A/N: Hey guys! I haven't written in a really long time, and this is the first chapter thing that I've done. But I always want to improve on my writing so read and review c:

Also I'm really sorry for the awful summary. I really suck at summaries, and it is subject to change.

CHAPTER ONE

There are two things in the world that can calm me down: coffee and painting. They don't completely stop the shaking and the random noises from fear, but they did help a bit.

It was my theory that there was another thing—rather, person—that would help, but I refused to think about him because it both hurt and felt way too good at the same time.

And I'm too much of a pussy to really face my emotions, so I'll just stick with painting and coffee.

Of course, I can still think about him. Thinking doesn't hurt. Most of the time.

My mom walks in my room and I pretend I'm asleep. I don't sleep, ever. But she thinks I do and that helps her. If she did know that I spend most nights curled up in blankets, surfing the internet on my iPod, she would worry more than she already does. She worries about me enough. She sits on the side of my bed and starts trying to smooth down my hair, though we both know it hasn't been smooth since the 4th grade when everyone was metrosexual for a week. I think she does it to be comforting, but it's the opposite of comforting to me. I despise being touched. People carry germs. People can hurt you, and while I trusted my mother not to smother my head into my pillows in an attempt to suffocate me, the possibility still bothered me,

"Wake up, sweetheart. It's time for school," she said softly. Her voice is so smooth and sweet, like honey. I groan and rub my eyes as if I've been sleeping for a long time and don't want to wake up. "Would you like to eat breakfast this morning?" she asks, still rubbing my hair.

"Nggh… I can eat it at school, Mom," I lied. Again. I only eat once a day, maybe. I steal cakes or cookies (or any pastry, really) from my dad's coffee shop for lunch. Other than that, I just drink too much coffee.

She nods and I roll out of bed. I may never sleep, but my favorite place in the world is my bed. I feel warm and safe surrounded by my Care Bear collection and TempurPedic pillows and covered in my soft, warm down blankets. I listen to Chopin and surf the web on my iPod, drink Nyquil coffee, and think of him, and it makes me feel at peace.

Except for the thinking of him part, because I really shouldn't be doing that.

If I could, I would lay in bed for the rest of my life. I would only get up to pee and get more coffee (and shower when I couldn't stand my stench and greasy hair anymore). My mom would be angry and worried if I tried though, and I couldn't do that to her. There's also some 'Torture Tweek by Requiring an Education' law, I think.

My mom leaves so I can get dressed. I put on a big sweater and some skinny jeans. I hate skinny jeans, but they're the only ambiguous female jeans I can find. I have to wear girl jeans because I'm so awkwardly short and thin and flat-out gross looking. Plus they tuck into my boots easily. I look at the mirror on my wall, and try to smooth down my hair. It's a moot point. I sometimes try to look presentable. I've even gone as far as trying to cover the bags under my eyes with my mom's foundation, but I hated the way it smelled. I want to be nice-looking though. I have this theory if I looked like Stan Marsh or Kyle Broflovski and I was pretty and popular and I had nice hair and clear skin and straight teeth and normal hands and normal height and normal weight, I would actually be liked. I may even like myself if I weren't such a freak.

I slide on my boots and grab my backpack (which contained no complete homework or projects or anything school related. Just an iPod, a sketchbook, a Crayola box of 64 crayons, and a bottle of Nyquil). My dad is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. My mom is in the kitchen, scrubbing it down with bleach. I used to love how quintessentially 1950's-suburban family my parents were, but now I just resent it because I fuck up the American Dream for them. I go into the kitchen and fill a tumbler with coffee, not even bothering to cover my nose from the sharp smell of the bleach. She does this almost every day. I can't add the cough medicine until I got out of sight of my parents, but it's okay because I'd rather do it in secret anyway.

My dad has to be at the coffee shop at 6:00, so I get dropped off at school two hours too soon. It would probably bother most kids, but I don't care. I like being alone, and it's not like I sleep anyway. And it's either get dropped off super early or ride the bus. Which is the worst thing ever. I just sit in a corner in the back of the school and drink myself into a Nyquil-induced bliss that lasts through about lunch, where I drink myself into another to last the rest of the day. Nyquil coffee helps me deal with stupidity. There's a lot of it at school. People don't understand that I would rather be left alone, that I don't need friends because all they do is pick and probe into your deepest secrets, just so they can turn around and betray you.

Nyquil coffee makes life tolerable. Nyquil coffee and Craig.

I shouldn't let myself think that though. I know if I do I'll get hurt, so I continue to try to convince myself that I am totally asexual, that I really don't like Craig, I don't like anyone.

If I am asexual, but I have reoccurring wet dreams about Craig Tucker, does that make me Craigsexual?

Wait. No. I can't think things like that. I have to stop thinking about him, because in the long run it will only bring me pain and turmoil. One day he's going to come to school, holding hands with Red or Annie or someone and it will kill me, even though he's never really been mine and-

I should stop ranting about this now. I really should get over him. I'm a creeper. I'm a freak. I'm a guy. He would never go for someone like me.

Ugh.

I sit in my corner and curl into myself to keep warm. My olive green peacoat (which is a woman's coat. Men's coats don't fit me.) doesn't keep me warm against the cold, Colorado morning air very well, nor does the purple mitten/scarf/earmuff set my mom makes me wear. The coffee helps though. I quickly prepare the Nyquil coffee and start drinking like it's the last drops of non-Harbucks coffee in the world.

Sometimes Craig comes early in the morning too. He stands behind the building and smokes and listens to music loud enough for me to hear. It's the kind of music that gives me anxiety because it's so loud and angry. I like more mellow things.

I hope he comes today. I really want him to come because it feels like its our time, just me and Craig. Tweek and Craig's time. Even though we have never talked or interacted or really even looked at each other, it was still like our little moments, moments that no one could ever take from us.

I despise how sad and sappy I can get.

I look at the time. 7:15. People would start showing up soon. Craig would show up with Clyde and Token in Token's nice red car. It may be a nice car. I assume it is because Token is rich, but I really don't know cars. I don't even like driving cars. Its way too much pressure.

People start passing me, going to their lockers or the cafeteria to eat nasty egg sandwiches and over-cooked toast. No one notices me in my little corner anymore. If they did, I am at the peak of the haze the Nyquil coffee puts me in, and so I didn't care. From now until the middle of 1st period, when the Nyquil starts to wear off a bit, I don't care about anything.

Which is really fucking nice, because Craig's only class with me is 1st period American History. The Nyquil coffee allows me to daydream about him blissfully rather than mentally beating myself up for dreaming about how his long, slender, perfect fingers would fit into my dry, chewed up, ugly ones.

Because I shouldn't think about things like that.

The bell rings and I go to class. My seat is closest to the door, which is really good. I like being close to the door so I can be the first out if someone pulls a knife or the school gets attacked by zombies or something.

The teacher rambles on about some rebellion. I don't know. I would Google it later when I lay in bed so I could pass the test, or I would just wing the test. I'm a good guesser.

I take out my crayons and paper from my backpack. I have to use crayons at school because the teachers get mad if I use paints. Crayons are a good substitute though, and the teachers must assume I take notes with them or something because they never get mad at me for using them. Or they're just afraid of giving me a panic attack, which I could see happening.

I'm not very good at art, and I know it. That's okay with me though. I don't actually draw things (like people or animals or fruit in a bowl), I just sort of make wavy, curvy lines with different colors. I love colors. Colors reflect my emotions and are calming, so I play with them to calm me down. It's simple.

As I draw, I can feel eyes on the back of my neck. It doesn't bother me at first, but as the effects of the Nyquil wear off, my anxiety raises. I want to turn around and see who's staring but what if it's some sort of demon or flesh-eating zombie? GAH what do they want with me? Do they hate me? Do they hate my drawing? What if they're planning a murder? OH MY GOD WHAT IF THEY WANT TO EAT ME?

My pulse is speeding up way too fast, I feel it beating through my chest and now my throat is closing up and the walls are closing in and I hear some strange whimpering sobbing noise and I realize its coming from me and now everyone is staring and the teacher is coming near me to ask if I'm okay but I'm not because she has giant fangs and claws and she's going to eat me and I'm really fucking glad I sit by the door because when I screech and run away I don't have to run past anybody and then after I get halfway down the hallway I realize that I forgot my coffee but no way am I going back now so I just start sobbing and run faster.

I realize three things now: My teacher is most definitely not a demon, I made a fool out of myself in front of the class that Craig was in, and I have no coffee to calm me down. I have absolutely nothing to calm me down, actually. So I run to the other side of the school, to the bathroom on the second floor that no one uses anymore, because the toilets and sinks are disconnected from the water supply. This is basically my go-to place when everything got to be too much.

I run into the corner under the sink on the far side of the restroom. It used to be really gross and smelled like old pee and mildew, but in the middle of my freshman year, when I discovered this place, I brought two bottles of Chlorox bleach and spend two full periods scrubbing the place from top to bottom. Now whenever I come in, I give everything a quick rub-down with the lemon-scented disinfecting wipes that I keep in here. Because nothing is worse than restroom germs.

After I'm done disinfecting the place, I curl into myself and just sob. I hate that I'm 17 and I sob almost everyday. I hate it. I don't even know why I cry half the time, I just fucking do. I don't know why I'm crying now. I should just splash some water on my face and go back to class; its not like it's a big secret that I have an anxiety disorder. I can't believe how stupid I am, though. I just had to have a mini heart-attack in the single class I have with Craig. Craig: The only person who's opinion on me I have ever cared about. I can't believe that I have the biggest boner for a guy who's so completely out of my reach. I just suck. I suck so bad.

I try to take a few calming breaths, even though I believe that is the biggest bullshit ever. How the fuck does breathing make me feel better about myself? Because it fucking doesn't. The scent of bleach helps a bit though. Bleach has always calmed me down. Bleach equals clean. Clean equals no germs. No germs equals no anxiety from the many diseases I can get from germs. I tear off the bandages on my fingers and start chewing on them again. I know I'm not supposed to. My therapist says that it's an unhealthy way of dealing with my anxiety and that self-harm is a serious issue, but I don't even care anymore. Chewing off my nails until I bleed, it helps. I know its not from the pain (despite what my therapist believes), because I hate the pain that comes along with it. I don't know why I do it, really. I just… Do.

It makes my hands ugly. That and Colorado's near year round cold air that turns them red and chaps them. I cover them with the purple mittens that are part of the mitten/scarf/earmuff set I love so much, and the band-aids that my therapist says will disencourage my habit. I like Hello Kitty band aids because Hello Kitty wears bows in her hair. I wish I could wear bows in my hair sometimes.

I throw all my band aids on the floor. No one else comes in here, and they're mine so they don't gross me out. I'll have to remember to pick them up before I leave, though. They'll gross me out next time I come in here.

As I'm sitting there, picking off my skin and nails with my teeth, shaking violently from everything, the door squeaks open.

Craig Tucker walks in.