Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

June 5, 1977

Daytona Beach, Florida

8 months. Stanley Pines was 8 months pregnant. To many his age such news would have brought joy, a hope for the future that they got to share with their beloved long-term partner of many years. A partner who was loving, caring- devoted to their partner and ready to face the world alongside them. The news would spark conversation about which color to pick for the baby’s room and when they would announce to their families of the new member. A baby meant financial stability and a loving caring home between two heterosexual cis individuals who could be out in public without a care in the world. For Stanley it meant the end of his world.  

He had been confused when the doctor, who he had been reluctant to visit both for financial reasons and anatomy ones, had asked him about when his previous menstrual cycle was as she pressed onto his belly. He had no clue if he was being realistic. Somewhere along the line after he was kicked out his poor eating habits and the stress he mentally and physically put himself through caused his period to become irregular. During the first year his period was delayed for a few days or a week. Then slowly throughout the next 4 his period would stop altogether for months at a time. He liked those months; it meant no bleeding, which meant he didn’t have to worry about how he would be able to afford any menstrual products which meant less clean up and less possibility of gaining an infection. It meant no pain that could potentially distract him or make him incapable from keeping himself alive. Not to mention it definitely helped with body dysphoria when he didn't have to think about how the parts were for a different product. 

So of course that question threw him off guard, unable to answer. He came here because he was feeling ill, experiencing some time of dizzy spells in the morning that would make him dry heave over not so clean public toilet in the morning if he slept in his car, or a dirty motel restroom if he was lucky. His stomach felt constantly bloated and his breasts had been swelling up to a point of discomfort. And while his “customers” didn’t seem to mind, he sure as hell did. He didn't spend money on his (un)professional top surgery for nothing.  Wracking his brain he thought long and hard. 

Last October, I think. I remember making a joke about it being a bloody Friday the 13 hehe. 

The joke did not land. Instead he was met with a thoughtful gaze as the doctor continued to press on his stomach, thinking quietly, too quietly. Quiet was never a good sign. Silence meant far too many things. For his early childhood, silence meant disappointment, teachers looking at him sadly, eyes filled with disappointment as they handed him work back with far too many mistake and a bright red F on the top. D or C if he was lucky: he never was. Unless he was riding off Ford's cocktails. The silent shaking of his father's head as he handed another report card to him, glaring silently at him through his dark sunglasses. In his adult life, silence could be deadly. Whether it be a goon from one of the guys he fucked over contemplating how to dispose of him, or having to wait in silence, anticipating for something or someone to attack him. Too much silence meant he was in the wrong place. 

The worst type of silence he ever experienced was the one where his body and voice were silenced against his will, forced to remain still and quiet while his mind screamed, trying to claw it's way out. The worst silence was the one where he had been unable to do anything, powerless unable to change his fate. Unable to change the outcome. Unable to fight back  

But now he sat in his silent car, quietly gazing down on the pamphlet reading CONGRATULATIONS NEW MOM with a list resources about programs and mom groups to help raise baby. Everything felt too grim, unlucky-- although you could argue that Stanley Pines was just unlucky, from the moment he was born to now his whole life had been a series of unfortunate events, one fuck up after the other. Each mistake bigger and deadlier then the last. Where this one would land on the list he couldn't say just yet. Stanley also felt unable to think about that when the "conversation" -if you could even call it that- he had with the doctor kept replaying in his mind.  

Where is dad?  

Hopefully dead and rotting in some ditch. 

You’ll need to purchase prenatal vitamins and get another check up soon just monitor your health and the baby's. You're a little malnourished, eating more poultry or meat could help with that as well as a bit more vegetables. Baby seems quite healthy though, I can assure you of that. 

Stanley winced, he didn't have the money for any fancy pills, or any real food for that matter. And he sure as hell didn't have time to schedule an appointment I’ve already spent too much time here. He had been in Florida for 1 week and a half already, with the police and that one biker gang on his back, he couldn't afford to stay here much longer. Although he wasn't ban here yet and Daytona being small, he probably didn't have to leave for another week or so. But with that in mind, he didn't want to add another bill he wouldn't pay onto his record. The doctor said the baby was healthy, which was a miracle with how much shit he had injected and snorted--albeit the last time he did that was over a year ago- and how little food and nutrients he consumed. 

Alright, that concludes this appointment and hey don't worry, you’re going to be a great mom.

A mom. He was going to be a new mom. Stanley didn’t know what to feel. For one, he knew that the interior sure as hell didn’t match the exterior, or rather how he tried to make the exterior look. He put muscle on around his arms and did certain exercises to make his chest smaller, his hair was kept as short as possible, although with lack of money and scissors his hair was now long enough to be considered somewhat of a messy bob, or mullet at worst. He had gotten top surgery at a probably (definitely) not medically approved site and his current fake ID carried the name Stetson Pinefield, 25 year old male. It was funny how one word, how being able to put down on a little piece of plastic the word male brought him happiness. It was crazier how being out in public, the waitress at shitty diners and cashiers even shittier gas stations referred to him as sir. But it was the one thing about himself that had brought him any joy, even if it was a two sided sword. He loved being seen as a guy, but whenever someone found out that he was in fact born with the wrong part, hell got let loose and it would end with either derogatory terms best case scenario, or being groped in ways that made his skin prickle and unwashable disgust be burned onto his skin worst case scenario. So yeah, he didn't exactly feel like a "mom" per se. 

But here he was. Mom, as in female, as in even though he hasn’t had a regular menstrual cycle in years, he still was carrying a baby. A healthy 8 month baby. One he could no longer abort, and one he wasn’t sure if he could let go. 

That was the other thing, why he felt uncertainty rather than just absolute dread. It was confusing, for sure, far too terrifying. He could barely take care of himself, and if there is a god that hasn’t abandoned him like the one his parent’s had worshiped then they knew he wasn’t fit to be a parent. His lifestyle was far too dangerous with the pigs after him and demons who called themselves humans. With his criminal history and lack of home or stability or even high school education, any possibility of even getting government aid for single mother’s–father in this case– was negative-eight. 

Giving the kid up had an idea, if he gave them up then he would no longer would have to worry about how to keep the kid alive and away from his past. But he had seen his too much of the dark side of the world he lived in, of how wicked and self destructive people could be. How monsters lingered at every corner waiting to strike on easy looking prey. On those maddening nights, after getting his car towed away or getting fixed away in some low-end shop, he would go under bridges or places where he knew he could at least get sleep without being too bothered. He’d seen kids as young as 13 out there, sometimes with an “adult” or the resemblance of a guardian, sometimes without. Nights that were too cold, he would start a fire, and sometimes the kids would slowly make their way towards where he was. Apparently he seemed reliable, not a threat but not exactly that trustable either. They kept their distance, smart he thought. But on nights that were especially colder, he’d sometimes let them huddle up, if he was lucky and had a blanket with him or some form of clothing that provided more heat he would let them use it. 

And when they felt secure enough, they would begin talking. Telling the queer- or fag or tranny or abomination, the terms could change but not the pain it was meant to cause-  stranger of their lives. There had been a common factor: adoption or foster care. Never good enough for the family they had gotten, never their real kid, never the happy family picture their "parents" painted to look better. Foster care was more common than adoption, much less permanent but much more common. Apparently folks who took in a foster kid would receive a paycheck as a way to be able to afford the kid, but more often than not the check was used for the “real kids” or so that the asshole could use it for their own pleasures. They were often forgotten, abused, or turned into a household slave. So instead of letting the system continue to play the same game with different players, they ran away. 

Stanley would lie if he said he wasn’t a sucker for these kids. It hit too close to a home he no longer had, a home he had lost almost 6 years ago. So after the kids spilled their guts, he would offer them rest for the night close to a fire and whatever heat he could provide, give them tips for stealing what they could and giving them some loose change for what they couldn’t. 

Those kids had been the better results of what he had seen. Other times, the kids weren't to lucky to be out on the street. The where naive, gullible: easy prey for wicked people who loved to exploit them. Stanley knew this both by stories that some survivors told him, other times he saw it first hand with some gangs he had affiliated himself with. It made his stomach twist and knot in so many ways. Part of the reason why Stanley made enemies with so many gangs was because while he was desperate, his moral code often made him betray them. Helping those kids escape when he saw an opportunity or stealing from the guys before leaving a tip at the police station and making sure that all the kids made it out.  

He understood what being out in the world at such a young age meant, and he wished that he too had received a similar type of kindness that he himself gave to the children. unlike what he had gotten after being kicked out, when he was still known as Starla Caryn Pines a young girl from Jersey instead of Stanley Caryn Pines or in this case Stetson Pinefield a guy from New York. 

So how could he give up this kid if in the end, they could still end up in the same place they would’ve started off ,or even worse, the only difference being that they would have to live with the fact that their “mother” had given them up? 

Or maybe these were excuses he gave himself, because he was terrified to admit that this baby, regardless of how they were conceived, had given him a type of hope he hadn't felt in ages. Stanley felt the tears fall down the curves of his cheeks. 

That night had been awful. Being locked up in an airtight trunk felt like a walk in the park compared to that. In the trunk he was alone, he had been conscious and aware of himself, he knew what could happen if he didn’t make it out and while the outside was unknown territory, he knew he at least had a chance of fighting. His voice was intact and his body had been able to fight back, mind being able to control both the way he wanted. That night he was drugged, aware of his body and far too conscious but unable to move, unable to scream. His body felt on fire, the touches of that man burning his skin leaving behind third degree burns in its path. Unwanted kisses that felt like needles and the semen that oozed out of him making him feel poisoned from the inside out. Only for his body to be left in the back of an alleyway behind a bar, half dressed, still marked, and still dirty. Unable to fight back or move. Unable to prevent it. Unable to do anything. 

It made him feel hopeless, disgusted at himself. His mind had screamed at him, calling him useless for letting such a slip up happen just because one stupid holiday about being thankful and having a happy family made him get a little too depressed. A little to vulnerable. You deserve it for what you’ve done, for all those you've hurt. Stan wasn’t a saint, and he knows that some of the jobs he’s taken up just to survive have affected or even resulted in ruining more people’s lives, and no matter how many he tried to save it would never be enough to make up for his sins. So many lives messed up, both his own families and others, so it was only fair for karma to come fuck him over, quite literally he supposed. 

He had tried to repress that memory, but he knew that it would haunt him till his last breath. Yet, the baby he carried inside gave him hope, and it was disgusting. Was it because after that night he had been ready to snort and inject and drink every substance he could get his hands on just to end the pain, whether momentarily or permanently, and yet something told him not to? Or because these last few weeks have gotten more and more stressful that he’s thought far more often and far longer about the gun he hid in underneath his passenger seat pressed up against his temple, but now he felt like he would be ruining one more life if he did so? Or was it because almost everyday since he had betrayed his best friend he has thought about how much better the world would be without him to pollute it- only for him to want to think otherwise because he didn't want to think that way about his future child? The way his whole life he had continued tuning everything he touches and dig himself further into the ground only from him to be able to create life, healthy life. The way he had always felt the crushing loneliness, one that had started out slowly as Ford continued to distance himself throughout their teen years and had developed into something much darker after he was kicked out, only to be told that these last 8 months he hadn't been alone. That he would never be alone again. Perhaps because he would finally get to have a family again, even if it was him and this kid against the world, but that was alright and he would fight tooth and nail for it to be alright. 

While the kid might come from a nightmarish background, one Stanley would never wish upon anyone, he also came from a hellhole in a way. An unloving marriage with an abusive husband that made sure to let his own kids know of their mistakes, printing it on their skin for days on end as a way to try to make them understand. A brother who was supposed to be his best friend, slowly pulling away from their childhood dream, from his own twin all because he sought to find a better future. One that didn't involve Stanley. Where his brother was constantly praised and put on a high pedestal whereas he was constantly made aware of how much of a disappointment and idiot he was, unable to do or be anything if it wasn't for Ford. His peers ridiculing him and whispering insults and throwing slurs his way, and having no one to step up for him. He tried to tell himself he didn't mind, to say that it was his job to protect Ford and not the other way around because while his struggles were more silent, less obvious: Ford couldn't hide his hands forever, Ford wouldn't be able to hide his polydactyl. Ford had it harder, so who was he to complain. But he also couldn't help but resent his brother at times, always in the sidelines listening but never offering a rebuttal. For once he wished Ford would stand up, show he cared. But he didn't.

Stanley had stopped being religious, what point was there? The god his mother and father praised had never been kind to him. And if what the synagogue would preach was true, then him being himself and not herself was a sin. Something repugnant and disgusting and he was monster meant to be slayed. It was contradicting, especially since they also preached about love and accepting others for their ideas and differences. No point in continuing their beliefs either when he had no home, unable to afford kosher or traditions. But in that moment he didn't care, he prayed. It was small, simple, but God if he existed, please, just let my child be okay. Please let this nightmare have a happy ending.

Stanley pushed softly against his belly, not too round, but definitely there. “Just you and me bud, against the world. I don’t care how hard I have to try, but I promise, I’ll do everything to make this be okay.” 

June 14, 1977

Stanley looked proudly at his newfound collection, now sitting, waiting in the seats of the freshly cleaned Stanley Mobile. It took a while, but he had managed to snatch a used car seat–which was probably not too safe, and if his research was correct he technically should have purchased a new one due to regulations and what not, but it was better than the alternative. Shoplifting diapers had been a challenge, so having a whole box made pride swell in chest. Wipes, a couple of blankets and baby clothing he took from a couple of donation bins, and one pacifier which he actually paid for were in a bag awaiting it's future usage. All in all, not too shabby for the limited amount of time he had and how difficult it had actually been to get the supplies. 

“Ya see that, your old man managed to snatch a couple of goodies just for you. Sure it ain’t new but hey! Us beggars can’t be choosers.” Stanley frowned slightly, thinking silently before whispering, “I swear, I'll get clean, find a job somewhere off in the west where it's safer n' when we settle down somewhere else, I promise I'll buy ya anythin’ ya want pumpkin.” 

Stanley closed the backdoor making his way to the driver's seat. Pulling out a small notebook, he checked through his small list he had made, checking off washing clothing; he’d be damned if he would let his kid wear dirty clothes. 

He winced as he felt another small cramp in his lower abdomen. He had been getting those all morning, and while they had been ringing alarm bells, he couldn’t afford to waste anymore time. He had spent more than half a month in this town and he needed to get going before someone found him. Especially now with the kid on the way.

However, as he gripped the steering wheel tightly as another cramp much stronger and much longer spread through his stomach he knew he could no longer ignore it. Much less when a warm clear liquid began to drip onto the seat and trickled down his thighs. Stan felt cold dread wash over him, his hands icy with anxiety. The alarm rang full blast causing his ears to ring. His gut screamed at him to scram and get going. Something was wrong, oh so terribly wrong and instead of the hope that had carried him these last few days, fear coursed through his veins. Letting the pain subside, he turned the car and sped towards the hospital. Something was wrong and he didn’t know what or with who and while he had planned on avoiding a hospital all together having enough confidence in his ability to deliver the baby on his own, he knew that that option had flown out the window. But why, he could not say, and Stanley had enough experience over the years to know that when his instincts told him to do something, it was always for a good reason

The notebook was now tucked into his jacket as he stumbled into the emergency room, clutching his stomach as more liquid dripped from his legs. He was nauseatingly dizzy, leaning on the counter panting, and without having to explain, he felt himself being maneuvered onto wheelchair and rushed into a room. An IV was set as well as monitors and machines that he could not name. Pain stabbed through his abdomen, his throat raw with screams that left his dry chapped lips. 

Everything came in waves, which was the worst part that Stanley learned about labor. But the nurse had been kind, even accepting, something he was not used to. 

What's your name and date of birth?

Oh uh, Starla Caryn Pines. June 15, 1955

He wanted to lie, something deep inside him told him not to. Not this time. 

Alright. But what’s your real name, sir?

Oh! Uh, Stanley Pines. 

Alright Mr. Pines, I’ll do everything I can for this to easy and quick. 

Easy and quick, yeah right. She was kind, cute too, but now it was nearing midnight and no baby but a whole lot of pain. His body was sweaty and everything felt clammy, if his breasts were sore and swollen before now they were killer. One minute closer to meeting your kid, he kept telling himself. But that feeling, there was something telling him that he wouldn’t. At least not the way he had intended. It whispered into his ear telling him that he was doomed and this would be it, to pick up the phone next to his table and call someone one last time. No fear was felt for himself, and while he felt relief that his kid would be alright and not in danger, he couldn't help but feel panic at the thought of leaving his child behind. An ache settled in his chest as the slow realization that he wouldn't be able to keep his promises. That in the end everything felt like it had been for nothing, his hope, the love, all his work towards gather baby supplies: that getting excited about a future he didn't think was possible had been for nothing.

How are we feeling, Mr.Pines. 

You know, same old, lots of pain but no kid. 

She chuckled, softly, tired but calm  like there were no worries in the world. Like he was not a dead man walking waiting to give birth, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Don’t worry. She’ll be out soon. 

She?

Yes, I forgot to mention during the ultrasound we took earlier. A healthy baby girl. 

Oh. 

Well, here's some water, I know you must be hungry but we can’t let you eat anything just yet. If this little girl doesn’t come out soon we might have to resort to a C-Section. 

I know, thanks doll. 

Alright if that’s all-

Wait! 

…

Yes?

If- if something happens, to me could it be possible to choose who to leave her with? 

…

It was sickening, to know that something would happen to him. His gut had never failed him before, begging for it to be wrong this time wouldn't matter because he knew it wasn't wrong.  So he had left a name to a  face so similar to his and a number he called but never spoke to. Just in case. 

It was now 11:51 and god everything hurt, he was screaming probably loud enough to wake up the whole floor, and his legs trembled. His hands gripped the rails of the bed pushing with all his might as instructed. Tears and snot ran down his face as his body shook. One more he thought, but he could feel his strength leaving him and everything burned yet felt freezing cold at the same time. 

“One more time! Come on mom, just one more!” The doctor encouraged. 

And so he pushed, screaming, a broken sob falling from his lips. A new cry joined his own in harmony. 

He gasped, trying to catch his breath looking up, his vision blurry. A small weight was placed on his chest. 

“Congratulations Mr. Pines.” Whispered the nurse from earlier. 

His arms instinctively wrapped around the small newborn. Dark spots flooded his vision, voices could be heard in the distance but he could only focus on the small brown curls and brown eyes. Stanley studied her face, his eyes examining everything about her. His eyes spotted a birthmark on her right arm, the Orion. Of course. 

“Hey starlight, I’m your daddy.” He cooed. “Orion Pines, I think I like that name.”

His chest felt tight as knew tears streamed down his face. His breathing was shallow and his vision began to darken. But in that moment he felt no fear or panic. Only love, he was content. In this moment, she was everything that mattered to him.

“I love you, starlight.” 

Voices blended into a cacophony of ineligible sounds.

Drip

Drip

Drip

Everything felt like it was slowly slipping from his grasp. His body felt weak as so did his mind. Everything felt slurred and dizzying.  

-s hemorrhage! Hurry we have to-

Pi- MR.PINES! Stay awa-

Stanford, please take care of her.

And I'm sorry, please don't hate her.

Chapter Text

April 14, 1972

Stanley has always liked late night drives. They were calming, bringing out a side of Glass Shard that only very few and select people knew of. Whether they be late night drifters, tourists trying to avoid this crummy town, or in this case, two carefree teens looking for a small break from their daytime reality. The moon would always shine brightly, its ethereal glow illuminating the cool water and sandy beach making it appear like it was sparkling. As if the ocean too carried stars that shone so bright carrying an array of galaxies here on earth. That was the other thing, the beach was usually empty, devoid of its town’s people and it’s unfortunate dumb tourists making it a perfect time to truly relax, be away from prying eyes that always seemed to judge. The night was a sanctuary, a taste of freedom that always seemed so close yet so far. 

This drive, this forced freedom however, was anything but calming. It lacked its uncontrollable giggling with knowing glances and nerdy remarks; it lacked the everything that made the night of this town worth being outside. Instead, Stanley felt like he was drowning, getting waterboarded under the pressure and desperation, betrayal holding his head down, his heart still racing adrenaline. He felt dizzy, the little air he was getting into his lungs barely enough, yet it kept him afloat. But was afloat enough now? He was homeless– oh Moses he was homeless – with 20 dollars to his name and completely and utterly alone. But hey he was alive, that had to be something right? 

Right?

Stanley let out a pitiful sigh, one that was as pitiful as his current circumstances. Usually around this time, he and Ford, who usually sat in the passenger seat, would start rambling about his newest nerd book or complaining about how late it was and how he wouldn’t get his nightly sleep, even if he was the one who had invited himself on the trip. Not to mention his sleeping habits were not all that great to begin with. And he would point that out, tease his brother about when the last time he slept truly was and how it was usually him hassling Ford into bed instead of pulling an all-nighter. They would laugh, tease each other some more, and once Stanley parked the car, they would pick out a few snacks hidden in the trunk of the car. Then they would both head out to the Stan’O’War pull out some chairs or an old tattered blanket. Stan himself preferred to indulge in his bad habits, smoke or take a sip of one of the whiskey bottles he stole from Pa a couple months ago. Ford would point out constellations and explain each one and their backstory to Stan while giving him a dirty look each time he puffed out a cloud or sipped on the bottle. It was perfect. 

His hands trembled as he gripped the steering wheel, his face dry of any remaining tears that had spilt over during his first lap throughout town. Apart from wanting just tastes of freedom and feeling what it would be like to be on the Stan’O’War at night once they set sail, it also provided the twins with a breath of fresh air. It was a way to cool down after a particularly bad day– at least for their standards considering the fact that they were both bullied, dealing with school, and having to live under Pa’s unrealistic expectations, well, unrealistic for Stan– usually initiated by Stan. It was odd, thinking that Stan would be the one in constant emotional need, that wasn’t to say that he could tell Ford also needed an outing as well, but usually it was Stan the one who needed to destress; indulge in in bad destructive habits to keep the darker thoughts away, to get a little too intoxicated and spill some of his intrusive thoughts to a far sleepy brother who always seemed to struggle to sneak back home into their respective bed despite being sober. And yet, he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

 But of course, things started to change. Stan started struggling more in school due to the board being far too blurry and the words swimming even when they were closer, and without Ford who was taking more advanced classes, he couldn’t really ask for help. Teachers would always glare at him and make snarky remarks about him behind his back, but with how loud they were he would have felt less insulted if they would to do it to his face. Crampelter and his lackeys seemed to target him, which means more bruises and bloody knuckles that always burned into his skin during his boxing tournaments causing his performance to fall flat– well more like causing him to fall flat on his ass. With everything added up, it made it seem almost insignificant compared to Pa. His punishments were more consistent now, everything Stan did seemed to trigger him causing more outbursts. Words were engraved into his mind and his fathers fists into his already aching body, so of course requests to sneak out became more consistent.  More often than not, those requests were brushed aside with Ford rolling his eyes and huffing out an annoyed not tonight Stanley, I have work to complete.  Although the times they had gone out was sparser, they still were nice while they lasted. 

At least for him they were. It made Stan question, how long has it been since Ford had truly enjoyed their late night drives? How long has it been since Ford truly felt content just staring into the night sky explaining constellations that they would one day chase? In fact, how long has it been since Ford actually enjoyed Stan’s company? How long has it been that Ford started to hate him too? 

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t! It was never his fault he was born, it was never his fault that his vision was as shitty as Ford’s, it wasn’t his fault that letters seemed to swarm like ants on a page and that mathematics and science was too difficult for him to understand; it wasn’t his fault that despite being twins, he could never live up the expectations Ford had set up for the both of them. Or that his first couple pairs of glasses were broken defending Ford (and maybe himself). It wasn’t his fault he was never good enough for his teachers or his parent’s or apparently his brother. It wasn’t his fault that everything he seemed to touch would go up in flames despite trying damn hard to create and not destroy. It wasn’t his fault that that stupid machine had to break when he hit the table and that stupid Ford who wouldn’t even listen to him had to be loud enough for Pa to hear.  It hadn’t been his fault! It wasn’t his fault! He would never do anything to hurt his brother!

But he did. In the end Stanley did, all because he was scared of being alone, because he couldn’t handle the fact that Ford was abandoning him like everyone else did. All because

he 

was 

…

Stan let out a chuckle. Oh. 

Pa was right. Everyone was. 

Stan felt his heart begin to pump faster as his realization sat in, crumbling his whole world into nothing but ashes. Everyone was right about him. In the end, he was nothing but a disappointment. He ruined Ford’s life all because he was selfish, he ruined his own by not letting Ford leave, he ruined his parent’s by existing and causing them more debts than what he was worth, his teachers by making their job far more difficult, he ruined everything. Why did he think he would be able to accomplish anything? That even though he wasn’t as smart or as talented, or well behaved or even trustable, that he would be able to still be successful? It was written out in stone and painting with blood from his wrists and thighs since the beginning, ever since Stanley struggled to read in kindergarten, ever since his Pa told him he wouldn’t be getting a new pair of glasses because all he ever was was reckless: when Ford began taking advanced classes, when his teachers stopped trying to help him understand. He should have known when Ma began calling him her little free spirit every time Ford would get an award or another amazing report card while he brought home more bruises and phone calls to the principal's office. 

When everyone finally gave up on him. 

He should have known the minute he was born. 

He wishes he was never bor-

Stanley clenched his teeth, blinking rapidly hoping that the tears would stop from pouring out. His breathing was erratic. Why? Why did he always have to be such a screw up? Why did he always have to go around making everyone's lives harder all because he couldn’t get his shit together. His foot pressed slightly on the gas, going well over the speed limit. His body was shaking violently, why was he so useless? A good for nothing son and brother? Why couldn’t he be good enough? Did everyone truly think he was hopeless? Was he hopeless? Is that why Ford wanted to leave? Did he see it too? Should he give up on himself too?

just die.

Stanley slammed on the brakes, his body jolting forward as his car slightly swerving. His hands reached for his hair, gripping his harshly feeling as a few strands began to rip out of his scalp, tears now flowing down his face? 

Just die.

Ford must have seen it, that’s why was so willing to leave Stan. Somewhere between the last few years, Ford began to see how much of a dead weight his brother was. Instead of planning on escaping together away from this town, from their peers who seemed to be nothing but cruel, from teachers who looked down at Ford with amusement and at Stan with disgust. It was supposed to be their way out of all the abuse. Away from their Pa. But somewhere in between those last God forsaken years, Ford had begun planning to escape from Stan too. 

Just d i e.

That was the worst part about everything. Stan’s hands left his hair, now disheveled, dropping onto his legs feeling the burn of his most recent break down. Ford didn’t love him, not anymore. The only person who ever looked at Stan without disgust or disappointment hated him, he stopped believing in him and began acting like everyone else, pointing an accusing finger in his direction even when he didn’t do anything. Because he was useless, dumb, an idiot, a liar, the spare parts, the lesser sweatier version, the good for nothing, worthless disappointment, even worse: he was Stanley. 

J u st di e.

More salty tears ran down his face, his body somehow trembling more, his eyes darting erratically throughout his car all in blurry haze. He screamed, a raw aching scream that was sure to leave him light headed. Snot and saliva ran down his lips and chin, his lungs fighting to keep air inside but he couldn’t. Fist hit the steering wheel, more sobs breaking, ripping through his throat.

JUST DIE!!!

Stumbling out of his car, Stanley fell onto the cold dirty pavement, fresh air hitting his feverish face as he struggled to calm himself down. His eyes scanned his surroundings rapidly, feeling like a rabid animal, his heart pounding against his ears. Everything felt suffocating, like when Crampelter would press his big fat foot against Stan’s chest making sure to place all of his weight onto it, preventing his lungs from fully expanding, from getting the air necessary to not pass out. Yet there was nothing pressing against his chest, just another thing Stan couldn’t even do right. Anger flooded his vision, his finger smashing against the concrete, droplets of blood running down his knuckles, bruising, ripping through skin, but never enough for him to stop. Another scream ripped from his chest, pressing his head against the cool metal of the door of the back seat of his Diablo. His screams finally ceased as his throat begged for mercy. 

It was silent, except for the crashing waves. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion wondering where he was. Standing up, Stan finally saw the beach, a set of swings and the Stan’O’War out in the distance. He closed the door slowly, walking over to the railing of the boardwalk that had a direct view of the ship. Still old and rotting as ever, and yet it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. How proud he had been when they first found the old piece of junk. It was withered, on the verge of collapsing, considered useless, falling apart but somehow both him and his brother had managed to maintain it, keep it standing and even getting it closer to sea worthy. It had been his biggest accomplishment, apart from his car, but this was bigger. Somehow, despite its previous condition, they made it look decent, instead of looking like an abandoned ship  they found inside a cave it looked like they built from scraps. Which perhaps it wasn’t too much of an improvement, but it was enough for Stan. And it would have been enough for the years that were to come. It meant a life of adventure where they would be able to be themselves, be happy and far away from all the people that hurt them. Carrying all the hopes and dreams that Stanley had, it was unfortunate that she was built without the means to sail in the end. 

He leaned over the railing, his chest pressed against the old rusting metal, arms dangling over it. It was stupid, but so was he, but Stanley, deep in his heart, hoped that Ford would go out looking for him. It was so damn stupid, to still have such fantasies and expectations for someone who no longer wanted anything to do with him. He looked out into the night, his eyes blankly staring at his ship. Only his, not something to be shared with Ford, he made that fact exceptionally clear. Despite that it felt wrong to think of it as his after all the work they put into it during the last few years. A few minutes went by, then an hour or two, maybe three he couldn’t exactly tell, but his hands felt cool, his body shivering slightly now for a different reason. He felt exhaustion weighing down on him, the urge to cry never leaving but having no more tears left to spill.  

“He’s not coming,” whispered the young boy, his voice hoarse and dry.  

Stan hurt Ford, he turned into the one thing he was trying to prove he wasn’t and now he was paying the price. He cost his family millions and the possibility of the better life they deserved but were unable to have with Stanley around. He was so damn selfish. All his life, always riding off Ford’s cocktails to get decent grades, forcing him to work on a boat that had no future *just like him*, always taking and stealing, lying and manipulating. It would’ve been better, if he never existed. If he was dead.

That was…

Stanley looked at the boat, a purpose, a reason. A sign. 

“Guess you will get to sail, afterall.”

His mind was eerily calm, a contrast to his earlier state of mind, and for once in this entirety of this night, Stan had a plan for the future. Returning to the car with wobbly limbs, Stanley rummaged through the car looking for a lighter or a pack of matches, anything that would create a spark. He smiled gleefully upon finding his worn down metal lighter, a gift from Ford after he realized that Stan wasn’t quitting smoking any time soon. It was the perfect tool for the perfect death. It was almost poetic in a way. A death with traces of art, creating something horrible into something beautiful. 

He began walking towards the sandy beach, stopping by the swings. He crouched down, digging a small hole in the sand beneath his appointed seat, soon to be nobodies, placing his car keys there and placing sand on top. A rock was perched on top, hopefully enough of an indicator for anyone who came looking for him, or for whoever saw his abandoned car. His eyes glimmered as he stood once more, facing the Stan’O’War. At last, Stanley Caryn Pines would do something right, be something worthwhile, finally he would stop being a burden and stop bringing further misfortune to those who cared about him. At last he could be free from the cruelty of this world, and his brother would be free of him. 

He pushed the boat into the chilly water, climbing on board once he was knee deep. The rough wood of the ship felt like velvet against his skin. The air felt crisp as he took a deep breath, the soft swaying of the water filled him with anticipation that was slowly building up in his stomach. Little by little, the water pushed the ship away from the beach, the city looking smaller and smaller by the second. It creaked under his weight, whining uncomfortably but that was alright. She wouldn’t be in pain much longer. 

Stan pulled out two full bottles of whiskey, they were Pa’s nicer bottles, at least he thought so considering they were harder to find. Regardless, they were bottles he was saving to use for their 18th birthday, or for the day they set sail, whichever came first. Well, in a way he did set sail so at least he was using them for their purpose, easing his guilt. He opened the first bottle taking a swing feeling as the liquid burned down his raw throat, wincing in pain but not stopping, not now. His mind became fuzzier by the gulp, cheeks warming up once again, the sensation adamant against the cool midnight air. Stan sighed, laying down on the wooden floor, still recounting all of Ford’s stories despite claiming that he wasn’t into nerdy shit. Once Jersey felt more like a far away memory, just the remnants of a bad dream, he dumped the other bottle on the boat. 

Sirens blared in the distance, but he paid them no mind. With the lighter in his hand he bid the Stan’O’War, granting her its final goodbye. 

April 15, 1972

9:00am

“Early in the morning around 3am, there were reports of a car parked illegally near Glass Shard Beach. Upon further investigation, it was found that the car belonged to Stanley Caryn Pines. Around 3:30 am, fire was seen off into the distance of the Glass Shard Beach ocean, unfortunately a lifeguard found the body of 17 year old Stanley floating near the wreckage of the burnt ship. The cause has not yet been determined yet but police are indicating that this could be the cause of suicide. We will keep you updated on the situation. Rest in peace Stanley Pines.”