I can still remember the exact words that went through my head at the precise moment my life got ripped apart.
What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.
'I'm almost at yours, Tweek. Make sure you're ready.' Craig commanded, before promptly hanging up the phone, not allowing me time to reply. I knew he would be outside my house in less than five minutes, yet I was still supremely unprepared for the night we had planned. Well, the night he had planned. Standing in the bathroom, I gazed into the full-length mirror on the wall. The person staring back at me did not look happy.
Ever since I was a kid, ever since I started noticing the attention the guys in my class seemed to get from girls, well, Clyde, Stan and Kenny anyway, and how little I received, I'd been self-conscious of my body. I wish I could be the kind of kid that worried about being too fat. I mean, I know it's hard work losing weight, exercising, dieting, all that, but at least it's do-able. What are you supposed to do when rumours fly around you, all the time, people whispering about your anorexia, your bulimia, your non-existent eating disorders, how you starve yourself and never eat anything? It's not my fault I'm skinny. It's not my fault that my bones hang limp by my side, all too visible, and that you can see my ribs without even looking. I've tried bulking up, eating more, but it honestly doesn't work. If I try too eat a meal as big as the average person would eat then I feel sick. I just have a small stomach, I can't take much food and that's not my fault. I guess the high caffeine intake doesn't do much for my appetite to be honest. Eating unhealthily doesn't work either. Fast food makes me want to vomit, and because I'm such a health-freak, I can't eat anything sweet without brushing my teeth immediately afterwards. I mean, laugh all you like, but the thought of that sugar just sitting there in my mouth, gnawing away at my gums and teeth... I just can't stand it.
I do realise that I sound like a complete bag of dicks right now, going on about how crappy my life is because I'm not fat enough, when there are so many people out there that do have genuine problems with their weight. But this is entirely serious. I have never, in my entire life, had an eating disorder, and I don't plan on developing one. But that didn't stop kids from saying that I did. People have always picked on me, and it's pretty obvious why. I mean, a small, geeky, spazzy kid, unable to connect with normal people, addicted to coffee, always freaking out about every tiny, little thing. What's not to hate?
The bullying killed me. Craig was always there, though. The one person that stood by me no matter what. I guess he was just loyal that way. Anybody that made fun of me outright, picked on me, tried to hurt me, they would have to answer to Craig. He would take on my bullies, and because he'd decided to learn to fight in the sixth grade to protect himself from his own bullies, he would never lose a fight. Maybe it was because he had been bullied too, he knew what I was going through, that he helped me. But regardless, in the long run of things, Craig's protection didn't help. Yeah, people stopped taunting me to my face, but they were always talking about me. Whenever I walked down the hallway, people would turn away, or worse, stare at me. They'd whisper to their friends about Tweek The Freak. They told stories of how their friend had a friend who's cousin's sister knew a guy that works for my Dad, and how apparently that friend's cousin's sister's friend told them that I take pills for depression, that I've attempted suicide multiple times, I'm anorexic, bulimic, bi-polar, schizophrenic, that as a child doctor's did experimental tests on me and that's why I'm so messed up, that I was physically and/or mentally abused by my parents. How I'm too scared or weak or messed up in the brain to deal with any sort of social contact or face people who talk shit about me, so I cower behind Craig Tucker, the arrogant prick who considers himself my night in shining armour. You name it and I've had it rumoured about me.
When I was young, about 10 or so, my parent's tried to get me help. Professional help. They wanted me to be 'normal', which apparently meant not twitching and shouting out all the time, not getting paranoid about every tiny little thing and not being hyperactive. The solution was sitting in the office of a man with a white coat and a piece of paper framed on his wall, which made him some sort of an expert on me. At least, that's what my parents thought. Surprisingly though, the guy wasn't half bad. Doctor Singer. He was young and charming, always telling jokes, but the sort that are funny and made me laugh, not the uncomfortable trying-too-hard ones like most adults told. I don't know whether it was a part of my therapy or not, but he would spend a long time during our sessions together telling me stories about his life, places he'd travelled too, people he'd met, the hard times he'd dealt with when he was younger. These stories were always fascinating and he was great at telling them. They'd keep me entertained for hours, and every story always had the same core message within it, that he'd repeat and point out for emphasis.
What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.
Sometimes, in English class at school, I'd switch some names about and tell the teacher that those stories were my own. I got a lot of praise for those.
But Doctor Singer did manage to help me in a more practical way. It took a few months before I felt fully comfortable around him, but when I did, I slowly started telling him about my life. He made a deal one day that I could only ever hear one of his stories if I told him a story from my life in return. I told him I didn't have any stories, not like his. Then he smiled at me, winked, and said, 'Make them up.'
And so I did. I made up fantastic stories about children and adults going on great adventures all over the world, into fantasy lands, imaginary places, fighting evil villains, saving the world and becoming heroes. As time passed, and as I matured, I began realising how much I liked telling stories. But my stories had started changing. Now, they were more often realistic, about teenagers with problems at school or at home, rather than princes and wizards defeating the forces of evil. And always, the hero or heroine would get hurt in some way, and make a recover, coming back stronger than ever.
What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.
My stories became my life. I would take a problem I had, something bad that had happened, and make it a story. I'd give an imaginary character my problem and then, in my head, they would resolve it and have a happy ending. And this was how I learnt to cope, through the stories I made up. After a year of therapy, there was a noticeable improvement in my behaviour. I stopped twitching, shouting out and jumping up and down uncontrollably. I'd been given some sort of pill for my paranoia when I was 9 by some other doctor, but Doctor Singer really disapproved of that, so he slowly took me off the drug and helped me live without it.
The worst problem I had was the real bullies. Not the normal kids who simply told stories about me that they thought were vaguely true, or avoided me for whatever reason, but the ones that wait for me outside of school, follow from a distance until I was alone, then pounce. They said how I was a wuss, getting Craig to fight for me. I never asked him too. They called me a freak, told me I had mental problems and that I deserve to be beat up for that. I never asked to be born this way. And yeah, I would get beat up, but they were always smart about it, always careful. Punching someone in the face is noticeable, it attracts attention, which would lead Craig to force me to tell him who did it. Instead, they would shove me to the ground, kick my stomach, my chest, my legs. I'd limp home in tears, beat and bloody. Take a shower, fix myself up, and as soon as my clothes were back on, nobody could ever tell. The only give away, of course, was the mental agony plastered on my face. But please, like anybody ever cared about that.
That's how the eating disorder rumours started. I refused to do gym class, unwilling to take my clothes off in front of anybody, fearing the marks, scars and bruises being seen. People started talking and decided that it was because I abuse myself through not eating. This theory wasn't helped by the fact that I was never seen with food in my mouth, only ever coffee. The reason for that is because I watched a documentary one time on what goes into school cafeteria food. Even thinking about the horrible footage they showed makes my stomach do summersaults. So I don't eat the food at school anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't eat. I eat a perfectly healthy amount, I just have a fast metabolism so I stay naturally skinny. And I hate it.
I set my phone down on the floor, next to a pile of clothes, before carefully kicking it across the bathroom so as to avoid any of the water that was dripping from my still-soaking landing on it. As the towel wrapped around my waist was discarded, I sighed heavily, poking gingerly at the ribs protruding from my sides and the fresh bruises and old scars round about them, wincing slightly with pain. Thoughts of self-loathing and disgust flashed through my mind and I reached for a pair of underwear. Now there was a decision: What to wear.
This was to be the first ever house party I had ever been to, and I wasn't looking forward to it. A house party meant being surrounded by all the people that hate me and are scared of me and think I'm some sort of science-experiment-gone-wrong kid, for a whole evening. What's worse is that these people would be drunk. I'd tried my best to get out of it, but somehow I got roped in. Token had shoved a mug of that fancy rich coffee into my hands, the kind you only ever get in 5 Star Hotels and, well, the Black's household. Clyde stared up at me with those pleading, irresistible puppy dog eyes of his that had, as he never failed to mention, gotten him laid several times. Craig told me in that stern tone that I simply cannot say no to that I was coming and that this was fact. So they'd got me to agree.
The plan for the evening was getting picked up by Craig in his car at 8 (Token and Clyde both had girls they were going with), drive to Stan's house, because his parent's were out of town and stupid enough to trust him with a house to himself, then sit in the corner and try not to be noticed or engage in any form of social interaction whilst my classmates got drunk and had fun and sex and things like that. Tonight was going to be hell.
At my feet were two different outfits. One was a retro pale-blue t-shirt with Pacman on the front, a plain navy-blue hoodie and a light-blue pair on denim jeans. The other, a simple black t-shirt, a same-colour-black shirt to go on top and a pair of same-colour-black-yet-again khaki's. The first one was nerdy and I liked it. The second one was, in Craig's words, 'slick and cool'. Somehow I didn't strike myself as the sort of person that had the physical capability to be either slick or cool, but if Craig liked it then I liked it. Well, actually that's not true, I didn't like it at all, but Craig's opinion was all that mattered to me. Grabbing the black t-shirt, I pulled it over my mess of hair with one hand, swooping down to pick up the rest of my clothes with the other, and left the bathroom, headed towards my bedroom.
With Craig only moments away, I didn't have the leisure I'd had with my clothes dilemma of spending hours choosing between which deodorant to wear, how to style my hair (I went for the 'just got electro-shock therapy' look, which is my most natural hairstyle), which shoes to wear, whether or not to put on a jacket, stuff like that. Just as I finished tying the knot of my shoe, entirely ready and entirely un-wanting to go, I heard the horn of Craig's car beeping, indicating that he was outside. Wearily, I made for the front door, regretting it with every step. I kept telling myself that this was a bad idea, nothing good was going to happen tonight. I could have had a perfect evening at home, by myself. I'd curl up on the sofa with a warm cup of decaf coffee and a bowl of popcorn, put on The Lion King or Bambi or one of my favourite Disney movies, then lie in bed and read, one of my favourite pastimes. Be by myself, happy and care-free. But no. I had to go to this stupid party, so my stupid friends could drink stupid alcohol with the stupid people that hate me.
The front door shut with a soft click behind me as I stepped out into the freezing cold night. I didn't bother telling my parents I was going, they'd only worry and do their best to distract me and stop me from leaving the house.
'Dude, hurry up!' Craig shouted from the front seat of his car. I quickened my step without looking where I was going, concentrating my vision entirely on the clouds of crystallized breath forming in the air. I remember wishing that I could be like the air I was breathing, released into the night, free and flying about with no worries or cares whatsoever, nobody to answer too, or to hide away from, or to make me feel like crap. I would have done anything to have that sort of freedom and happiness. Absolutely anything.
The sound of Craig hitting his fist against his car's horn again brought me back to reality and I walked up beside the car, opening the passenger seat door to let myself in.
'Jesus, take your time then.' He said, his words dripping with sarcasm. I sighed and leaned my head against the glass of the window as he started driving.
'C-Craig, you know I don't want to do this.' I muttered quietly, half-hoping he wouldn't hear me. But Craig wasn't the type of person that would get angry at a remark like that. In fact, he never really got angry at all. Or happy. His emotional range was very much on a linear scale. The only time I'd ever seen him with an expression other than the blank, I-don't-care look he wore most of the time, was when we were in sixth grade and I'd found him sitting in the bottom of his locker after a couple bullies had shoved him in there. His lip was bust, his eye was black and there'd been blood on his clothes, which were torn. Tears were brimming round the edges of his pupils, and as I held out a hand to pull him upright, they began spilling down his face, soaking my shirt as he buried his head in my chest, sobbing violently. Of course, me and Craig never speak about that day. I'm too afraid he would become embarrassed and get annoyed at me, or angry for bringing it up.
Now, however, Craig had his classic blank expression on. The corner of his lips curled slightly upwards was the only indication that he was vaguely happy.
'Come on, we'll get drunk, you'll talk to people, they'll realise how awesome you are and everything will be great!' He said, rubbing my shoulder with one hand, the other on the wheel. I don't know whether the action was out of affection, comfort or purely for emphasis, but it did make me feel slightly better.
From my house to Stan's was usually about a fifteen minute drive, twenty if there was traffic. But on this particular night there weren't to be any other cars on the road. The air outside was completely quiet and still, in a way that unnerved me slightly, though from the inside Craig's car, and with his voice ringing around in my ears, the eeriness of it all was barely noticeable. We'd pulled up to a stop at a set of traffic lights. Neither of us were talking now, not for any particular reason. I couldn't think of anything I wanted to say and was perfectly content with silence, whilst Craig was in anticipation of the evening ahead, caught up in his imagination, playing different scenes over and over again in his mind. At least, that's what I like to think he was doing. After a surprisingly long period of time waiting for the lights to turn green, Craig sighed. There was no sound outside our car and nobody else was on the road. He pushed the car into gear and it began creeping forward at a cautious pace.
'C-Craig, what are you doing? It's a red light!' I exclaimed, my paranoia surfacing.
'Dude, look around you. It's not like anybody else is here.' Craig said flatly, in that nasally tone of his. Despite being overcome with fear, I sunk back into my seat, not protesting anymore. This was another situation in which my nerves were in over-drive, and Craig was probably right. There were no other cars on the road. We would be fine.
After a few seconds of moving slowly, giving any hidden drivers the chance to show themselves, we set off again at full speed. And then, all of a sudden, time stopped.
Craig turned to face me, his mouth crinkling into a big smile, which is unusual for him, as if he were about to tell some big joke. I looked over at him, but the light glaring from behind his head caught my eye. It resembled a halo around Craig's head, and grew slowly bigger and bigger as he began talking. I tried to raise a hand, to point, to scream, anything to let Craig know. But I couldn't. I was, quite literally, frozen with fear.
Then the car hit us.
The whole thing was a blur. Craig didn't notice until the point of impact, and I remember seeing his head lurch forward in an unnatural way. His body twisted and contorted as his seatbelt tightened around his chest. Before I knew what was happening, the car was spinning out of control and I couldn't see. There were no sounds other than my heart, which was beating so loud that my ears felt like they were going to explode.
And then I blacked out.
That all happened two years ago. Ever since that night, things haven't been the same. I never went back to school, or even home. I live my whole life in this hospital now, locked up like some animal in a zoo. And my cage? Well, my cage is my own body. The legs that I have no control over. The nerves that got damaged so badly that I'll never see again. My mouth, I can't move that either. In fact, there's nothing really that I can do, other than moving my head very slightly to one side and moaning in pain. Doctor's said it's a miracle I'm still alive, but I don't feel like victim of some miraculous act of God.
The last thing I saw was Craig. He was lying with his face dug into the steering wheel, his nose crumpled up like a piece of paper, and with blood covering his head like a blanket. The doctors wouldn't let me go to the funeral.
I can still remember the exact words that went through my head at the precise moment my life got ripped apart. The moment that car hit Craig's. It's true what they say, that your life flashes before your eyes. Well, some of it does at least. For me, I saw my parents, smiling down at their little boy, ruffling my hair and handing me a mug of warm coffee. I saw the faces of my classmates, filled with disgust, or fear, or hatred. The looks I got every time I walked through the school. I saw the bullies kicking me until I couldn't walk, shouting insults, telling me how worthless I am. Spitting on my broken body. And I saw Doctor Singer. I saw him telling me his stories, those great tales that got me through such hard times. And always, always with that one core message at the very centre.
What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.
And now, here I am. Trapped inside my own body. For the rest of my life. I won't ever be able to walk again. I won't get to tell my parents I love them, hold my newborn child in my arms, experience college and different cities and living by myself. I won't ever be able to fall in love. To make love on the beach beneath the stars. I won't ever be able to live again.
Those words still echo around my mind, haunting me in my sleep. I can't ever escape that last thought I had, before losing consciousness, and losing everything.
What doesn't kill you doesn't make you stronger.
What doesn't kill you only makes you wish it did.
So, uhh... Yeah, hope you liked that :L I got the idea when I was in a pretty bad mood, which is why it's kinda sad... it was originally meant to be more Creeky, but that didn't exactly work out. But yeah, review :D if you wanna flame, go ahead :P Thanks for reading it :)