Author's Update:
The last chapter was relatively short - at least by comparison to this chapter and the Prologue, which with both parts combined was over four thousand words. However, because of the significance of the events told, I felt that a short but dedicated chapter was necessary. It also took a very long time to write as I wanted to get it just right! With this chapter, aptly titled 'Interlude' for a reason, we're going to be taking a break from Tweek and flashing backwards in time. Don't worry though, because I can assure you that it nevertheless plays a fairly important part in the overall plot. If you enjoy this break from the main narrative, then let me know via reviews and I may write some more chapters like this. Enjoy!
Interlude:
David Teelez is one of the oldest in his sophomore classes, already sixteen come late autumn and Halloween, with a stereotypically Latino complexion that is a rich creamy-brown colour and straight black hair which he occasionally styles with a slathering of hair gel. Often dressing simplistically in a white baseball tee with navy blue sleeves and charcoal grey chinos, he has little need to consciously try to be attractive. His pectoral muscles bulge, visibly pronounced in the relatively tight shirt, and the veins on his arms explode with an attractively vascular appearance. Meanwhile, his jawline is defined, sharp as a woodsman's axe, and covered in stubble. He'd come into manhood earlier than his peers and, along with the results of some years weightlifting, it visibly shows as the girls fawn desperately for his favour. Sadly, however, not everyone at school is quite so keen on him.
"It's 'Da-veed', you fat fuck," he cusses, slamming a fist into the chubby cheek of Eric Cartman: the school's resident neo-Nazi sociopath. There's a discomforting cracking noise as blood splatters across the floor like some abstract painting, oozing worryingly from the overweight teen's mouth, which almost immediately begins to discolour into a dark shade of purple.
"Mr Teelez," booms a voice, echoing down the long corridor which is lined on either side with old lockers that are somewhat rusted in places. It's the so-called 'Black Dahlia', derived from the mutilated murder victim and perhaps indicating just how disliked she is by her students. Her grey-black hair is long and flowing, but covered in knots which seemingly age her by ten years, and her scarlet red lipstick is at best tacky or at worst downright inappropriate. On more than one occasion, she'd been unflatteringly compared to a middle-aged prostitute who prowls the streets at night for some quick cash. "Are you picking on poor Cartman again? I thought I'd told you that the school takes a zero-tolerance approach to bullying."
As she approaches, the obese sociopath begins to play along with the false accusations - ever trying to spin a situation in his favour. A forced tear runs down his cheek as a childlike wail erupts from his throat, causing a look of sheer horror to plaster itself across the teacher's face. She goes to grab the young Latino's arm, probably to drag him off to the principal's office yet again, but is too slow as he instead jumps back, grabs his backpack which he had earlier put down in order to deal with Cartman, and then runs for the nearest fire exit. Sirens burst, automatically, into life as the door swings open with a thud and David is greeted by the cold mountain air. It almost burns his skin, which despite the season is still exposed as he wears just his baseball shirt, with a searing pain similar to that of holding an ice cube itself.
"Screw this shit," he sighs, deciding to skip classes for the remainder of the day. "Looks like I've got some time to myself..."
. . .
"Welcome to this s-s-special Halloween showing of 'The Colorado S-S-Slasher'," came the sound of a lisping teenager, likely a high school drop-out with braces and awful acne working there for minimum wage, through the screen's tinny loudspeaker system.
The cinema is dark, naturally, with only the faint luminescence of 'Fire Exit' signs to the sides of the aisles providing some minimal lighting. David sits at the back, where he can go unnoticed and also put his feet up. He rests them on the headrest of the seat in front. His shoes, canvas (but not an expensive brand like Converse or Vans) and a matching shade of grey to his chinos, catch the light of the big screen upon which the pre-film commercials roll. The projector hums gently in the background and there's the faint creaking of the old chair, covered in red velvet that is typical for a cinema, as he shuffles and squirms to get comfortable.
"Uh, I need this," came a husky voice suddenly from a few seats to David's right. "I've been marking test papers all day."
It sounds familiar, so he carefully averts his gaze whilst trying to remain inconspicuous, and then gasps at the sight. He cups a hand to his face, stifling it, as he realises that the 'Black Dahlia' herself is here - in the very same cinema as he, who should right now be in a mathematics class. Fortunately, she hasn't noticed him, instead seeming far more preoccupied with her companion: a young man with scruffy blond hair and a fluorescent orange parka. She rests a hand on his knee and it is abundantly clear that, whomever he is, they're more than just a 'friend'. David seizes the opportunity to slip silently from his chair and shimmy along the aisle, in the opposite direction of the 'Black Dahlia' of course.
Crunch! Popcorn, rather ironically, pops underfoot and within seconds he has attracted sorely undesired attention.
"David? Is that y-"
"Crap!"
He runs. The nearby fire exit is light work for his muscular physique and he barges into it, flinging the door open with a thud and igniting the automatic fire alarms into life for the second time in one day. A small swarm of people begin to file out of the movie theatre, prompting him to move along before questions are asked, and he resumes into a light jog across the street.
Beep! The car tries to swerve, but it's too late, and he barely has time to gasp before the whole world fades to a foreboding blackness.
. . .
David awakes on a stretcher, sprawled out in a somewhat compromising medical gown across some sterile white bedsheets, and immediately begins to examine his surroundings. He is evidently in a hospital, surrounded by medical equipment such as heart-rate monitors and other, more complex contraptions that he hasn't the faintest idea about. Minty green curtains enclose him on each side, offering some semblance of privacy, but nevertheless he can still clearly hear his neighbours. On his right, there's the sound of coughing - wheezing even. Even though he can't see the sickly individual, the Latino teenager imagines an elderly man wrapped in tubing as an equally old woman with fraying, greying hair sobs beside him. Hospitals always spur such depressing thoughts.
"It'll be okay," says someone to his left. They're behind the curtain, but their monotonous voice sounds oddly familiar. "It'll be okay."
Standing, the world at first begins to spin and his head throbs virulently as he reaches up to feel a small series of stitches across the right of his forehead, but he soon stabilises himself and manages to shamble over towards the curtain. Pulling it back, he slowly and cautiously peeks his head around - only to be greeted by a most horrific sight. Across yet another sterile white stretcher like his own, there lies yet another teenager, but unlike David this one is covered in the tubes and medical equipment that he had just previously imagined for some elderly man. It's a boy, dressed in a yellow sweatshirt and blue jeans, and across the segregated cubicle stands another teenager.
"Craig?"
There's silence. The lanky, six foot beast is paler than ever, still clad in his trademark blue jacket but without the hat, which he instead holds nervously in a pair of shaking hands. David didn't know him well, but enough to know that he had a reputation for being stoically deadpan, and that only made seeing him in such a state all the more shocking.
"The doctors... They say he might have damage... brain damage... permanent," he finally manages to stammer out, a series of mangled sentence fragments that are ultimately unnecessary. The facial expressions and the medical equipment, it all tells a thousand words to David, who finally takes a seat and prompts for Craig to do the same. "Clyde, he... gun... shot..."
. . .
David and Craig, a seemingly odd-looking pair with the former a stocky weightlifting teenager and the latter a lanky cynic, sit on two pushed chairs opposite Jimmy's stretcher/hospital bed. They're the typical blue plastic ones you see in schools or hospitals, most likely because they're easy to wash down in the event of vomiting or diarrhoea, and incredibly uncomfortable. They squeak awkwardly with every slight movement too, but fortunately the pair are deathlike in their lack of movement. Craig sighs unhappily, resting his head against the muscular arm of David, feeling the Latino's bulging biceps under his cheek.
"Where's Tweek? Aren't you two a..."
"Yeah," he mumbles out, returning to a more monotonous tone now that his emotions have somewhat calmed. However, there's an undertone of bitterness. "And he's at home, sleeping. He passed out; it's his anxiety - again."
David isn't an expert on relationships, despite what his appearances may suggest to the contrary, but even he can tell something is wrong. Whatever it is, Tweek has his work cut out...
