The weather in South Park can only be described as the second most lonesome and depressive constant that the small town owns, the first being the rest of the town as a whole being. South Park had a knack for sucking in poor souls who hoped to start a nice, normal family, a normal life; ending up as anything but. Once you were here, however, there was no leaving. You were stuck here. The children who were born here had grown in time with the grass, and as time had grown on, the weeds had grown in and trapped any form of a blossoming youth. Some had dealt with it better than others, and it was uncertain if this was just a normal teen thought. A fear that everything was for nothing and that the world beyond South Park was just too much bigger, too real compared to how their hometown was. It was like being trapped in a bubble, almost, safe from the outside and contained. Always the same.
Craig Tucker, a student in his final year of high school, often thought about this. Often wondered the reality of the world around them, it seemed too faux. He thought about it when he was lying on the roof of his house, cupping his guinea pig and staring at the night sky as the chill threatened to freeze him alive. He thought about it when he sat inside on dreary days when the sleet and rain just wouldn't stop, when he was strumming absentmindedly on his acoustic guitar and staring out the window, imagining worlds better than the one he was in. But mostly, he thought of it when school had started up again and he had nothing else to think about. When he was contained from the early hours of the morning to the wee hours of the afternoon. What was to happen when he graduated? Nothing. Nothing would change; it would always be the same.
Craig was a known face in the disciplinary office, Mr. Mackey droning on and on from his violent outbursts from when he'd shout obscenities, throwing wicked blows towards anyone with a judging eye, even at those who didn't. Sometimes he just needed a fight, needed something to do to remember that he was alive in a world of real people. That and it was great anger management, as far as he was concerned. He always had such a short fuse.
"Craig, we can't keep meeting like this. If you continue to cause many more disturbances, you will be punished further than just suspensions and detentions, the school may decide to expel you if this behavior doesn't stop." Mr. Mackey added a long and drawn out, 'mmmkay', for good measure.
Craig merely responded with the flip of his finger, gaining a sigh from the counselor. "I'm going to sign you up for our group therapy sessions that meet Mondays and Wednesdays. Maybe this will help work out your anger management and it will serve better than sitting after school in the library." Mr. Mackey pulled out a pamphlet with a cheesy group of white people laughing on the front, all holding hands in a circle in attempts to show the unity of group therapy. He snorted, shoving it carelessly in his back pocket as he headed out.
"These meetings are not optional, you will be taken out during your third and sixth period classes on Monday and Thursday. Missing too many of the meetings will end in expulsion for people in your shoes, Mr. Tucker." The rest of the rant fell on the fake wood of the door, heading back to class and thinking of how nice it would be to get a smoke during lunch. Maybe before. He'd have to think this over a bit more.
The first meeting was the following day, Thursday during his seventh class- English literature. He did not want to go to these meetings, but he imagined that no one would want to. Who would want to be in a crowded room of your peers, letting them skin you with their eyes and the teacher expecting it to have good results? Teachers were stupid; they really did not seem to understand. Tweek, in his third year of high school, battled many great anxieties and troubles that had plagued him since his elementary years. The Doctors' said it would be something he'd grow out of. Things would get better. Instead, things had gotten worse. Tweek could not bare to talk in class, and at this point most of the class would have thought he was incapable of saying anything other than one of his awkward verbal tics. This was true. He tried to shut himself down to the corners of his mind, to control every hasty jitter and each unintentional grunt of discomfort.
The bullies had grown to enjoy him, they liked to poke and prod whenever the teachers weren't watching or when the administrators were more preoccupied with other things. They lived to humiliate him, to draw attention to the areas he found the most embarrassing and then blame any following outburst on his 'freakiness'. As far as they could see, they had done nothing wrong. Movies had taught them that it had to be someone, and so it was them and him. And any other kid with any insecurity that was obvious. They teased- though really, tease is too gentle of a word for what they did- that he was gay, stupid, distorted, that no one would like him. By the time first bell rang, he was ready to shrink in to his locker for security.
This had started in fifth grade and snowballed through middle school, but by junior year most of them were done except for when they had a particularly bad morning. Nonetheless, Tweek was already tattered from their abuse. His shoulders were hunched and his eyeline never raised from his shoes or a book, every morning he would wake up and do his best to avoid mirrors- anything reflective, really, to not be reminded of how he looked. Of how he could not tame the beast that was his hair, how he had shadows that kissed under his eyes to make up for the lack of sleep- how hideous it was and how he wished he could let his body relax to where they would disappear. Not to mention, all of the coffee had since stunted his growth and the Doctor had said it was highly unlikely he'd grow any more. He was stuck. Stuck in South Park, stuck in his parents coffee shop on the weekends, stuck in a war zone that was supposed to better him for the future, and more importantly, stuck inside.
Luckily, early in to their junior year it had gradually lessened. He had stopped squeaking and yelling for anyone to help him, he no longer cared. He would be yanked around by filthy hands and his eyes would instantly go dead, his mind in distant lands while his body had taken the torture. A broken toy is no fun, and they had started to move on. Tweek couldn't move on, though. He was always expecting, always waiting. So he remained quiet and jittering, murmuring things under his breath and sometimes squeaking, going from home to school to home again, his part time job the only other place he would dare go.
Back to present, he was now faced with an unfamiliar door in an unfamiliar hallway that he thought was no longer being used. His breathing stopped as his throat closed, hand shaking and hovering over top of the handle. He didn't know who would be in there, and he was tired of being made fun of and being forced to talk. He contemplated this, heart rate intensify and slinking down next to the door. Hands knotted themselves in his locks, eyes tightly shut and shoulders heaving. He couldn't do this, and he didn't want to. He raised his face from his knees, glancing at red converses and dark jeans, aware of him the moment his shadow didn't move from above him.
"Uh, are you waiting to go in, or…" He voice was nasally and deep, and he could hear the awkwardness of it all. His old friend Craig, well not anymore. They hadn't spoken since elementary after he became known as a social pariah. Tweeks' tics had been cool until they didn't stop. Then they were embarrassing, he was embarrassing. Tweek squeaked involuntarily and quickly pushed himself up to his feet, yanking open the door and muttering fast past apologies for holding him up as it slammed against the wall. Those within the room noticeably quieted at the commotion. Shit. This was already not going well.