A/N:
Just another addition to my sea of angsty South Park one-shots. This one is about Tweek and his addiction to crystal meth. This is really, really weird, since it deals with some of the events that happen when on the drug, including self mutilation. You have been warned!There's something about picking at ones face that gets boring after three hours.
Tweek Tweak is sitting in a stall in the boys' bathroom at South Park Junior High. In his lap is a sheet of aluminum foil that once held methamphetamine and the straw he used to snort it. His face isn't the cute, fair skinned sight it used to be. Now it is nothing but a disgusting mess of blood, snot, and saliva. Across his forehead are innumerable scabs of dry blood. All the hair has been plucked from his eyebrows and all his eyelashes are missing. His lips are chapped and colorless, and both his cheeks and eye sockets look very sunken. The sight isn't ghastly, or even cadaverous, it is down right mortifying.
Every little noise booms right through his skull. He confuses his own breaths with someone else's. Who's right behind me?, he wonders. Someone's trying to kill me, well they're not gonna. No way, I'm gonna get 'em first, man. But what if they see me coming? What'll happen then? Oh god, oh god, oh god.
His mind races with paranoid fears. Beads of sweat trickle down his cheeks as his eyes shift back and forth, up and down. The room is spinning and he can't control it. He can hear the drone of his own blood and the erratic thundering of his own heart. His nails, covered with fresh and dry blood, scrape down the sides of the stall, emitting a shrill noise as they descended. He falls to the floor and the tools of vice fall from his lap. He's soon on the ground, sweaty palms and knees to the dirty tile. Sweat and blood drips from his skin to the floor, and his breath is very heavy and forced. The room is closing in on him. It's getting smaller and smaller and soon it will crush him.
He tries to climb up from his position, but there's a cement block on his back, or so it feels. His limbs are about to give into it's immense weight. Eventually he falls and his face meets the floor. He would get up, but the block has him pinned. The room stopped shrinking and his mind has calmed down just a bit. But it doesn't make him feel any better. As a matter of fact, it makes everything worse. A huge headache causes his temples to throb and his insides feel like they're on fire. His head fills with guilty, self loathing thoughts and suddenly he craves another hit. Another hit will make me feel better, he thinks, I can't do my best without it. Just one more, then I'll quit. He'll eventually get of the floor and take some again. Just one more hit. Then he'll fall to the floor, miserable and paranoid, and know that's a lie.