A/N: Uh, Salutations! I'm Sunny. Well, not really, but that's what I go by most commonly online. This is my first piece published on FF, though I have been stalking the site for many a year. It is, obviously, a SP fanfic, and hopefully you can gather that it is through Craig Tucker's POV. It might seem a little OOC because when I started writing this I only did so as a writing exercise. I just felt like writing, and the idea that the kind of fiction I read might actually spur someone to homicidal acts is something that has always fascinated me. He sort of just turned into Craig by himself so… There you go. I would like to continue this, but I'm not sure if I ever will. If I do it will definitely involve Tweek, because I am an undeniable Creek fan, hehe. Anywhores, I'm going to shut up now. I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any of the characters therein, but I do own SMASH!, so please no stealy~
SMASH!
Chapter One.
It didn't sound like I thought it would. Not like shattering glass, or splintering wood, or a clap of thunder. It did sound similar to when I dropped a cinderblock off the second floor balcony once, but really, it sounded closest to when you first snap a block of frozen chocolate. That wasn't something I had expected at all, and even with such an analogy, it could not be described as a sweet sound, not like they often depict in stories. No, it was a deep, sickening sound. I could hear the smash of brain matter against bone, of skin grating and catching on the bricks as the body slid down the wall. I could see the slick, dark liquid that sprayed the immediate area (myself included), and hear the thick, coagulated clumps (presumably consisting of grey matter and bone shards) making their slow, wet paths down the wall. It was the kind of sound that settles deep inside of you, in that low, dark place that you can't reach, can't claw out of you no matter how desperately and violently you try. The kind of sound that leaves a dry, nauseating taste on your tongue and throat, like chalk.
I could still feel the vibrations of the impact of the wall tingling through my arm.
That was the first time I had ever killed a man.
I had only been fifteen at the time, and it had been harder than I thought it would. Not because I was worried about going to Hell or had gotten to thinking about his family or any other stupid moral implications like that. No, I mean it was literally difficult. I was in ninth grade, and though tall for my age my build was (and still is) only borderline on bulk. I look more like a swimmer than a fighter really. Lean. I liked that better than if I was one of those guys rippling in muscles; I didn't find that attractive at all. But, it also meant that I had to carry my weight on my momentum. I couldn't just rely on brute strength like others did, I had to be fast, had to know exactly where to hit. The first time it was messy, sloppy work, and I had barely escaped with my own life. But I got better.
I was never exactly what you would call socially adjusted. I mean, I had friends, I had acquaintances. But it was difficult for me. I didn't, still don't, enjoy big crowds. I prefer to keep to myself, speak only when necessary, and enjoy a few quiet hours with my two best friends. But as time went on, I began to find it harder and harder to keep those connections that I had. Connections to people, to humanity, to the world. I could feel myself slipping, but I couldn't stop it. Couldn't stop myself.
It had started off sort of like an experiment I guess. A game even, as sick as that was. I guess really, I just wanted to see what it would feel like. See if I could feel anything other than the burning emptiness that had a vice-grip on me. I wasn't entirely sure how I could be burning and empty at the same time, but that is the only way I can explain it. I was consumed by nothingness, and it burned at my insides like flame. It was a sentiment I found shared in fiction. It started with a love of horror novels, then I found the horror blogs online. The descriptions made me want to cringe with disgust, more for the familiarity of it than of the acts themselves. The way they described the characters sounded exactly like I felt in and of myself.
I got to thinking. If doing this made the characters feel so good, then maybe… Maybe it would do the same for me?
So I went looking. I had brought my backpack stuffed with a change of clothes, antiseptic, an old rag, and my lighter. I had even brought a hammer, but I fast learned that in the heat of battle you don't have time to be rummaging through a backpack for your weapon, you just have to grab whatever you can, and if you can't then you have to use your whole body. I had learned how to fight in fourth grade. Crudely, certainly, but well enough that the lessons stuck with me. Evolved with me.
I'm not entirely sure how I must have looked out there. A fifteen-year-old boy wandering the streets in the dead of night, backpack filled to the brim. They probably thought I was running away. I preferred to think of it as running toward something.
Even so, my hopes were not high. I had thought I would feel something already; adrenaline, nerves, anxiety, fear. Anything. But all I felt was the wind grazing over my exposed forearms – I had the sleeves of my jacket scrunched up because I thought this would make manoeuvrability better. It was an old jacket that I never wore, but it was warm. I was grateful for it, because the cold felt harsher without my trademark chullo and I felt like I was missing something without it. But I didn't want to be recognised.
If I had been born anywhere else, I would probably think it was strange that a town as small as South Park has a red light district, but when you live here nothing tends to surprise you anymore.
I wasn't expecting it to be difficult to choose someone. As far as I was concerned, every adult in South Park was worthy of losing their lives tonight. It was even easier than I had expected though, because my victim chose me.
I had stuck to the dark of the alleys, unsure of just how to go about this. I had read a lot, planned a little, but really I guess I had sort of just figured that it would happen on its own. I was right.
Heavy steps brought the drunkard down the otherwise deserted back alley. I didn't recognise him, but I didn't recognise many of the adults in South Park. They seemed to me to just filter in and out of existence as their presences were required. He found me leaning against the wall right next to the dumpster, and if I was of any other sort my skin probably would have crawled from the look he gave me. His words were slurred as he propositioned me, but I don't remember exactly what he said. I had been focusing too hard on figuring how to go about this. I was taking too long to think about it though because the man began to act himself. As soon as his large hand met my thigh my body seemed to spring into action. I kneed him in the alcohol-swelled gut. He spluttered but responded by cuffing my cheek. Foolishly, I had not been expecting him to fight back and I lost my footing at the sudden hard blow. He coughed out a few more words that I didn't quiet understand in my disorientation on the ground and he started to unbuckle his belt.
That snapped me back to reality and I forced myself back to my feet, dropping my heavy backpack as if for effect. My fist met his jaw before he finished sliding the belt from his jeans. I followed up with two punches to his gut, and a hook to his temple. My fighting instincts were coming back into play, still instilled in me from my years of getting into frequent fights through my schooling years. It wasn't like fighting another student though, and my blows were, while not entirely ineffective, easily shrugged off by this much larger man. When his fist met my stomach, a lot more damage was done. I crumpled over, the wind torn from my lungs. He laughed, and I spat on his shoe.
Already bent over, I used my position to ram him footballer style, a move I had watched Cartman slowly begin to perfect over the years. I only had enough strength and momentum to knock him back a few steps, and it probably hurt my shoulder more than it hurt him but it was enough to startle that laugh from his lips. Another slurred curse and his meaty hand collided with the back of my skull hard enough to have me seeing stars. Thick fingers wrapped around the scruff of my neck like a mother with her kitten, but the dangerous tightening proved this was far from a maternal touch. I knew I had to end this now; my energy was quickly sapping and the worst I had done him was a bust lip and a few bruises.
Moving faster than I ever had before, I grabbed his hanging belt and freed it from the belt loops completely. I snapped it up like a whip and heard the satisfying scream of buckle hitting eye. He released his grip on me and I stumbled only for a moment while he grasped pathetically at the cut above his eye. I knew I hit the eyeball too, but apparently not well enough to cause it to bleed. I didn't revel in my near-success. I threw the belt around his neck, through the gap between his arm and neck. I pushed the leather through the buckle and pulled it like a slipknot. He quickly realised his danger as the leather closed about his throat, but before he could reach for me I tugged the belt so hard against the wall of the alleyway that my own fist connected, tearing skin liberally from my knuckles. His own head connected hard enough to stun him out of further attack. I used the belt like a string on a puppet to slam his red-faced head into the brick wall another three times. The last of these blows had enough force to give that brutal, repulsive, sinfully addictive crack. Blood hit my face and I began to step away, keeping my grip tight on the belt so that his head was dragged down the bricks, flesh grating away behind him. I only got him a way before his still standing body lost its balance, and the weight of him falling tugged me back toward him. The belt slipped through my hands fast enough to leave me with the leather equivalent of rope burn.
My head ached, and my stomach burned. My limbs felt heavy and over exerted. My hands stung like a bitch.
It wasn't until the adrenaline started to fade away that I realised it had been there at all. Only for a few spares minutes, in the waning moments of post-fight fulfilment, did I feel that fire in me doused. I stood there in the cold, limbs too afire to notice that it was just barely starting to snow again, revelling in the quiet feeling of wholeness until it ebbed away and I was left with nothing more than blood spattered clothes, skinned hands and a corpse. I had had only the barest taste of what it felt like to really feel, but I was hooked.
I stood panting in the alleyway for a short while, and though I knew our fight had been far from quiet, no one came to investigate. I knew my blood stained the wall beside him and my skin was probably under his fingernails, but I was too young to care. I used all of my might to drag him over and haul him into the dumpster. I stripped down to my undergarments and dropped all but my boxers into the large bin. I proceeded to treat my wounds then before spilling the rest of the antiseptic over the body and my clothes to work as a fuel. I used my lighter to set my last sock aflame and dropped it into the trash, quickly ducking to avoid the blast of fire that licked to the sky. I didn't think about the smoke causing attention, and it was fortunate for me that the residents of this red-neck little mountain town had learned better than to approach mysterious dumpster-fires. They probably thought it was just a hobo warming his hands.
I was numb from the snow by the time I finish redressing in my new clothes. I had forgotten to bring a change of shoes and socks and I had burnt the ones I word here, so I walked home barefoot. My feet were blue when I got home and I held my lighter beneath them until the heat sunk through and I put on two pairs of socks just to be safe.
It was the best night's rest I could recall having in a long time.