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Stan could feel every drop of his blood pooling out, there was no way he was getting out of this. He’s going to die alone in someplace he doesn’t even know, miles away from anyone who even pretends to care about him.
This was always gonna happen eventually, that someone would catch up to settle old debts. They didn’t even take any of his organs, just beat him until they got bored and then shot him a few times in the chest. That's the funniest part about all this, they got nothing of real value and he’s still dying.
His breath is getting ragged even while just laying on his back in the street. If he’s going to do something he needs to do it soon. Stan’s head lolls to the side as he tries to glance over to the street light. Noticing a blue and white phone booth right next to it.
A sudden vicious thought rips through him, Stan wants to hear his brother’s voice before he dies.
That single thought consumes him, drives him into flipping onto his belly through the agonizing pain. Dragging himself through the dirt and grime of the street was nothing but passing thought. Stan had one last goal, he needed to talk to his brother.
His fingers were ripping skin off as they pulled him across the blacktop, nails chipping as they tried to dig into the unrelenting material. He was surely leaving a horrendous trail of blood like a grotesque snail with the path he was taking, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
HIs head hit the bottom of the door to the phone booth, pulling him from his single thought. He was going to have to stand up to get the door open and use the phone, fuck does he even have a quarter? Shaking his already dizzy head, Stan tried to focus. First step was getting the door open, then he can pray to every god he doesn’t believe in that they left him at least one quarter.
All Stan wants is to at least hear his brother's voice, even if it's just his answering machine. Maybe even tell him that he really is sorry he ruined his life. That he’s been trying to make it up to them, trying to make that million dollars so he can come home. That he never wanted to miss all those awards or his graduation or anything else that he should have been there for.
Finally managing to shimmy the door open enough to stumble in, slamming into the small shelf when he trips on the lip below the door. Using the shelf to hold himself mostly steady, Stan began to flip every pocket inside out. Tearing through everything he had, praying for just one quarter.
There must be something out there watching him suffer and taking pity. Stan felt tears stream down his face when he managed to find two quarters in his pants pocket, guess that wasn’t enough money for them to take before they left him to die.
Carefully putting the quarters in the slot with both hands and pulling the phone off the receiver with shaking limbs. It’s lucky that Stan has his twin brother memorized, because he can no longer see clearly. Between the blood loss and tears, Stan’s vision is completely shot.
As soon as the phone began to ring, Stan slid down the glass wall with the phone pressed hard against his ear. Letting his legs spread out as far as they could on what should be cold ground with his back pressed against the glass wall. Stan’s head slumped forward, chin to his chest. It was getting hard to feel anything, he couldn’t even feel the pain anymore.
He knew that it was a bad sign, that there was no way he was going to live through the night anymore. And maybe it would have been smarter to call an ambulance, but if he did die he wanted to hear Ford’s voice before that.
It doesn’t matter that Ford hates him, doesn’t matter that his brother probably never wants to hear from him again. Stan is dying and all he wants is to hear Ford’s voice, even if it’s just him yelling at him. Because at least he’ll be alive. That at least means even though Stan ruined his life, Ford didn’t die.
It has never mattered what anyone else said or did, if Ford is safe and alive then Stan is happy. Even dying cold and alone in some random phone booth in a town he doesn’t know. The ringing was going on too long, Ford wasn’t going to answer.
What should he say as his final words to his brother's answering machine? It’s kind of funny how he’s about to die crying to an unfeeling machine, poetic that even in death no one hears his cry for help and love.
“Hello, Stanford Pines speaking.”
Guess life wants to surprise him one last time. Letting out a wet cough, Stan’s head tilts into the wall of the rusty booth. Heavy gasping breaths as he listens to his brother's voice.
“Listen, whoever you are. You have to stop doing this, I do not want to change numbers just because you think it’s funny to prank call me.” Ford’s annoyed tone crackled through the old receiver. Stan smiled slightly, finding comfort in his gruff voice.
Stan let out another set of wet rattling coughs, the phone starting to slip from his hand. It was now or never, if Ford hung up he wouldn’t be able to stand up long enough to dial again. This is the last chance he has to let Ford know.
“i’m sorry,” Stan wheezed out past the pain. His voice was small and broken, he could only hope that it was loud enough to be heard on the other side.
“An’ don’t worry about ta’ calls,” Stan’s voice was starting to slur much worse, “afer ‘his they can’ haben.”
There was a long pause, filled only with his gasping breaths and wet coughs. Closing his eyes as the quiet stretched on. Ford probably hung up during one of his coughs, that’s why he hadn’t talked in so long.
Ford’s voice broke Stan out of that line of thoughts with his now quiet voice ringing out “Stanley?”
He sounded hesitant, maybe even concerned. But if he was still on the line then Stan needed to get out as much as he could before he croaked. Stan tries to take another deep breath to tell his twin what he should have years ago. The series of coughs he let out were violent, blood spilling out with the air. His ragged breathing was making him light headed, the phone slipping farther out of his hand.
Shuffling slightly to bring the phone back up, his brother's tiny voice screaming as he pulls it back to his ear.
“Stanley! Answer me!” Ford demanded in a panicked voice, which was weird. He shouldn’t care, Ford hated Stan. That was just a fact, the Earth revolves around the Sun, the sky is blue, Ford hates his twin brother Stan.
“‘em here.” Stan slurred out, focusing on keeping the phone in the right spot. He could at least answer Ford, a final courtesy.
A staticky huff of relief rang out at his words before a deep steadying breath, “Stanley, where are you?”
“I dunno.” He mumbled out, fingers starting to grow numb.
“What do you mean you don’t know!” Ford sounded enraged at that, over the phone he kinda sounded like Pa. Maybe this was just a dream and now his mind is playing tricks on him as he falls into a permanent slumber.
“They lef’ me here afer dey were done.” Stan forced out, coughing too hard to hear what his brother tried to say.
For a heart stopping moment Stan couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t get any of the air back into his lungs. His body spasmed in its attempt to do something, in a last ditch attempt to breathe Stan smashed his left hand into his chest. Finally making his lungs work again, with deep gasping breaths and wet coughs.
Knowing that this was finally it, tomorrow there would be no more Stanley Caryn Pines. Stan closed his eyes and swallowed his pride of being a “strong man who doesn’t need sissy feelings.” Ford deserved to know what Stan’s final thoughts were.
“’m sorry, I love you.” Stan whispered with the last of his strength. The phone finally fell out of his hand as his body slumped forward. The phone crashed into the wall of the booth as it swung on its cord, an awful plastic crunching noise ringing out.
Ford’s tinny voice could be heard screaming out of the receiver, but Stan couldn’t move at all anymore.
“Stanley, you answer me right this instant! Lee don’t you dare fucking call me and just die. Please, please come back. Lee, I’m sorry!” Ford pleaded out, a thickness in his voice that could only come from crying.
Ha, guess even in his death all Stanley could do was be a burden on his brother. He would hurt Ford in his dying moments, make what should have been an easy and forgettable moment in his life into something major.
Hopefully Ford will move on fast from this, it’s not like he was important to anyone. It’s not like anyone will be able to ID his body anyway, he has no wallet and he doesn’t even know where he is. He’ll be found and labeled a John Doe, won’t even get a funeral.
Ford’s voice was still screaming out but Stan couldn’t hear it anymore. He couldn’t hear anything anymore, nothing but the buzz of white noise from blood loss. Wherever his soul goes, he hopes that it’s not too bad. He wants to see Ford when he dies of old age, maybe if they do go to different places whatever entity controls Stanley’s will let him go say goodbye in person.