago mom was scowling and dragging me out of the car by my arm, and now she's laughing and smiling with Kylie at the front desk.

They talk for what feels like years before I'm finally signed in. Mom pushed me forward, telling me she'll be here to pick me up at 5, and leaving with no goodbye. I bite my lip,  and walk. I can feel Kylie's eyes on me. I don't know if it's a stare of worry, or disgust. Does she know I'm struggling, or think I'm some rebellious kid. Does she think I'm the bad guy? Am I the bad guy?

I look at the note Kylie gave me, and sigh. Room 5, green block, floor 2. I'm helping some kid my age called Kyle today. Probably just another annoying teenager with a broken limb who's friends all hate him too much to visit him. I scrupled up the white sheet of paper and shove it in my pocket, unzipping my brown jacket as I start to warm up, and very reluctantly walk to my destination.