#CARTMANWEEK 2026 - DAY 3
Third day of #Cartmanweek ! This time I'm not referencing any movie, though it really hurt me to draw my favorite big-boned boy so broken ;;
This was his lowest point, and from here, there's nowhere to go but up. This Eric's life is turbulent and full of pain.
Hope you enjoy the read <3
"The day the king learned to cry"
It's been a week since I last wrote in you. A shitty week of dirty streets, cold that seeps right into your bones, and hunger that doesn't even hurt anymore because my stomach forgot what it feels like to be full.
From Stinky's house. From that dump reeking of chicken grease and cheap beer. I ran from that man who only took me in for the government checks, who looked at me like I was just a piece of furniture and treated me like his goddamn personal servant.
And me- Eric Cartman, the kid who made teachers cry, who fed his own half-brother his parents in a bowl of chili, who always had a plan, who always won… I let myself turn into a damn lapdog.
Where did that Eric go? The one who manipulated everyone? The one who could make even the most stubborn Kyle do exactly what I wanted?
He left with my mom… with Liane. That woman who always defended me, who always gave me everything, who always looked at me like I was the most special kid in the world.
And now… now it's just me. Alone, in a Texas alley, hugging my frog Clyde and my Polly doll like they're the only things I have left from a world that doesn't exist anymore.
With those plastic eyes, that painted smile that never changes. Like she knows or understands what I can't say out loud.
"You're a failure, Eric."
My mom's words. The last ones she said to me before… before everything went to hell.
"If you'd just try, pumpkin… you could make something of yourself."
But I didn't try. No. Instead, I yelled at her and told her I hated her… I made her cry. And then the semi-truck the fucking semi that swerved out of its lane and took everything.
And now, three years later, I still haven't tried. I'm still a failure. Still the same fat, pathetic kid who lost his mom over a tantrum, who rotted away at his uncle's place and couldn't find a way out.
What way out is there when everything you love is gone? When your home isn't your home anymore? When your friends didn't even bother to call?
That goddamn town that hated me. That stupid school where everyone threw a party when I left. Those "friends" who didn't even send a single message when they heard my mom died.
Dogs. Every last one of them.
And me- the one who was always the king of the dogs, the one who always had control, the one who always knew what to do… now I'm here, in an alley, with shaking hands and a heart heavier than my whole body.
No, it's not enough that guilt is eating me alive from the inside. It's not enough that my uncle treated me like garbage for three years. It's not enough that my friends abandoned me.
Yeah. That's the most fucked-up part. The part I can't admit out loud so easily. The part I write here, in this diary, because it's the only place I can be honest without wanting to tear my own skin off.
Eric Theodore Cartman abandoned himself.
I let myself rot. Let myself get fatter. Let myself lose all hope.
And now, in this alley, with my filthy clothes and the smell of trash sticking to my shirt, with dirty hands and hair that hasn't been washed in three days, I can only think of one thing...
Why didn't I die instead of her?
Why am I still here?
There's no answer. None. Just the cold and the wind whistling between the empty buildings. The only thing I can hear is the sound of my own breathing—ragged, shaky, and cowardly.
That's what I am. A coward too scared to live and too scared to die. The kind who clings to life without even knowing why.
But then… then I hear it.
Not with my ears. No. With my soul- with that broken piece that's still beating inside my chest.
And there she is. I see her sitting next to me in her typical blue lace blouse, her face lit up with that soft smile, her hands reaching out toward me.
—Mom…— I whisper, and my voice cracks like glass, shattering slowly, staying in that pitiful tone I've had ever since she left. —Mom, I'm sorry-I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that to you… I shouldn't have made you cry, I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have…—
But she doesn't let me finish. She just pulls me in and wraps me in her ethereal arms, with her warmth that isn't really warmth but is the only thing that makes me feel like I'm not alone.
I cried like I haven't cried in three years. Like a kid-like that kid I still am, even if I refuse to admit it. I cry for my mom. For my uncle. For my friends. For myself.
And when I have no tears left, when my chest burns from sobbing into her chest, she looks at me.
Her voice is soft. Like the wind. Like a memory.
—What… what do you want me to do?— I asked, my voice broken, my soul in pieces. —I can't do this anymore… I c-can't. Everything is my fault. Everything.—
—Yes! YES!— I scream, and my voice bounces off the alley walls. —I made you cry, and I told you I hated you. I… I killed you.—
"Don't blame yourself, son."
"Because it wasn't your fault."
"The driver's. That man who was drunk. He swerved into our lane, hit us. He's the one who took my life."
"You just wanted to see your friends, Eric. You just wanted to go back to South Park… you just wanted to go home."
That word- that goddamn word that shatters my chest in two.
—I don't have a home anymore,— I whisper. —You were my home.—
"Then… why don't you build one yourself?"
I look up and meet her eyes. And in them, I find something I haven't seen in three years.
"With what I gave you, Eric. With what I always gave you."
"Do you remember what I told you in the car? Before everything happened…"
I nod. My throat closes up from the pain in my chest.
"I said… If you'd just try, pumpkin. If you put all that energy into taking care of yourself, into being successful, you'd see all your dreams come true."
"And I also said you're ambitious, Eric. You never stop for anyone or anything. I was sure you could become someone very special to everyone around you."
"That's still true, Eric. All of it is still true. You haven't lost your ambition. You haven't lost your strength. You've just buried it under guilt that isn't yours."
"No, son… it's not. And it never was."
"Eric, listen to me closely."
I look at her. I see her. I feel her.
"Guilt… is just another puppet, sweetheart."
"Guilt controls you. It moves you, makes you do things you don't want to do. It only stops you from being who you are."
"You've always known how to control others, Eric. You've always been the one pulling the strings. But guilt… guilt has been pulling yours."
"It's time for you to take control again, pumpkin. Time to stop being the puppet and become the puppeteer."
—How?— I ask, my voice barely a desperate whisper. —How do you turn guilt into strength?—
"The same way you turn an insult into a victory. The same way you turn a plan into a conquest. Use the guilt and make it yours. Turn it into your engine, your fuel, your reason for getting up every morning."
And in her eyes, I find something I thought was dead. Something I thought had been buried right along with her.
"Everyone will kneel before you, Eric."
"It doesn't matter if you're crying on your knees in a dirty alley. It doesn't matter if the whole world is against you. I know you'll get back up. You will become the most important man in the world."
"Make that your goal. Make it the only reason to keep going."
"If you can't, then you don't deserve to be my son."
"But you can, Eric. Because you're my son. You've always been special. I know you're one of those kids who never gives up."
"Promise me. Promise me you'll get back up."
"Promise me you'll become the most important man in the world."
"Promise me that everything you do, you'll do it for me."
And then she smiles- that warm, proud smile I remember from my childhood. The one that always made sure everything would be okay.
My legs are shaking, my body hurts like hell, my soul feels like a twisted rag wrapped around my numb limbs- but I stand up.
She stands up too, never taking her eyes off mine… and she smiles at me tenderly.
"I'll always be with you, Eric… always. Remember what I told you."
Just the smell of trash and desperation.
The wind hits my face with the fury of a reminder, but I don't fall. My fists clench, my knuckles turn white, and I feel the strength rushing back to my muscles like a river of burning lava.
Something that changes everything.
Guilt is just another puppet.
And I… I am the puppeteer.
My jaw tightens. My eyes — still red from the tears— stare down the end of the alley.
I'm getting out of this hole. I'm going back to South Park. I'm gonna make every single one of them kneel before me, and I'll show them who I really am.
And when I do, when I'm on top, when the whole world looks up at me from below, I'll lift my gaze to the sky and whisper with pride:
—This is for you, Mom. All of this is for you.
Then, the king will rise from his throne of ashes. And he will begin to build his empire.
Because I am Eric Theodore Cartman.
— Eric T. Cartman, age 15, in a Texas alley. His reign begins now.
