AN: Hello. My name is Cynical B. Itch. Wait, what? I could have sworn it said NightingaleLost... You weren't hallucinating. She wrote this. I'm updating it for her, because I'm trusted and have the power of the internet. Enjoy and review.
Disclaimer: Look at me. Now look at the URL. Look back at me. This is a fan fiction.
There is a certain futility of life that I know exists. We are born, and we grow up, and do things that we like, and some things we don't like. We love, and hate, and breathe and see and do stuff...and then we die. And twenty years later everyone we knew has almost completely forgotten us and it was like everything we did, everything we strove for, never happened.
We're born, we live, we die. End of story. To sum it all up: everything we do is in vain. Every act, every thought, every single fucking breath we take is useless, and will serve no purpose.
Don't get me wrong; I see the futility clearly...but I just don't care.
If I could live in a world that was completely one color (pick one, I don't mind) and everyone wore one face (make one up, if you want) and there were no days or nights, just sky (pick a color for that too, while you're at it) it would be the same to me as the world I live in right now. Because really, nothing ever changes. Not that I particularly care either way.
I am what you'd call, a Watcher. I don't do things. I stand behind people and watch them do things. I like to see where they end up. Most of the time they end in failure, through one thing or another that they either forgot, or were just too stupid to realize. Then I turn around and watch someone else do something.
I like watching small things. It's the little instances in life that really let you see the uselessness of it all. Seeing a person hand change to a hobo on the street, only to see him walk into a gas station and buy a pack of cigs as soon as the 'Good Samaritan' is gone. And what was the end result? Nothing. Net gain=zero.
A stray kitten once crossed my path as I walked down a street, and began to cut through to reach the other sidewalk. I didn't pay much notice to it until I heard the screech of tires behind me. The kitten was nothing more than a spreading smear of blood and fur on the black asphalt afterwards. Oh, I suppose I could have saved it. I could have picked it up when it went by, or scared it off, or made it stand still for just one second, and it wouldn't have died. But then what? I wouldn't have taken it home, and it'd still, out of sheer ignorance, end up like it did.
Net gain=zero, once more.
I do not like it when things involve me. Talking with people irritates me. Joining a group of people irritates me. Interacting with people outside of my normal observations irritates me. I don't understand why they continuously seek me out to do things with them, when I try my very hardest to make them go away, through scathing, deadpan words and gestures. Those usually work, but they keep coming back. It doesn't make sense to me. I don't want to live their life, their futility, when I already have my own. What use is it to talk to them, when I know they won't remember me when I die? What can they give me that I need? Companionship? Don't care for it. Happiness? Doesn't exist, in a permanent sense. An escape? Hardly. They'd wrap me up in events and failures and their own special brand of happy misery until I couldn't fight my way out of a damn paper bag.
Net gain=less than nothing.
People call me a jerk, a cynic, an asshole...a bunch of other words I can't really bother to remember right now because I really didn't pay attention. I think my favorite phrase—that I can recall—was "dead on the inside". I think I almost laughed. No, no, I'm not dead...I am very much alive inside. I'm about as alive as the rest of the people walking around on the giant hunk of dirt we live on. Believe me: I live about as vividly as you do. My life just happens to be vicarious. I live through the tiny interactions I see of others; I live off of my observations.
For that reason—if there really was one—I don't hate people. No. I can't hate the things that entertain me. I have a certain...contempt for them. If they were like me they'd know better. They wouldn't be so worried about life because it simply doesn't matter and it's really nothing to worry about. If the world was like me I think it's be a lot more interesting...and less homicidal.
But then again if everyone was like me there'd be nothing to watch. Hmm, not so interesting then. Eh, like I mentioned before, I don't really care. I suppose I'd find something else to do to occupy my time.
As much as I have my little scorn for the people around me, there are a certain few that...interest me. That I can tolerate interactions with. Ones I don't curse and make rude gestures at to scare away. They don't come around too often, but there are some.
The one I have right now is Tweek. Tweek Tweak, driven, addicted to caffeine, paranoid, afraid, jittery, never still; a mess of everything that most people would hate.
I think he's fascinating.
He's almost like me in a way. But where I see the end result, the uselessness of our lives, he sees the middle, the danger, the agony. He runs around afraid and scared of people, always watching, always fearful. His theories are almost insane, his ramblings even more so. Most people can't stand him. He really reminds me of me; people can't stand me either. It only makes it more confusing when they persist on trying to interact with me. But they yell at Tweek, or try to bully him, or do all sorts of idiotic human things that only end up in making Tweek more paranoid, more afraid, more dependent on coffee, more spastic in his reactions.
I adore these results. I really do. Thomas was the same way too, but whereas Tweek's reactions to people are what fascinates me, it was people's reaction to Thomas that made me want to stick around. They're both very special people.
Neither were particularly hard to get close to. A little pretend here, a few words there...for now with Tweek, all I had to do was play at his protector. Instant trust. No, not trust per-se...I doubt Tweek trusts me wholeheartedly, his paranoia is one deadly beast, but he trusts me more than anyone else. As he is constantly on the lookout for anything safe, my protection was, I assume, like a blessing to him. So now I can stand by him and watch as he shrieks, or jumps at a noise, or adds yet another fear to his ever-growing list.
I can barely hold in my grin as I take all of it in. He can satisfy me better than watching the futile events of four other people. He's just so...so much. He has a lot to 'him', if it makes any sense.
Yes, I will gladly scare off the bullies, or the people that frighten him, even though they provide some of the necessary interactions that force reactions from Tweek. It doesn't matter, there are many more things that give me what I want, and it gives me golden opportunities and front row seats to my favorite little subject.
Net gain=satisfaction. And satisfaction is everything to me.
It didn't take long for me to realize how he looked at me, like how some of the people around me stare at their lovers or 'special someones'. I had never been the object of someone's affection, nor had I ever wanted to. Sure, you get a girlfriend (or boyfriend), kiss, hug, fuck, whatever. Then you have a fight, or a conflict, or you decide that you're better off as friends, or they cheat on you or you cheat on them. Maybe you just grow apart. Maybe they die. Maybe you die. Either way, you never end up together forever. I have yet to see the perfect family or relationship. I suppose I have the perfect 'family relationship', but only because they leave well enough alone. This would only work with me, I feel.
But I realize Tweek liked me, in a physical, emotional sense. My curiosity tugged at me. Yes, I have curiosity. I'm not dead, remember? But I was curious. Now, what kind of reaction would I get from this?
I copy the actions that I've seen of those around me. I get closer. I touch him. Eventually one day I kiss him and 'confess' my feelings. He's ecstatic; his eyes twinkle and his cheeks flush, his twitching speeds up and his speech goes right out the window. He can barely hold himself together. I don't bother hiding my grin this time at these most fascinating responses, and he takes it as a sign of my 'happiness' that he's agreed to my request to be his boyfriend.
I play at lover now; only a progressive step above protector, I muse.
But now his reactions get more frantic, more 'more'. Every kiss of mine, every embrace and word and look we share give me more and I can't get enough. It captivates me as I study everything, wondering how we'll 'end up'. My curiosity is still there; I want to see more, I want to see just how much he's capable of.
I amp it up a little, I get closer, I set the mood and we eventually fuck.
His reactions are amazing.
I keep my eyes open and stare at every inch of him, every emotion that passes through his face as I shove myself into him. Flushed cheeks, hazy eyes and the ripples of our impact traversing his skin, his clenching fingers as he cries out and holds onto me tighter than ever before. His vocal reactions by themselves would have been enough but everything just rolls together in one messy little package and I am ecstatic myself as I continue to push and thrust. Every nuance of his body entrances me.
Net gain=satisfaction, and then some. The physical pleasure is a bonus.
Tweek is very fascinating.
We continue our 'relationship' and I continue to watch others and Tweek continues to be dragged into things that envelop him and only make him freak out when he'd rather just be alone. Tweek would make a much better Watcher than anything else, although I'm glad he's not. He's my favorite little subject/boyfriend after all.
I know everything will mean nothing. In a few years I'll probably find someone more fascinating than him—through right now I doubt it—and I'll leave him, even when I know that'll probably kill him—he's grown to be very dependent on me, the little thing—or something else will happen and we'll end up apart. If by some means we don't and I continue to play at his special someone, we'll eventually die and neither of us will have made much of an impact and no one will care after a while and no one will remember us.
Net gain=zero, right?
But like I told you before,
I just really don't care.