Chapter Text
August 13th, 2000
Anyways, I hope you get this, man, hit me back, Just to chat, truly yours, your biggest fan,
This is Stan.
With a flourish, Stan signed his name in his signature cursive style, adding an extra loop to his "S" for added flair. He folded up the slightly scribbled-down letter with care, making sure the edges lined up perfectly, and placed it gently into the pristine envelope he had selected just for this occasion.
As he reached for a stamp to seal the envelope, his eyes lit up with excitement. He eagerly rummaged through his drawers, filled with an array of stamp books he had been collecting for years.
“This one,” Stan smiled to himself, putting the stamp onto the envelope.
Stan was a young man, only twenty-three years old, but he had been a devoted fan of Eminem since his teenage years. He had listened to all of Eminem's original albums, as well as his lesser-known "underground" singles and unreleased tracks. He had immersed himself in the mans music, learning every lyric by heart and researching every detail about the rapper's life, family, and biography. Eminem's music had become more than just songs to Stan; it was a way for him to express himself, to find solace, and to connect with someone who seemed to understand his struggles and emotions like no one else did.
Despite his deep admiration for Eminem, Stan often felt misunderstood by those around him. When he tried to talk to others about the type of connection he felt towards him, he was met with judgmental looks and murmurs. Even his girlfriend didn't fully comprehend his devotion to the guy. No one understood him, except for him.
Writing this letter was a way for Stan to express his gratitude to Eminem for the impact his music had on his life. He poured his heart and soul into the letter, carefully choosing his words and expressing his sincere appreciation for the rapper's artistry and the way his music had helped him through difficult times.
“Stanley?” His girlfriend knocked on the door three times, instantly ruining the man's mood.
Stan glared at Kali, feeling irritated by her interruption. Her persistent reminders about his appointments were starting to grate on his nerves.
“What Kali, what?” he snapped, waving his hand dismissively.
Kali's expression faltered as she hesitantly poked her head in the room, trying to maintain a smile on her beautiful face. “Did you remember that appointment you have today? You have to be there soon, baby.” she said softly.
Stan rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah yeah, I’ll go.”
“Do you want me to drive you?”
“No, it’s fine, I can drive myself there. What, you think I can’t drive? Are you scared I’m gonna do somethin’ to hurt myself, huh? Is that fuckin’ it?” he grumbled, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
“N-no nothing like that, I’m just worried about you is all, Stanley.” Kali softly bit her lip, looking anywhere around the room but her boyfriend. This has been going on for as long as she could remember, but it’s only gotten worse. Before she didn't notice it, because she was never around long enough to see the anger and frustrations bubbling up in the man.
“Fuck- don’t call me that, Kali. I’m leavin’, don't bother calling.” Getting up from his desk, Stan snapped, pushing his chair back from his desk and began to walk towards the door, seemingly in a hurry to get away from his partner.
Kali looked hurt by his harsh words, but she didn't want to escalate the situation.
“Are you going to come back home on time tonight?” She asked softly, watching him get into his usual mood.
“Why’s it fuckin’ matter, woman?” Stan yelled, his anger boiling over as he opened the door and slammed it shut behind him, leaving Kali standing in the room, feeling hurt and upset. He hated that the only times she really tried talking to him was to interrogate.
The knocked-up girl sighed, tears welling up in her eyes as she tried to understand Stan's violent mood swings. She knew his love for Marshall was important to him, but sometimes it felt like it took priority over everything else, including their relationship. She likes to believe Stan wasn't always like this, but she'd be lying. He masked it from her, he hid it from her for so long, but once he got her pregnant, that's when it all started going downhill.
They moved in together, and he couldn't hide it anymore. He couldn't restrain himself.
Stan paced back and forth in his small bedroom, feeling the walls closing in on him. He couldn't shake off the frustration and anger that had been building up inside him, for he's always felt this way - just not as escalated as now. The weight of his obsession and the suffocating reality of his life, felt unbearable - felt like purgatory.
With a sigh, he grabbed a white tank top and threw it on, trying to calm himself down and collect his thoughts. His girlfriend had insisted on getting him a therapist to talk to, concerned about his increasingly violent behavior. Stan couldn't help but resent her for it. He didn't need a therapist. All he needed was a shoulder to cry on, a man to talk to - the one he admired.
As he got into his car, Stan couldn't help but feel a sense of isolation. All through his life he was surrounded by people who didn't understand him, who looked at him as if he was a monster. He felt like an outsider, trapped in a life that didn't resonate with him. He was like a caged animal, just waiting for that certain something to tick.
Stan started the car and drove to his therapy appointment, his mind racing with thoughts of his girlfriend, along with the letter he wanted to send. He wondered if his therapist would understand, if they could help him make sense of his emotions. He had been hurting himself and others lately, and some part of him knew he needed to get a grip on his emotions before it was too late.
He had cuts all along his muscular arms, and whenever his girl questioned him about it he’d brush it off, scoffing at her for asking such a stupid question.
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He drove off, feeling the weight of his emotions pressing down on him like a heavyweight. The therapist's office was just a few miles away, and he dreaded the sessions. He didn't like talking about his feelings or his struggles with the therapist. He felt like it was pointless, like no one could truly understand what he was going through.
As he sat in the waiting room, he couldn't help but glance around at the other people sitting there. They all seemed so normal, so put together, while he felt like he was falling apart from the inside. He wondered if they could see through his facade, if they could tell that he was just pretending to be okay.
"Hello!" A little kid walked up to him, looking up at the broken-looking man sitting right before them.
"The fuck you talkin' to, kid?" Stan barked, his face contorted with anger and pain. He hated talking to people, especially kids. It felt like they could see right through your soul, and it creeped the guy out.
"You! You look..." the child trailed off, his young eyes taking in the tiredness, frustration and pain smeared across the man's demeanor. He looked horrible, and the kid made it all more apparent with his facial expression.
"Stanley Withers?" The front lady at the desk called out, interrupting the exchange. Stan rolled his eyes at the voice, but a small sigh of relief escaped from his lips. He got up from the chair, his movements heavy with exhaustion, and walked over to the front desk to sign in. He couldn't shake off the feeling of being trapped, of suffocating in a life that didn't feel like his own. His girlfriend had insisted on therapy, worried for his well-being and the safety of those around him. Deep down, he knew she was right, but his anger and frustration often got the best of him, pushing everyone away.
When it was finally his turn, he reluctantly entered the therapist's office. The room was cozy, with soft lighting and comfortable chairs, but Stan couldn't find any comfort in it. He's been through all of this before. If it didn't work that time, why would it work now?
He sat down, crossing his arms defensively across his chest. He almost never had his walls down, and he was damned if he was going to start now.
“It’s nice to see you again, Stan.” The woman smiled at him, earning no response from her patient. Taking note of that, she quietly wrote it down on her sheet.
Stan noticed her jotting down something, and he grinned teasingly in amusement.
“Yeah? You like talkin’ to me?”
He hated feeling vulnerable, especially in front of a stranger. He'd play these mental gymnastics and games just to dance around talking, because he knew he sounded like a freak to them.
But a part of him longed to let it all out, to finally be understood.
“Of course I do, you’re my patient. I’m here to help you.”
“Yeah, ‘cause my girls paying you to.” Stan annoyingly smirked, as if he just won something. His jaw clenched tightly as the silence between them sank in.
This is the second time they were meeting, and Stan already dreaded it. It was the same cookie-cutter crap his older brother used to go over with him, before eventually, he just gave up. His family has given up on him long ago, but once his brother finally did, he felt like a little piece of him died that day.