Alcohol

I hate it when people complain to me about their lives. The only one, who really has any reason to complain, is Kenny. Kyle bitches all the time about how horrible his parents are, but he doesn't understand at all. He gets everything he wants; his parents are good role models.

Kenny understands me, and I know he does. On the days when everyone else is busy, he comes over. We sit around, and he doesn't so much as bat an eye when my dad stumbles into the living room, clad only in his dirty white briefs. He just smiles and greets my dad with a muffled "Hey Randy," and then turns back to the TV.

Kyle and Cartman have the tendency to stare at my dad in shock and horror. It's as if they've never seen a drunk before. I know Kyle's parents don't drink, but you'd think Cartman would be used to it with the slew of people his mom drags in.

We're in grade twelve now, getting ready to graduate in a few months. Kenny and I will be staying back a year, I already know it. Shit, it could end up being more than a year. Who the fuck cares.

I remember last year, during a party at Token's, Kyle screaming at me about getting drunk. He just really doesn't understand.

I sigh and my head lolls back against my headboard uselessly. Ken always warned me not to drink liquor straight, but I really need it. My parents are fighting downstairs, and I swear I can hear a buzzing noise coming from Shelly's room. I really don't need to know about her pleasuring herself.

I reach over to my nightstand and turn my music up, trying to drown out the noises around me. Somehow, they always seem louder than any noise I could ever make. A glass smashes downstairs, and I know mom's thrown something at dad. Absently, I take another deep gulp of whiskey.

I stole it off of Uncle Jimbo and Ned, but I doubt they'll notice anytime soon.

Wendy broke up with me last week. She says I always smell like a boozer. I guess she's one of the many people who don't understand. When you're surrounded by this shit all the time, it kind of gets to you, you know?

She called me an alcoholic. Kenny laughed in her face and said, "Dumbass, he's a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings."

The look of disgust that was on her face swims into my mind. I gulp loudly, then pull the bottle back up to my mouth. My head is pounding and I shuffle downwards, laying it against a pillow. I roll onto my side, body strumming. The whiskey spills out of the still opened bottle, sloshing against my sheets and the front of my pants.

I whimper and close my eyes, trying not to vomit. It works – for about a minute. I wretch quietly, ruining my pillow with thick, pungent smelling bile.

I haven't really been sober in days.

I wait until the dizziness passes, then I drag myself up out of bed. The bottle is closed, and stuffed into my laundry basket. I've been doing my own laundry since grade six, mom doesn't bother to check through it anymore. My booze is safe there.

My blankets and pillows are dragged off the bed. I use a dirty pair of gym shorts to wipe my face clean, then they're tossed into the pile too. I lift the soiled bed clothes into my arms, then stumble down the stairs. I miss the last step, but catch myself before I fall. Regardless, I thump against the wall with a heavy thud.

My parents are silent for once.

"Stan?" My mom calls. I can hear the concern in her voice, and it makes me want to laugh.

"Just doin' some laundry ma." I call back, words slurred and garbled.

"Stan, it's too late to be doing laundry." She replies. I can hear a cupboard door opening, and I can only assume that she's getting the broom out to clean up whatever she broke earlier. The lid of the garbage can bangs open, the door closes, and then she's rounding the corner with dad.

"Stan what happened? Did you get sick? Honey, do you have a fever?"

This time I do laugh at her concern. It's almost pathetic really. Their behaviour has fucked Shelly and I up so much, but at times like this, they both act like responsible, loving parents. At least the McCormick's don't try to hide their idiocy. They're just plain white trash. I wish my family would stop trying to hide behind the pretty house, and fancy words.

"Yeah mom. I got sick. Sick and tired." I laugh again and push away from the wall, hiccupping to myself.

My dad furrows his brow and frowns, glancing at mom real quick. "Stan..." He starts. I actually pause, wanting to hear what new retardation comes out of his mouth. "Have you been drinking?" He takes a step towards me, eyes flickering from my face to the laundry in my arms.

"Maaaybe." I drawl out, raising an eyebrow. I'm swaying on my feet, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear my blurry vision. "Hey dad, didya know alcoholism is hereditary?" I mock, then shake my head. I try to walk around them, wanting to get my laundry in the wash. The smell of my sheets is making my stomach churn.

Dad grabs my arm, and drags me towards the couch. Under normal circumstances I could kick the shit outta my dad. I guess being drunk, and feeling sick isn't a good combination.

"Stan, you're too young to be drinking." He scolds. I can feel a lecture coming on, and I roll my eyes. "Yeah, well Jimbo says he's started when he was twelve, so back off. It's not like I drink ever fucking day." Okay, so it's a lie. And I'm swearing at my parents. Heh, I'm going to be in so much shit tomorrow...

"That's Uncle Jimbo to you mister!" Dad's eyes are dark with anger. Mom just scuttles over and gathers my laundry. She rushes off, and I smirk to myself, glad I don't have to do it.

"Whatever Randy."

I laugh at the shocked look on his face. I guess I never realized how drunk I was.

Dad shakes his head and pulls me up. "You go sleep this off Stanley, and we'll talk in the morning." He says in a low voice, as if talking to a frightened animal. I snort at him, nostrils flaring.

"Yeah? What if I don't wanna talk? What then?" I lean closer, trying to see how my words are affecting him. He looks sort of scared.

Scared of me? Mm, no. My dad's too fucking stupid to be afraid of someone who could kick the shit out of him.

Scared for me.

Realization sweeps over me in a wave, and I shake my head, ignoring the sick feeling it brings to my stomach.

"I'm goin' t'bed." I mumble, moving to the stairs. I don't want to look at him. I don't want to see the pity in his eyes. The fear, the questions. He's not supposed to be worried about this. This is something he brought upon me. He wants to blame it on me.

He calls after me, asking if I need help, but I ignore him. I climb the stairs as quickly as my drunken body will allow, then lay on the floor of my bathroom. I'm planning on sleeping here tonight. I close my eyes and press my cheek to the cold tiles of the floor.

He wants to blame it on me, but it's all his fault.

It's all his fault.