AN: Warning: I intend on making this fic get dark and gruesome at times. I hope to capture troubled teens in a rather dark/yet realistic way that really captures mental-illnesses. I have to stress on a trigger warning though, this fic will include drug use, swearing, self-harm, depression, talk of suicide and other somewhat related topics. I'm not aiming to just write a depressing story though but rather a raw, real-feel kind of story!~ Don't worry though this isn't all going to be just disturbing teen angst :) If you wish to avoid the self-harm scenes simply skip the first two chapters and you'll be fine (and you don't miss anything terribly important)

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Chapter One

The Honest Tellings of a Lonely Mind

I don't know what I despise more; those moments where I simply feel way to much or those moments where I don't feel anything at all. It seemed that depending on which one I suffered from at the time I always decided I liked the other alternative better.

At the moment I stood in the small upstairs bathroom designated wholly to me as I grip the old ceramic sink tightly. I couldn't help but glower into the mirror displayed inches in front of me. Right now happened to be one of those luckless instants where there were merely too many emotions running through me. Anxiety, self-loathing, vulnerability, terror, angst, apprehension, panic, helplessness, anger, and so on as the list continues on for what seemed like an eternity. None of these cruel emotions would let go of me from its malevolent grasp.

The mass of over feeling is, plain and simple, just too much. It's overwhelming. It makes me feel physically sick and my head ready to explode. Hell, I feel ready to explode. There isn't an ounce of me that isn't filled with complete negativity. Even now, staring in the mirror, I detest what I see. The pale skin, narrow nose, thin lips, sharp cheek bones, furrowed eyebrows, wide distraught green eyes, dark circles, and pale blonde hair that's just fucking everywhere.

I more than hate myself; I completely and utterly despise myself. I am repulsive. I hate Tweek god damn fucking Tweak with a burning passion. Why am I so ugly? Why am I so stupid? Why is my brain so messed up? Why am I just so broken?

I want release.

I want to be free from all the pain, inner turmoil, and simply life itself. I crave death with an unhealthy hunger. The sweet seduction of suicide and eternal blackness is irresistible.

After a long few minutes of staring in the mirror I finally tear my eyes away to look down on the sinks rim where four razor blades rested, awaiting its sacred ritual of emancipation. I am too much of a coward to kill myself but not too much of one that I was afraid to harm myself.

With a steady determination and practiced ease I thrust my olive green sweater sleeves up, revealing two disfigured arms that I regarded with sick pleasure and approval.

I used to feel sickened and uneasy at the sight of my two scarred arms, I would be disgusted and horrified at the pain I more than willingly subjected myself to. After months and months passed, eventually years, I was able to regard the scarring and fresh wounds with an estranged appreciation. This is physical proof of the inner wrath I went through every day. It makes my struggles tangible, that maybe I'm not quite so crazy.

More than anything else the release from splitting open your own skin and watching blood grace you with its presence was more than enough to convince you the scars were worthy collateral. The emotions fighting within me to break free would only be able to reach its dismissal with this forbidden act and it absolutely thrilled me.

Yes, I am feeling too much, I am explicitly broken but I have the power to fix it myself. I don't need to depend on overbearing therapists or medication that is ultimately trying to brainwash you. All I have to do is give in to the blades sweet kiss and I would be free from all this pain. I would feel right again, I won't feel so fucking broken. I will be almost normal. All I truly want is to be normal.

It's a solution to all my problems. It's the perfect solution.

Without a moment of hesitation I grabbed the sharpest instrument and fine-tuned it to the perfect location on my pale delicate skin. I couldn't even feel the pain as a relative sized laceration presented itself on my arm between the dark puckered skin of a particularly bad scar and a shallow healing cut from only days ago.

Some days one incision wasn't enough but today wasn't one of those days and with a relieved sigh I fell back and sat on the side of the bath tub. All negative thoughts and emotions were gone and I felt almost whole, just almost. Blood slipped its way down my forearm and pooled in my palm where I caught it to prevent too badly of a mess. The blood used to freak me out.

The first time I had self-harmed it was practically an accident, performed subconsciously in a moment of insanity, and the sight of the blood made me so sick that I fainted. An hour or so later my mother had found me, freaked out thinking I tried to kill myself at the sight of my slashed wrists from broken glass and rushed me to the ER.

After a long aggravating week of suicide watch, increased therapy appointments and new medication the incident was relatively disregarded as my parents foolishly thought I was suddenly better and that it would never happen again. Little did they know that incident triggered a whole new intoxicating game used to help mask the severity of my problems and help me cope with the pain of the harsh realities of the world.

Trapped in ghoulish reveries I spend another few minutes sitting there on the edge of my bathtub as I watched my thick creamy blood pool together. My previously heavy breathing is now even and calm. I feel as if I'm in a serene trance of tranquility. Oh how I loved sweet, sweet release.

My phone going off forced me to finally get up and rinse the gore down the drain. I turned on the sink and carefully placed my arm underneath, watching the clear water tinge pink and run free. Once the majority of the blood was cleared I swiped the injury clean with an alcohol wipe and then stuck a gauze pad on the cut and quickly wrapped it with a bandage. The injury isn't near deep enough to require stitches, but I'm always super paranoid of any fresh cuts developing infections or getting ripped open deeper so I would always be sure to properly disinfect and bandage the wounds.

Once I was satisfied with my bandaging job I picked up my ancient silver flip phone and opened my texts to find that my mom texted me.

Mom: I need you to come in to the shop ASAP.

I groan at the text and then groan once again with the realization that the text was sent three minutes ago. That meant-

Right on its usual punctual time my cell phone let out a shrill ring that made me cringe. Muttering every curse word imaginable underneath my breath I reluctantly pressed the answer button. "Yes m-mom?"

"Tweek? Are you okay? Did you see my text? Did anything happen? Do I need to come home? Should I call 911 for you?" My mom's shrill panicked voice is nothing new. On every occasion she texted me if there isn't an immediate reply exactly three minutes later she'd call demanding to know the same thing every single god damn time. To claim this was annoying would be the greatest understatement known to man. Thankfully she usually doesn't text me often.

"Augh, Mom! I'm f-fine. Jesus! I was in t-the bathroom." I reluctantly grumble.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I repeatedly assured her until she finally dropped the subject. "Well that's good. Tell me if anything is wrong." The messed up thing is that she doesn't actually want to hear if anything is wrong. She wants to play the role of a good mother but she doesn't want to carry through with it. "Are you going to be at the shop soon? Your father and I need you to hurry in."

"Let me just get d-dressed then I'll be t-there. Why do I need to c-come in? It's yours and d-dad's shift." I was already reluctantly making my way into my room and pulling out my work clothes from my closet. There was a cringe worthy list of reasons why they could possibly need me to come in.

Surprise pointless family 'meetings'(which really means there's a new coffee bean we all need to try), sales at the grocery store they couldn't give up, emergency date or even if they wanted to just go home and take a nap were apparently justifiable reasons to ditch out on work. My parents are just off like that.

"Oh well, yes dear." Her hesitant airy tone of voice disclosed to me what she was doing. I'm starting to get sick of the predictability of everyday life. Just like always this isn't the first time what she was doing was happening and I steeled myself for a conversation we've had several times.

"Where are you guys g-going now?" I couldn't help but sigh in frustration. Today's occasion would be a surprise family trip, sans their only child. On the other side of the phone my mother giggled.

I could never understand how if I didn't respond to a text within three minutes my mother would freak out but she and her husband thought it was completely reasonable to go off on trips all the time leaving me home alone for days, sometimes weeks to manage their coffee shop all alone. Honestly I don't even care. I don't have anything better to do and the distraction of working was fine with me.

It gets kind of annoying when my parents are home. Summer is also a solid month from ending so it's not a big deal that I'll have to work all the time. My only worry is of someone trying to break into the house or something but my parents claim we have a security system. I've never seen this security system in action so I highly doubt it.

"Oh well you see your father's friend…" Once she started rambling the much too long pointless story on where she was going and why, I tuned out, put the phone down and got changed. When I picked the phone back up a few minutes later adorning a long sleeve white shirt and simple black pants my mother is still talking.

"Mom," I sharply snap to catch her attention. "That's c-cool and all but I'm r-ready to leave s-so I have to gah-go so I c-can get to the shop, alright?" On the other line the woman hummed airily.

"Oh, right, right, alright sweetie. That McCormick boy just arrived so your Father and I are going to take off now. You'll be okay staying home right? You're a big boy. You remember where we keep all the money right?" Sometimes I think she thinks I'm still twelve or something.

"God, yes! It's in the safe and yes I remember the combination." I sat down on my bed and prepared myself to spend the next ten minutes reassuring my mom that even after staying home alone countless times I would be fine. After several minutes I couldn't take it anymore.

"Right, JESUS. L-Look you and dad have to c-come home and get packed for your t-trip, remember? I'll be okay. I'll c-call you if there a-are any p-problems. I need to get to the s-shop, remember?" A delicate 'oh' was audible through the speaker of the phone.

After going over details we've already discussed I finally managed to hang up. My mother isn't normal. She's been on the same heavy medication for the last ten years and they make her airy and she's never actually fully there. I used to loather her for cursing me with my own list of mental disabilities but over time it was hard to hate the woman who was so innocent and childlike. The woman really just lives in her own world. But I guess I do that too.

"God damn dumb psychopath." I end up muttering to myself despite my previous thoughts about being unable to hate her. Even if I couldn't hate her she still made me frustratingly angry. Both my mom and my dad are extremely weird. I guess I was at least vaguely appreciative that my mother cared enough to be strangely over protective, at times. It's easy to say that neither of them is going to win the "parent-of-the-year" award.

I bound down the stairs and at the bottom shoved my feet into their respective boots before throwing the door open and heading outside. I take my time walking to work and indulge in on a cigarette as I go. The nicotine sent pulsating, calming waves through me that I thoroughly appreciate.

Several minutes later I'm in downtown South Park and walking through the back door of Tweek Bros Coffee. In the backroom that functioned as our storage, locker room and break room I grabbed my apron, name tag and quickly put them on. When I exited the back and entered the area of the actual shop, Kenny McCormick sat on the counter with a handful of Splenda packets in his hand as he tossed them across the room onto a table next to one of the shops many windows.

As the door swung shut Kenny turned to look over his shoulder at me. "Well, well, well! Tweek fucking Tweek Tweak. How are you doing man?" Kenny hops off the counter, throwing the Splenda down, so he could drape a casual arm around my shoulder. I can't help but cry out in panicked surprise from Kenny's touch and automatically duck out of his grasp.

My parents hired Kenny to work at our coffee shop last summer when they decided I shouldn't work any shifts alone, and since that day assigned him as my 'shift buddy'. Secretly though we would often split our joined shifts so we'd have to work half as much for the same pay. More often than not we chose to actually work together for the simple company.

Kenny McCormick is in many ways extremely dangerous and should be regarded with caution. First of all he's dangerously popular, dangerously attractive and dangerously nice. All three of those things in my eyes came with a big ol' flashing warning sign.

Kenny from the start of working at Tweak Bros declared himself my new 'best friend' and even after a year he never cast me to the side, much to my surprise. For the first month he had been annoyingly persistent, constantly calling my phone (my parents had given him my number) and always bothering me to hang out with him. A few times we did actually hang out but that was due to the fact he invited himself to my house and forced his way into my fortress of solitude, aka my room.

As time passed though he thankfully realized I truly needed my space and while he never truly left me alone we managed to fall into a weird almost friendship that I sometimes really appreciated. I mean it's not like I want friends because I don't. I used to have friends but now I don't for a reason. Friends are complicated and hard. But then there's Kenny, I guess.

Kenny is just annoyingly nice.

"I'm f-fine." I mutter stubbornly, in regards to Kenny's question while not wishing to elaborate. Kenny stared at me for a moment and he just somehow magically knew I wasn't fine. I don't know how he did it but Kenny always seemed to read your mind and could dissect your deepest and darkest secrets with just a glance. My favorite part about Kenny McCormick though was that he didn't push it… usually.

"Alright, nice! If you want to have a nice long talk about feelings I'd love to listen." I groan as Kenny winks. "The ladies tell me I'm a fantastic listener. I mean how else you think I've fuck-"I quickly speak up to interrupt Kenny. I don't need to be hearing about his sex life, again. The fourth dangerous thing about Kenny would be his notorious 'playboy' reputation. It's no secret that Kenny would fuck anyone and everyone, regardless of gender.

"I t-think I'm g-good!" I screech as Kenny tried to put his arm around my shoulder once again. Kenny is also one touchy fucker. I push myself past him so I could get to the espresso machine to make myself one extra-large, extra strong coffee. Every day I need lots of caffeine but days I was dealing with Kenny required an extra dosage.

"Y'sure Tweeky? We could even cuddle and-" Thankfully I'm saved from Kenny's harassment when the front door swings open and a prep from North Park walked in. From the way Kenny straightened up and a different kind of smile graced his face I knew this was one of his customers. I busied myself with my coffee as Kenny ushered the teenager into the back room.

Reason number five to why Kenny McCormick is extremely dangerous: he's the local high school drug dealer.

It used to bother me that Kenny continued his side business at the coffee shop but now I really didn't care. The added fact that after much convincing I began partaking in such activity helped. The discovery that smoking weed did wonders to help me mentally is actually a blessing. To be completely honest there were several times I was ready to give in to death and getting high prevented me from committing the unthinkable.

I had just finished making my coffee when the backdoor opened and Kenny's head popped out. He raised his eyebrows with an easy smile and I knew what he was silently asking. Without having to say a word I grabbed my coffee and entered the backroom. The North Park prep is holding a dark blue pipe and is currently loading a bowl. The smell of marijuana hit me and I breathe in the strangely delectable scent with a small smile.

Long ago Kenny and I had mastered the art of smoking in the backroom. We have it perfectly set up with fans and filters to funnel the smell directly outside and while it would smell in this room for about half an hour afterwards you couldn't smell even a hint from outside or in the shop. A bell on the front door notified us when someone showed up and it worked amazingly. Thankfully the smell of weed seems to hardly linger on people and considering the shop smells pretty strongly like coffee we're in the clear.

We all hang out in relative silence besides the moody music playing quietly off the sound system Kenny had convinced my dad to install six months ago. Once the piece was loaded the pipe and lighter are passed around.

We all settle back on the couches in a relaxed peace. This is one of my favorite parts about smoking weed. Usually everyone is so focused on smoking and getting high that there isn't a need for real social interaction. I'm free from my overwhelming social anxiety and could instead focus on the relieving mind numbing relaxation that came with the high. Even when we caught ourselves smoking with social smokers Kenny's a total social butterfly and does all the talking for the both of us. And then even on times I'm forced to talk being high made it bearable, and if I was high enough it was even enjoyable.

Twenty minutes later we hear the sharp ding of the front door opening and I got up to take care of it as Kenny saw the kid out the back door with his ten sack in hand. Admittedly I had grown to love our system. Although in all honesty I was high while working more often than I'd like to admit.

But, in my defense, the social anxiety that came with working with difficult customers could greatly hinder my work and being high became the perfect solution. I mean is it really that big of a deal I'm high every day at work? I'm for the most part still fully functional and I excel at my job, high or not. Being high just took the edge off of it to make it easier. It's like self-medicating!

Yeah, yeah keep telling yourself that Tweek.

When I walk out behind the counter Kyle Broflovski stood patiently on the other side, studying the menu way too closely. I'll be honest; I don't really like Kenny's friends. Kyle is alright though, he's polite and that's all I could ask for really. The thing is I don't want to be his friend and it's pretty obvious he doesn't care to my friend either. All of which is perfectly okay with me, of course.

Kenny's other friends Stan, Cartman and Butters are another story. Stan is stuck up and biased without even seeming to realize it, Cartman is just straight up a total crazy asshole and then Butters is way too nice. That kid honestly freaks me the hell out! He never shut up and will fallow you around talking for hours if you let him. I swear he secretly wanted something from me but I had no idea what. I used to even be friends with all those guys for a while.

Jesus Christ. Never again.

"H-Hello!" I accidentally greet way too loudly. Kyle jumps slightly and looks up at me with wide emerald eyes that shone with intellectual brilliance. I'm actually really jealous of Kyle. He's weirdly pretty in that unconventional kind of way where you couldn't help but stare. Kyle's also known as one of the smartest kids at South Park high, rivaling the other so-called geniuses such as Token Black and Wendy Testaburger. Everyone for the most part relatively likes Kyle, or at least just about no one hates him. In all those ways he's my opposite. I might have been able to hate him with a burning jealousy if it wasn't for the fact he's actually so damn pleasant.

"Oh, hey Tweek. How are you?" Kyle very politely asks. I try to match his kind smile but it's hard and I'm pretty sure I just grimace. Oh god. He must hate me now.

"I'm g-good." I try to say calmly. I take a deep breath and remind myself I had nothing to freak out over. I'm high, my mind is numb, and I feel good. You're okay Tweek. "How a-are y-you?" Kyle seems to be very distracted as his eyes dart behind me.

"Oh, uh, I'm good." Yeah, Kyle's very distracted. When I glance over my shoulder I know why.

Kenny had walked into the room and Kyle can always tell when Kenny's high and that makes Kyle pissed. The gingers face is beginning to turn increasingly red, his eyebrows are twisting together and his lips pierce together in a grimace. Overall he looks like a red furious flame.

"Hey Tweek, why don't you go work on unpacking those boxes in the back." Kenny suggests with casual ease.

Kenny knows how uncomfortable I am with awkward situations and I'm relieved he's sending me away. I don't really know why Kyle gets so mad when he catches Kenny high. I suspect Kyle just needs to get over it and try getting high himself so he'd understand why people like it so much. I'm sure Kyle has his own stresses that would purely dissipate with the assistance of sweet 'ganja' itself.

For a moment I get distracted by my mental use of the word ganja. The word always makes me giggle, especially when I'm high. When I glance at Kenny he's staring at me expectantly so I quickly spit out my reply."Yeah, sure K-Kenny. C-Call me if you need any help," I scamper off to the backroom to get to work.

Once the door swings closed behind me I let out a loud sigh of relief. Kyle is scary when he's mad. Once I made the mistake of walking into the back room while Kenny and Kyle were in there even though I knew Kyle was angry at Kenny. It's safe to say I avoid an angry Kyle like the black plague ever since.

When I glance at the coffee table that sat in between two couches I'm gleeful to see that Kenny had left out two perfectly rolled up joints. I instantly know one of them is for me and the other for him. I'm beyond relieved. Even though I've only been smoking weed for about eight months I've developed a pretty high tolerance and it took quite a bit to get me properly high. Stressfully knowing an angry Kyle was just past the door was more than enough to encourage me to get higher.

I grab one of the joints and fish a lighter out of my pocket to light it up. Kenny hates sharing joints. I'm glad because otherwise I'd have to wait for him and I was not one for waiting. I move over to the stereo, pump up the volume and settled in to organize boxes of coffee while smoking weed. Considering I'm working, my parents ditched me and I secretly feel pretty depressed I couldn't be happier.

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AN: Honestly, if all the self-harm and drug use is scaring you off don't worry! It gets better. The fic starts with so much heavy use of these two elements because I feel like a lot of mentally ill individuals really struggle with both of these. As the story progresses it'll occur less and less and pretty soon it won't be as much of a focus as it is now Well, thanks for reading! xxLanie