Don't own South Park. Viewer Discretion advised. Warning for some ugliness and sh-t up ahead.
KILLING VANILLA
I've always hated my family. Just plain and simple, but I would never tell them that. They already know, but I don't say it aloud. They say my face was an open book, it still is. I hate it. Sometimes, I wish I could hide it, but it never works out. I swallow the small bit of chocolate, how weird it thickens when its melted. I have a melting point too. But I haven't broken down yet. To say that I really hate them, no, I can never truly hate them, I love them as a son would a father and a mother. Even if I did want them dead. I decided to play with my hair as a distraction, I heard the muffled noise through the rusted key hole. I heard something crash, its already been five minutes. Soon enough I was dragged into it even if I wasn't meant to be there to begin with. They acted like children.
They would ask me who was right, and either if i didn't choose him or her I would get my face bruised. They would scream when I didn't choose their side, and if I did, they would still smack me. Today, I decided to pick my father's side. I found out that she was wearing her wedding ring that moment. I didn't scream, I didn't yelp, or any noise, and they hated that. It no longer hurt, if I was used to it, it didn't hurt. But that sting of a ring or some jewelry always made a comeback. I remember how they would look at me,my father would scan at me, hissing at me. When I was eight, I wondered why I didn't look like my father, and only a little of my mother.
It was until I reached eleven when I figured out that my mom had an affair with this other man, blond hair, small spike at the tips. I met him before. James, was it? No, my father wasn't Richard, it was a stranger who slept with my mommy. I cringed, when it was about sex, and if it involved my father, I twitch. I was afraid when my mother touched me. I was always afraid, her sweet whispers when she tried to make me sleep, her kisses on my forehead and cheeks. It was unbearable. I was unstable. I couldn't do it, the last time she did that, I pushed her away. Luckly, I chewed my nails, so I would've scratched her.
Was it always like this? Having a family that couldn't stand to look at each other? No, it was usually metaphors and encouragement with my parents. But that was when I was three or something. I looked down at the small lines, or stripes as I prefer. Almost one each year when I found a the beauty of releasement in a form of slashing. It was the best way to escape, but it was close. I didn't like it. But I needed to do something. I felt my chest bubble up with fear and anxiety. I started to hyperventilate. On reflex, One hand went to pulling the locks of my dull-yellow hair, and one went to my neck, Digging the thin line of my nails into the skin. It was another escape, just like the cutting, it wasn't preferred.
Why was it a spaz that had a dark sense of humor? Maybe it's because I'm a pessimist. Or I just hated the world and all its inhabitants. Or maybe it's both. I wanted to leave, but where would I go? I just can't run to anybody, they hate me as much as I hate them. Maybe even more. They all hated the one that stood out, but they all loved the other blond that was exactly like him. Maybe it's because he spatted swears and he didn't. No one cared, about swearing, but when he shouted something like, "ARG!", or "NNGH!" it was considered annoying and disruptive. But when you hear,"SHIT!" or "COCK SUCKING ASS!" No one says a word, but a few chuckles. But that swearing-boy screamed more than him! And they said he was trying to mimic the boy, for crying out loud, the spaz was here before Tourettes!
He couldn't find recluse in coffee if it made the situation worse, no, until he found there was an odd taste in the daily brew, he spilled it in the sink. Along with his dinner. He didn't know the, 'Warm morning brew like the summer's rays' was actually crushed pills and black coffee. He always thought that was sugar. It made him wonder why he was so crazy and spazy when his parent weren't. Now, when he smelt coffee being made, it made his mouth water and shake, he craved for that bitter taste. Still has, in fact just mentioning it made him want the sugar all too himself. The taste of creamy vanilla within the darkness of that black liquid. It made him crave it, but his stomach disagreed with his tastes.
Coming home from school wasn't they best thing, school wasn't any better, just more people, that's the difference. When he came home, it was quiet. He wanted to call out, but stayed silent. It was when a foul smell came to his senses, then he heard it, the panicking. He heard panting and rushed breathes. He walked into the kitchen and froze. There she was, holding a broken coffee mug, face bashed in, bags scattered around her, and smudges of remaining blood in the tiles of the floor. Then his mouth was covered, and he heard a whisper,"If you tell anyone you little bitch, I'll cut you and make sure you won't be found." Go ahead, he thought. No one will care. But his body said the opposite, he shook vigorously, and nodded. "Good. Now get the bags and the shovel, start digging."
The one thing about having a fence and having neighbors that don't care, they won't mind if we made a garden with my mom's body. There was already a big place to set her at. A garden bed, but we would have to cut her up if needed her to fit. He cringed, they're more than one garden beds. He went inside and told his father. He held a calm look and nodded. He was going to the store, to buy flower seeds. He change out of his bloody clothes and told me to clean up. I grabbed a scrubby and bleached the hell out of the floor. Grabbing two gloves, he cut her up into several pieces. Hearing every tear and rip, he didn't realize the floor covered in crimson. He felt tears shimmer down.
Taking deep breaths, he grabbed the arm and put it into the first garden bed. Then kept going. It was taking a long time, tearing through the skin and undressing her. It wasn't a sight to see for the Tweek boy, it was then he realized. His father was gone an awful long time. He was already sweating, and he put all the evidence and other tools into trash bags, almost filled one, so it wouldn't look suspicious. He had to clean his room to make it look like he had an excuse. He wasn't the best liar, but at least this was a hint of truth. So technically, he wasn't lying. He came back. Two bags, both small ones. Alcohol and seeds. He was stumbling. "I'll be upstairs." Hissing his s's and holding out his vowels.
He was done. Going to the bathroom, he stared at his reflection, wiping the sweat from his forehead and some tears. He mouthed and a sense of relief washed over him. 'I'm Tweek and I just helped my dad bury my mom.' he repeated the words until he felt something come up, meeting his friend the toilet. It was then he had another 'conversation' and went to bed. Like nothing happened.