Title: Lurking in the Shadows
Warning(s): None; angst, and hints of disturbing thoughts/imagery, but nothing too extreme in detail.
Pairing(s): None; slight hint of possible Craig/Tweek, but it can be interpreted as friendship, so no need for the brain bleach.
Disclaimer: South Park isn't miiiine, blame Matt and Trey for coming up with a character whose head is so easy to mess with; they should have known I wouldn't be able to resist!
Dedication: For larlarulysses at Livejournal; this is something of a companion-fic for her fic "The waking dream", which was the main inspiration for this. :3 She plays Craig to my Tweek at SouthparkkRPG at Livejournal (look us up!) and I'm very glad to have her around.
A/N: Also partly inspired by Matchbox Twenty's "Long Day", which is where the parallel lines come from. The change in tense (for what it's worth) as this goes on is mostly intentional; it helps with the 'mood'. In my opinion. If it's a pet peeve of anyone's, then I apologize for it. ;-; Written all in one sitting, so if it's awkward in places, it's because I refuse to look it over again.
For most people, the shadows in the corners of the room lost their shape with time--for Tweek, the shape of the shadows merely seemed to change.
It started off simple enough, fears that one couldn't really be blamed for; insignificant things in the shadows and the closets that disappeared when light was shed upon them. With years they grew into a different shape; abductors, serial murderers, rioters, religious fanatics, products of society's waste--from there into natural disasters.
At first glance it seemed like something one would be less worried about than the previous lingering shadows, but Tweek knew better than that. Mankind in general could be manipulated in and out of doing things, mankind held at least a miniscule chance of submitting to whatever remaining compassion it held, mankind could think, hesitate, feel, die.
Mother Nature had no such obligation.
Fires, floods, earthquakes, hurricanes; they all had one thing in common--no amount of willpower or human ingenuity could halt them in their tracks. They held no remorse for brutal, unnecessary, painful death. Hiding under the bed sheets couldn't save you from them.
Not that the bed sheets had ever been much of a defense against previous worries, but they had at very least been a comfort. No such luck once this point had been reached.
But even this was no match for the next progressive step: eventually there was nothing left to fear but oneself.
Tweek had often wondered what that meant; the concept was bizarre at best. Afraid of oneself? How was that possible?
Oh, but it was. Possible and alive and more deeply terrifying than any of the fears that haunted the corners of his mind in the years before--it amplified these previous fears, doubled again upon realization that this was the cause, tripled upon notice of this, so on and so on until there were scratch marks down the teenager's arms from blunt nails that dug completely without notice into his skin, sitting in the far corner in the midst of the darkest shadows and rocking anxiously as he unconsciously moved his hands up and down his arms in steadily increasing panic, nails digging deeper with every repetition of the motion until the pain numbed itself away.
Later he would notice the scratches, the traces of blood, and the shadows would grow darker, thicker, harder to escape.
Until then he sat in his corner--the recesses of his mind, the far corner of the room, he couldn't tell which it was like this--eyes closed tightly against the shadows as he shook his head, unaware of the way his back softly hit the wall every time he moved, unaware that he was even moving, repeating a steady whispered mantra of it's me, it's me, it's me... The darkest shadow, the hardest to escape, the one that didn't disappear with the lights or knowledge or rationale; the cause of all the other thoughts and fears, the source of all his stress and paranoia--always there.
I can't get myself to go away.
It's crazy. It's irrational. It doesn't make any sense. But that kind of knowledge only adds to the growing power of the lingering shadows; with every realization that would have vanquished previous fears, this one seemed to grow--this was different, this fear grew off of realizations like this and added to itself; it doesn't make sense, I'm losing my mind, it's irrational, I can't control my thoughts anymore, it's crazy, I'm crazy.
He notices the blood already drying on his fingers when he wipes away the tears, stares at it bewilderedly before examining his arms, screams and tears at his hair, not loosening his grip until the pain there is unbearable, then slams his back into the wall, chokes back a sob, and goes back to clawing at his arms nervously.
I'm doing this, It's me, It's me, me, I can't stop it, why can't I stop it, oh god, stop, stop, please, stop...
But his mind goes off without him, exploring every darkened corner--who's lying to him, which of his 'friends' can't stand him, who's plotting against him, who smiles through their teeth and imagines staking him into the ground for the birds to pick away at his flesh; if someone broke into the house right now how many ways could they brutally maim him, how many ways wouldn't mean instantaneous death, how much pain could be inflicted, how much pain was death, under this circumstance, under a different circumstance, a shotgun wound, electrocution, suffocation, drowning, how about a plane crash, how much blood could one lose without dying, what did death entail anyway... he stops and slams himself back into the wall again: stop, stop, stop, but the list goes on.
He hates the night.
During the day the shadows are there, lurking, but it's simply not their time. If any of them were to escape, there was always someone there to grab him by the shoulder and bring him back, even if only temporarily.
Always someone. Usually Craig, considering that through the years he's the only one who hasn't simply given up on him.
The shapes of the shadows change, the fears grow more intense, the people around him grow more irritated with dealing with his fits of panic… but Craig has always remained constant in his own peculiar way. It gets him through the day, despite everything.
Tweek slams his head back against the wall this time, opens his eyes and watches the dark circles that dance across his field of vision—at least it stops the movement; his hands falling down to rest beside him as he sits completely still, slowing his breath and attempting to get himself back under control.
He hates the night; he's never been able to deal with his fears alone. It's only gotten worse in recent years, now that the only thing left to fear is himself.
He can't get himself to go away, and there's no one there to save him from what he's doing to himself. In the morning it won't matter anymore—even if anyone were to notice (if Craig were to notice, no one else does, no one else would care, he wonders why Craig does, maybe he doesn't really, maybe he's just trying to get his guard down so he can—oh god stop, stop, stop; he's clawing at his arms again) anything they could say would only last as long as it took for night to roll around again, for the shadows in the corners of the room to envelop everything again, for the corner to become his refuge, prison, cage, shaking his head and tearing at his hair and screaming silently it's me, it's me, it's me, stop, please, god, stop, why won't you stop; until the words blend together with the pain and tears and he's not sure who he's pleading with anymore, sitting in his corner terrified and exhausted, convinced that someone's out to get him—given peace of mind only momentarily from the realization that it's him and one of these days he's sure he'll break if someone doesn't stop this.