It had been a month since Tweek Tweak had killed himself. People were finally starting to talk about other things again, which made life a hell of a lot easier on Craig Tucker.
Everyone had known about Tweek's huge crush on Craig. They had been friends back in middle school, sure, but then Tweek switched teams and Craig ditched him. It was stupid, almost, the way the hyperactive guy would get all shy around Craig, trying to sit near him in classes, attempting to start up conversations at lunch—even going so far as to "discreetly" tail him in the hallways. (The problem with this plan was that absolutely nothing about Tweek was discreet—his shock of blonde hair, his random outbursts of "Gah!" or some other form of surprise, the spastic way he twitched around, and the lingering scent of Colombian coffee made him obscenely ostentatious.) Craig wasn't interested in any way—he didn't want any guy to have those kinds of feelings for him, ever. But Tweek didn't give up. Sometimes, he even invited Craig to swing by Harbucks, the coffee franchise his parents owned and which Tweek worked at. Despite the fact that he refused every time, Tweek never gave up. And that was annoying.
Amazingly, Tweek kept trying all the way through junior year. Craig treated him like dirt every day, sneering at his tics, rolling his eyes when Tweek spoke, even pushing him into the lockers once or twice with the other guys from football when they were in bad moods (Token and Clyde never took part in this, but they were the only withholders). But Tweek never gave up hope. He pretended he didn't like Craig, but it was obvious to everyone else, and he suffered for it. Yet for some reason, Tweek had fallen head over heels for the asshole that was Craig. And Craig didn't give a shit, taking the crush completely for granted. Taking Tweek's resilience for granted.
But on the fifth day of senior year, Tweek hadn't shown up to school. Craig had thought it was great, finally having a day where he didn't get shit from the guys about how much Tweek loved him (they even went so far as to sing an altered version of the chorus to Lady Gaga's "Paparazzi" loudly in the cafeteria once). Craig felt free, walking the halls without the creepy feeling of eyes glued to his back—sometimes even lower than his back, Craig shuddered to think. It was a good day.
Until he got home and found that it was all over the news about the tragic suicide of a South Park teenager. He was only seventeen years old. He had slit his wrists about twenty times on each arm, leaving only a love letter addressed to Craig Tucker.
At school, he heard the whispers. Most of the girls were crying and hugging each other, which Craig found funny, since they had picked on Tweek too. But the guys were all about the whispering, watching Craig intently as he went through his school day. He didn't know if they thought he was going to burst into tears or what, but it was awkward.
Only one girl was different. She had pulled him aside, smirking, saying, "Want to go out sometime? I hear you're to die for." And she was serious. Surprising himself, Craig had told the bitch to shut the fuck up. Luckily, Cartman didn't try to get funny about it, because Craig wouldn't have known whether to laugh or to punch him in the face.
In fifth period, he was called down to guidance. The counselor, an annoying bitch, had handed him Tweek's note and asked if he wanted to talk about it. When he said no, she told him he could go home. It was pouring rain outside, and Craig snorted at how fucking cliché the whole thing was. His words got a little more colourful when his truck refused to start and he had to walk home.
He had stuffed Tweek's letter in the dresser drawer he never used along with other useless papers and tried to forget about it. He didn't want to know what it said.
"Craig, we're meeting tomorrow to work on the project, right?" Craig nodded in Jason's direction and headed for the door. He wanted to get home as quickly as possible; there was a Red Racer marathon starting soon and even as a high school senior Craig had not given up on his guilty pleasure TV show.
When he did get home, he kicked off his shoes and ran up to his room in his socks to dump his backpack. He tossed the bag on his bed and was about to go back for the stairs when he noticed two pieces of paper taped to the side of the door facing the interior of his room. Assuming it was a note from his mother, he paused to glance it over, but froze when he realized it was the letter from Tweek.
"What the fuck?" he questioned his door, ripping the papers down before he could read any of the words on them. He fully intended to question his bitch of a sister when she got home from dance or gymnastics or horseback riding or whatever the hell kind of lessons she was taking. He headed over to his dresser to put the pages back where they belonged, but he couldn't help but to notice that someone had written, "How come you never read my letter?" across the top of the first page.
Craig frowned. Creepily, this new addition was written in Tweek's oddly neat cursive. This was one hell of a prank Ruby was playing on him, and despite himself, he was getting kind of weirded out.
He shook himself a little and continued to his dresser, where he opened the bottom drawer and tossed it back in. The little brat would get hers later.
Rushing back downstairs, Craig leapt onto the sofa, scrambling for the remote to turn on the television. The first episode of the marathon had already started, but luckily, he had seen each episode about a million times already.
His phone vibrated on his lap just as he had gotten comfortable and he frowned as he opened the text message. It was from Nellie, and it read, "I cnt bliev u! :(." Assuming she was referring to how she had caught Craig cheating on her, he opted not to respond, turning his attention back to Red Racer.
He was bothered by how everyone assumed he was a heartless asshole. Sure, he had been one, once upon a time, but the truth was, he had grown up a little in sophomore year.
Girls liked Craig. They always had. But he never knew what to do when he wasn't interested.
So Craig dated everyone. And Craig allowed himself to be caught cheating by everyone. Sooner or later, he figured, the girls would figure it out—hopefully they'd interpret it as sensitivity rather than cowardice, because chicks only dug the former—but until then, Craig was constantly thrown into relationships he didn't want.
All he ever wanted was to get his high school diploma, get out of South Park, and ultimately, disappear. He didn't need any people.
And the way Clyde and Token had treated him after Tweek…passed away, was surprising. They had always called Craig out on being too harsh with him when all he'd ever done was try to shake the kid off. Craig had already tried being nice. Tweek was a creepy loser who had stalked him like a fangirl stalks One Direction (what the fuck was so special about them anyway?). He wasn't going to give up. But Clyde and Token kept preaching on even after the spaz was dead about how Craig needed to come to terms with himself and give Tweek closure (uh, yeah. How the hell was he supposed to do that, right?).
Why had everyone acted like his suicide was all Craig's fault? It wasn't. Anyone else would have taken the hints and found a new crush. But innocent, dorky little Tweek didn't know the rules. Or if he did, he didn't follow them. When you get rejected in front of everyone, you're supposed to get embarrassed, lay low for a while, then get over it. Not…keep trying. That was all wrong.
Craig shook his head, trying to clear it of his thoughts about Tweek. He turned back to the television and got back into the show straight away.
He woke up around one in the morning on the couch. He had slept through the entire day, apparently. He groggily got himself up off the couch and started for the stairs, wanting to get to his own bed.
At the top of the stairs, a frightening feeling of foreboding chilled Craig to the core, and he actually stood still for a moment, shivering. It was unexpected, inexplicable, and only momentary, and it succeeded in scaring the shit out of him. He took a step towards his door once the shock of fright was gone and again felt weirdly terrified, but he decided to go in anyway. It was his room. He knew there was nothing scary in it.
Craig's hand took the doorknob and twisted it unnecessarily slowly, but he then threw the door open and boldly stepped into his room.
Nothing.
Wait—
"Hi, Craig."
Craig turned, shocked, all the way to his left. There in front of him was Tweak Tweek, cross-legged, sitting on Craig's bed with an unreadable expression.
His image was faded- his light skin tone was even paler than it had been; his stunning blonde hair was now a sort of Easter yellow. His azure tee-shirt and faded blue jeans seemed awkwardly lighter than they ought to be, as though Craig was viewing them through a sheet of Saran wrap. He also noticed that Tweek's outline seemed to be quivering erratically although the boy was standing still.
Too shocked to answer, Craig simply stared at him lamely. Tweek shook his head and slid off the bed, his face still void of any emotion. "Do you still hate me? Is that why you won't answer? I said, 'hi, Craig."
Craig knew then that he was going to throw up, and he ran out of his room into the bathroom next to it. He proceeded to hurl his guts out. When he was finished, he stood up and, after flushing the toilet, grabbed his toothbrush and began scrubbing the bile out of his mouth.
"I bet you were all excited that I couldn't follow you anymore."
Craig looked up after spitting out the excess toothpaste and stared at Tweek, who was leaning against the doorway. "But I'm here now," he continued when Craig again did not speak. "And now you can't get rid of me."
There was a long silence before Craig finally asked what he'd been dying to ask: "You're a hallucination, right?"
Tweek shook his head, never taking his eyes off Craig, never changing his expression. "No. I'm back."
"What does that mean?" Craig was pretty sure this was a dream, but he played along anyway.
"It means that even hell couldn't keep me away," Tweek said softly.
"So you're a ghost?"
"I guess." Tweek's tone stayed alarmingly neutral, which was extremely creepy.
Gulping a little, Craig countered, "But you still look like you. Before you, uh…" His voice trailed off, but Tweek got the message.
"Do I?" he asked dully. His questions sounded almost like statements what with their lack of tone.
But the truth was, he didn't. The shaky outline of his discoloured appearance wouldn't have made any sense on a living human. Craig fervently wished that he would wake up already. "I guess not," he admitted, looking straight into the mirror in front of him. After a few moments with no response, he spat out, "Why aren't you twitching." A demand.
"I can't." Tweek never moved from his position, leaning into the right of the doorframe. "I'm dead."
"No, you're not!" Craig yelled suddenly, spinning around to glare at the apparition. "If you're here, then you're alive, or I'm dreaming! I'm fucking dreaming…" Out of breath from the volume of his outburst, Craig resigned to staring angrily into the faded blue eyes of the boy who may be a dream or who may be Tweek, breathing heavily.
Surprisingly, Tweek's gaze did not falter as it once would have. "You're disappointed, aren't you?" he asked, tone still unchanging.
Recovering slightly, Craig growled, "About what?"
"You thought I was gone for good." Tweek did look away at this, glancing into the hallway behind him, making sure Craig hadn't woken anyone up. "But now I'm here. And you're scared, and you're ashamed that you're scared. And you really wish I would leave, or that you would wake up. But in your heart of hearts, you know that neither of those things are going to happen, and you're disappointed in yourself for not being in charge of everything like you usually are." He finished with his eyes locked back on Craig's.
Craig faltered. "I…I don't believe in ghosts. You're a dream."
"I'm not."
"Well, why the hell would you be back!? To haunt me? Is this because I wasn't gay for you, Tweek? Is that why you've decided to screw with my dreaming? Son of a bitch, Tweek," he chuckled bitterly, "I thought you loved me."
Tweek's outline began to waver a little bit more noticeably. "I do," he said, eyes traveling to the floor.
"Not 'did?'" Craig challenged.
Shrugging, Tweek looked back up. "I can't help it," he said.
Despite himself, Craig froze.
"And it isn't a dream," Tweek added.
"Go to hell," Craig whispered lowly.
"I did, thanks to you," Tweek answered. "You should stop using that insult."
Sparked again with random rage, Craig surged forward, fist at the ready, and swung a right hook into Tweek's face.
But the problem was, it actually went into Tweek's face. And Craig yelled in surprise at the cold that enveloped his hand and his arm. Freezing, sweeping, agonizing cold. Temperature: Absolute Zero.
The corner of Tweek's mouth twitched slightly as Craig stumbled into the hallway, cursing in fear and anger. Turning, he said—still in his creepy monotone—"Now are you convinced?" A pause. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Craig snarled, rubbing at his hand and forearm. They were still uncomfortably cool in contrast to the rest of his body.
"That you can't punch me," Tweek clarified. "If I could fix it, I would."
"Oh, really?" hissed Craig. "Why?"
"Because I'd do anything for you."
"Then go away!"
"I can't."
Craig glared at him for a minute before wrenching open his door and stomping inside, allowing Tweek to follow before slamming it shut. He turned and walked over to his bed, sitting on it, and waiting for Tweek to accompany him. "Explain," he commanded once Tweek had sat cross-legged again, facing him. "How are you here?"
"I was put here."
"By?" Craig asked, still grumpy, and still unnerved at the entire situation. He still sort of thought he was dreaming.
"The Devil." Tweek's lack of tone had never seemed more sinister.
Coughing to cover his unpleasant surprise, Craig inquired, "Why?"
Tweek shrugged. "I have a task to complete. And I can't leave until it's done."
"What is it?" Craig asked, anger departing. He was slightly embarrassed by his sudden interest, but the ghost didn't seem to notice.
"I can't tell you."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because I can't."
"Um…Can you tell me what it's about?"
"Not really. But it's supposed to make me happy." Tweek looked down. "Satan likes me, I guess. Or pities me."
"Is that common?" Craig asked, trying to imagine the Devil caring about somebody.
"No." Tweek's eyes were on his feet, the toes of which he was wiggling. "He feels bad for me because I'm like this all the time."
Frowning, Craig said, "I thought the lack of facial expression or…tone of voice was because you were dead. Not everyone in hell is like that, then?"
"No."
This answer depressed Craig despite himself, and he suddenly realized again that he was speaking to a phantom. Creeped out, he said, "I need to go to bed."
"Okay." Tweek didn't move, and Craig felt awkward. "I have to stay here," Tweek continued, feeling Craig's annoyed eyes on him.
"That's convenient," Craig snorted, remembering again that Tweek was madly in love with him even after death. "Do you 'have to stay here' when I'm changing, too? Showering? Working out?"
Tweek's shoulders hunched and he watched Craig stand up. "No," he said again, but in a tiny voice. "But at night, I do."
"Get the fuck out of my room. I don't need to be watched by a stalker while I'm sleeping, dead or alive," Craig sneered. "I bet you're still a little pervert fanboy, even as a ghost. I bet it'd give you a real thrill, having an excuse to watch me sleep all night, every night. But I'm not interested, and I never was!" Craig ended by flipping Tweek off. "Go somewhere else!"
Still slumped, Tweek said quietly, "I'll leave. I'll have to be back early, so your parents and sister don't see me, but I'll leave. On one condition." He waited for Craig's nod, then said, "Read my letter."
Craig chuckled meanly. "Sure, Tweek. I'll read your gay little letter. But you need to get out. Now." Tweek obliged, sliding off Craig's bed and trudging obediently out through the door—literally.
He hadn't planned on actually doing it, but something inside of him forced Craig to his dresser. He slid open the bottom drawer and extracted the faded pages of loose-leaf, moving to sit on his bed with it. It all felt wrong, but at the same time, Craig couldn't stop. He began to read:
Dear Craig,
Each day for three years now, I have watched you, hoping and praying that one day you would love me the way I love you. You probably think I don't know you don't care about me, but believe me, you've made it plenty obvious. What you don't understand is why that never changed anything.
Even though you hate me, the rest of the guys in our group didn't used to, so we have hung out. And we were actually best friends, so I know who you are. And that's how I know you don't understand what love is. It isn't just lust or want. It's connection and it's need. Don't pretend you've forgotten how it used to be. We were always together back in middle school, and I realized then we were soulmates. Maybe you did too, but I doubt it, since most people aren't so resistant to fate.
I love you. I've always loved you. Your eyes are so beautiful, and I could to stare into them for hours on end. Your skin is soft, smooth and unmarred, and I want desperately to run my hand down your face, to kiss you just once so you would see. To run my hands through your hair... If only you would allow yourself to hold me close, to let me tell you my deepest fears—and you would comfort me as you do in my dreams. You have no idea how hard it is for me to write this, knowing that you hate me so much. Since I know that nothing I want from you is possible, I spend my days wishing that one day you'll turn a new leaf and decide to tolerate me, if only out of pity.
But you only torture me now. You have been since high school began. I can't take another year of your silence. I don't care what the other guys do or say to me, but I can't bear your hatred any longer.
So I leave this world defeated and heartbroken—but still completely in love with you. I hope only that you might find it in your heart to attend my funeral…and also that my death will prove to you that this wasn't just a stupid crush. This was love. Such is love's transgression.
With love, of course,
Tweek Tweak (Please don't forget me.)