Disclaimer: Waaaaaaaay back. Like pages ago. If you're still reading this fic under the delusion i'm Trey Parker... more power to you?
Warning: I know i mentioned Slash and stuff but did i say anything about possible implied and actual drug use? Cause it's in this chapter. So. No drug-hating i don't read that crap people should read this chapter. Except the Drugs are kinda important in the long run.
Mene: Tweek's weekend. More procrastination, a tiny bit of history, and not much forward movement.
R&R.
Seriousleh, you don't wanna be the next scott tenorman do you?
Another crash echoed outside, followed closely by screams. Tweek burrowed deeper into his bed sheets, his small frame wracked with shivers.
It had been over twelve hours since Craig had left his apartment. It was Saturday morning and Tweek hadn't been able to close his eye for more than a few blinks. His heart was beating an anxious tattoo against his ribs and his lip was bloodied and torn from his chewing on it.
He was terrified.
It wasn't so much that someone knew where he lived; it wasn't even that it was Craig himself. Though the fact that Craig was friends with one of his lead tormentors didn't exactly help things. It was the fact he had let someone in his apartment.
His sanctuary.
He'd claimed this apartment, shabby and empty as it was, as his own. And now he had allowed it to be violated. He knew it was unclean now. He couldn't ever get back the untouched feel that had left him safe and wrapped in a blanket of security.
This apartment had been his haven. Some place to be able to let down his guard. A place he would not fear for his life or health. A place he could sleep.
Sleep had been so rare for him. A combination of paranoia and unreasonable fear and caffeine keeping him alert at all times. He feared sleeping pills to much to try them and most other holistic medicines didn't help.
And then, after the unpleasantness of how he had gotten his own home, he had found solace. Two sweet years of solace, now broken.
It was two weeks after he had turned sixteen when the catalyst occurred.
Tweek had always been twitchy and spastic in the worst of ways. Unable to keep still in any situation. He blinked in nervousness. He twitched in surprise. His movements followed his ever erratic thoughts and were sometimes misconstrued due to his surroundings. Outside stimuli wasn't always a trigger. His shrieks and twitches couldn't always be liked to reality and that lead to others finding him weird from an early age.
Ever since he could remember he had been able to see what others could not, from innocent underwear gnomes as a child to vicious beasts and monsters as he aged. Sometimes noises others couldn't hear sounded in his overactive imagination. Others he would see a simple shadow morph into an imp from hell. His world was one of no constants.
He was a boy who thought to much. A boy who worried about the smallest things.
He saw the worst in any situation and how it could turn foul.
He saw more than any other the negative points of a situation. He researched statistics and accidents. He learned of all the obscure illnesses. He knew the real disasters and the ones he imagined. His list of conspiracy's was almost a hundred pages long.
When he was four his parents did the worst thing they could.
They gave Tweek coffee.
Coffee was bad for you. It yellowed your teeth. It stunted your growth. It was highly caffeinated and impaired sleep. It made you hyper and jumpy. It was addictive.
And Tweek was addicted.
With all the caffeine in his system he found his days lengthened and more stressful than before. By the time he was nine he was a nervous wreck, twitching and jumping at shadows. Some days he refused to leave his house to worried about government satellites following his movements and androids shooting him on the streets. He slept very little, three hours a night on good nights, none at all some nights. The sleep he managed was fitful and haunted; the slightest sound could send him awake in an instant.
The friends he had made when he was younger, when his quirks weren't quite so damning, slowly began drifting away. He certainly didn't keep them or even try to. Having to worry for other people was entirely to stressful. So by the time he hit ninth grade he was a nervous wreck, an overly short, scared of his own shadow, friendless ball of paranoia.
High school was awful.
The crowded halls, filled with mocking students and bullies and bodies pressed together was an ordeal to walk through. The harder classes, where he felt the pressure bearing down on him to do well, or else he would fail and if he failed he wouldn't graduate and he would have to live with his mom and dad forever, stuck in perpetual metaphorical hell, drove him to the brink of his sanity.
It didn't take long for him to crack.
He spent the entire second week of his freshman year locked in his room, receiving coffee only through a cat-flap he had installed in the door himself. With no food and no sleep and no one to care, he got desperate. Searching the web he found all sorts of ways to relax. Some of them were frightening and others he didn't understand how they could help him relax, some seemed like they would make him panic more.
And then he saw 'Herbal Remedies'. A site entirely about Marijuana and its effects. Entranced he read. Nothing bad seemed to come from it, the website de-bunked so called myths about weed and explained in great detail how it could mellow you out.
It sounded perfect.
The first thing he did that Saturday was walk to Kenny McCormick's house.
Everyone in South Park knew this side of town was bad, the poor people and the drug dealer lived here. Not that south park was quite big enough to have an actual homeless population, just the welfare and food-stamp kind of poor people, like the McCormick's. From his house, in the business district above Tweak Bros. Coffee house, the walk took about forty minutes.
Tweek used the entire time to think of scenarios of what might happen if he actually smoked the weed.
He might have a bad trip, end up shooting himself and his parents wouldn't even bury him because he was a filthy crack whore, like Mrs. Cartman. He might get busted by the cops and sent straight to prison, then he would get raped and become someone's bitch and they would own him. He didn't think he would make a good pet at all, was he even considered house trained? What did house trained mean? Didn't pet owners want the pet to be like, yard trained or outside trained or something?
And suddenly Tweek was face to face with a tire cluttered yard. The front of the house was fading white wash, at least two decades old. The door had a hairline crack straight down the center and the doorbell was a single red wire sticking out the hole. The porch was falling inward and looked unstable. All in all it was a trashy house and Tweek didn't want to approach it.
But he had to. It wasn't like he knew a dealer, or could ever muster up the courage to approach one out of the blue. They'd probably knife him for being 'fresh' or something. And everyone knew Cartman and Kenny were two of the biggest parties in their grade. Tweek had heard they came to the last day of eighth grade after doing a hit of ecstasy.
Kenny really was his best bet.
So summoning all his courage he steeled his resolve and walked up to knock on the door. Except he never made it that far. A blur of orange came barreling around the side of the house and knocked him flat. That was all it took to set off Tweek who had been wound tighter than a tight rope over the whole thing to begin with.
Tweek instantly curled in on himself and began shrieking as loud as he could.
"Don't…wanna…..get, gah! Me! No…" he whimpered through his bursts of shrieking and moaning. He knew he was being irrational, pathetic and a hundred other synonyms for freakish, but he still couldn't stop.
Faintly he registered the sounds of Kenny's frantic voice. "Shit man! Shhh… it's ok. I'm not the government or whatever. Be quite dude!"
When a minute later the screams tapered off Kenny's hand was in his face and he was pulled to his feet and dragged long behind the older male.
"K-k-Kenny!" he forced out, trying to pull out of the stronger boys grip. Even with the malnourishment and sharpness of poverty Kenny still stood a respectable four inches taller than him and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds, so he was unable to escape.
Kenny ignored him until they reached the end of his street. Stopping so abruptly the smaller male was forced to run into his back before being pulled around to face him.
Raising an eyebrow at Tweek, Kenny simply waited.
"Uh… I that is… need…some….please….i gotta get….. mellow… dying… weed?" Was all Tweek managed. That was hard enough. His face was hot crimson with his embarrassment, and he found himself mortified that he had even dared ask.
What if Kenny was offended he had asked? What if he was angry? Kenny was stronger than him and scary and he hung out with Cartman, who was the most deranged and psychotic person in the whole of South Park. He would know a lot of awful disturbing ways of getting revenge.
Kenny chuckled and looked him over, taking in the twitches and one particularly violent spasm. Kenny had seen the way his eyes darted around the empty air, like he was seeing something no one else could, which he was. And Kenny nodded.
"Yeah you could use it man. Tell you what. Get me fifty in cash Monday and I'll get you a dime bag and everything else you need. Meet me in the parking lot at three." And with that Kenny headed off to do whatever kids with friends did now.
Tweek got the money and was instructed in how to inhale, light up, roll joints and even in how to get the best effect from his product. Everything he needed to know to be able to get high.
He had flashes of the after school specials where the older brother died in a horrible car wreck and the loving little brother and parents cried. He almost wished that were him. If he died because he was high would anyone care, or would he become one of his own statistics? Forgotten, that photo in the yearbook of someone no one could quite name.
Coffee was his savior. It kept him alert to threats and allowed him to survive on his limited sleep. Kept him relatively sane. Weed was different.
It was better than coffee.
Where the coffee gave him energy, forced his eyes to open wide, the dope got him drowsy. He was cooled and clamed enough that he didn't have to move. He could fall asleep with out worrying who's gun he would wake up to find in his face, or whether he would be able to wake at all.
He could breathe.
Nothing mattered when he was high. No worries about school or his parents or anything. It was like the world had taken a back seat. When he smoked he felt like he was just a bit closer to normal. The weed helped him be collected enough to go to school, or to gather the courage needed leave his room at all.
After that week Kenny supplied him for almost two years.
Until he was sixteen.
His parents had found his stash and proceeded with the usual rants. Except more extreme, almost violent. They had thrown him out. Told him never to come back.
He wasn't sure how he felt about that, outside of his enormous very real fear of starving to death of course.
His parents had never been warm and fuzzy, not at all. They honestly hated him. Every thing he did was a burden, wrong or right. He was useless. He was a mess. They didn't know how he was their son, which prompted him to have a many a melt down the first time he heard it wondering if he was a Martian and weather he was supposed to be plotting world domination, because he honestly didn't think he would be particularly good at that. They had never wanted a child, and if they had he certainly didn't fit their normal perfect-world picture of a child.
They had never openly abused him though. Their cutting words were the brunt of it. But that hate stung all the same. He never thought they would make him leave, at least not until college or he turned eighteen. Honestly his parents fuelled his paranoia with their promises of slave trades and warnings against strangers. He might be better off alone.
If he could survive.
In the end he showed up, pathetic and cold and miserable, on Kenny's front porch. Kenny had not even seemed surprised. Tweek had been welcomed to his room and home. He'd found a job and immediately begun saving though, the violence of Kenny's parents tore at his nerves fiercely. He'd stayed for a month before he could afford his crap apartment.
It had been two whole years since he entered the endless cycle of loneliness he found himself living.
In all that time he had never allowed anyone to come into his apartment, when the faucet in the kitchen leaked, he had bought a wrench rather than call a stranger. And now for some reason, he felt as if his peace was disturbed.
He rolled on his side and tried to smash a pillow over his face to block out the noises. It didn't particularly help as half of them were in his head.
He had no work, no homework, nothing to occupy his thoughts for the weekend. He would have to endure the whispers of his violated apartment for another day and a half.
try and make the best of it. Try to get to sleep at some point.
Maybe humming would drown down the noises.
If not, he could go ahead and start a pot of coffee.
StarGuide2011