I will always love him. There is nothing I can say, and nothing I will ever do, that was meant to harm him. Everything is for him.
And so I wonder now, how is it that I'm sitting on the couch alone on a Saturday, the day in which we would both usually be watching television, or perhaps playing games whilst he drinks his coffee and I watch, unable to drag my eyes away. Monotone as my voice is, Tweek can easily read the emotion that resides in it. That is one of the things I love about him. I don't think I ever got to ask him what he loved about me so much. After being with me for at least five years, there must have been something. I was always too selfish, too wrapped up in my own happiness to care for his.
Lazily my eyes wander over to the kitchen, expecting to hear the coffee maker starting to whir at any moment and his twitching form walk out with a strained smile. I love that about him as well. I love how he would come over and sit down next to me, then begin to rant about the gnomes he knew would be coming again tonight.
"Don't worry …" I would always reply, no emotion showing in that nasally voice I had been cursed with. "I'll sleep with you."
And I did. Every night, be we making love or just holding each other, I slept with him and scared the gnomes away. Everything is for him.
Our love was perfect. We were meant to be together. So why is it that now I am sitting alone on the couch on this cold Saturday, eyes staring blankly at the static that is blaring on the television screen as Tweek, the love of my life, is sitting in a mental hospital, arms strapped in that contraption that had a name, a name that for the life of me I didn't want to remember.
It was weird. He had started to scream one morning, and it was uncontrollable. My kisses and loving nudges; even the slightly worried tone I held in my voice did not satiate the boy. He ripped at the skin of his neck, at his chest, at his face, and even tried for mine a couple of times. By the time help arrived, he was hunk of bleeding flesh, lifeless save for his twitching.
Did I cry? I don't think I did. I think I even felt … relieved to get him off of my hands. His mental state was ever worsening, and even that fresh cup of brewed coffee was not enough anymore. The boy I loved is no more, and this was all I could think about as I handed him away, allowing the mental institute to take him off my hands forever.
I visit him now and again, but it's not like he ever cares. It's not like he remembers the things we did, or the things we wanted to do. He doesn't remember our love. All that keeps me going as I turn away from the room he is caged in and head back to the house in the snow, is that I've done everything I did for him. Because, god, I love him so much it's killing me.