- Butters -
It's no surprise most people don't recognize me anymore. Tweek does, but that's only because we have casual conversations as he makes my coffee, which I'm told I put way too many things in, but it tastes good and that's what matters to me. I give him a shy smile as he hands me my coffee before taking my usual booth in the far back of the shop, furthest from the door. No one interrupts me when I sit with my earbuds in my ears, typing on my laptop. It's nice, it does get busy, but the music drowns out most of the noise. I work for the newspaper, as senior editor. It is a lot of work, even though it's a small town paper. I prefer to go over everything twice myself, even after my assistant and the others have gone over it. I guess that's part of why I got promoted so quickly, at only twenty-three. I've been back here for almost three years now. And Tweek is still the only person that's noticed. I do like the anonymity, but it would be nice if someone else would take notice. I suppose at least that hasn't changed, I'm still forgettable, though that's not entirely anyone's fault - I have drastically changed since I left after high school. I dye my hair black, wear a heavy black hoodie, and usually black or gray cargo pants that hug my now muscular legs. I started working out frequently when I got to college. Enough so that no one made fun of me for being soft-spoken. My voice isn't as high as it was but it's not nearly as deep as Craig Tucker's, it's more mellow. I also have my fingernails cut short and painted black, sometimes I'll do some black lipstick and black eyeliner, more often the eyeliner than the lipstick though. I guess to some I might look odd or intimidating or even both.
I'm not sure what happened, I guess it was my parents being abusive and everyone taking advantage of my naivety, but I'm much more fatalistic now. I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder when I got to college, I still attend one monthly therapy session, though I'm unmedicated. I learned a lot in four years of college and therapy. I'm low-key suicidal, it's rarely intense anymore, I'm generally aware of how to de-escalate myself. I have only one self-inflicted scar, it goes almost the length of my forearm from about 1/3 of the way down to roughly 2 inches above the elbow-bend. It's faint now, pale. It was around when I was 21, I think. I don't have very good memory for time and things like that. Most of it blurs together, I don't remember to do things unless I put it in my phone's calendar. I couldn't tell you what I did three days ago in great detail. I'm not sure why, but that's the way my brain seems to work.
When I came back to South Park, the first thing I did was sign the papers for my first apartment. It wasn't terrible, a single bedroom with a washer and dryer. I worked for two years before purchasing(almost out right, I only owe a few more thousand) my house, it's a nice enough three bedroom place. I have various gaming and book-related posters covering the walls. One room is my "library" where I put all of my books and occasionally sit in to read. It's pretty plain though, just a Big Joe chair and a mini-fridge - away from the books of course - so I don't have to go too far when I would like a snack or drink while reading. The third room just has a few extra things, empty boxes and the like. My bedroom has my queen sized bed, dresser, nightstand, tv, and playstation 2. The living room has my other tv and game systems from gamecube to xbox one. Sometimes, I enjoy the life I've built myself.
Other times, I hate it. I hate everything. Myself. The world. My house. South Park. My job. Just, everything. I've thought about adopting a pet from a shelter, but I don't know. I make enough money to cover the general costs, but I still don't know if I want that kind of responsibility. Which sounds strange, given I have an entire house. I guess it doesn't matter, I just don't know that I could adequately care for another creature.
I work every day, maybe not for long, but every day, I have some sliver of work to do. I like staying busy, most of the time. Other times, it's draining and I just can't focus.
Sometimes I just sit in the booth at Tweek Bros. and watch the customers that come in, sit, leave, and everything between. Some of them I recognize, such as Kenny, Craig, Stan, and Bebe. Kenny looks better than he ever did when we were kids, which makes me happy for him, he never truly let on about how bad things were for him. Craig looks happier, in his own way, I wonder if Tweek sees the way he gazes at him, I don't think so since it's usually when the blond is facing away. Stan..., he doesn't look good, tired, he comes in generally thirty minutes before closing, so I suppose he has a night job, sometimes I want to talk to him, I remember he had childhood depression and would self-medicate with alcohol; but so far, I haven't said anything, maybe I will sometime though. Bebe, jeez, she looks amazing as she always does. She comes in at varying times, it's never the same time any day, but she always looks good, not just in appearance but she looks truly happy, and I'm so happy for her because I've been by the shop she owns, and it does well. I've read articles people have written about her business and her charity/social work. She donates the majority of her profits to women's shelters in the poorest areas, including here in South Park, along with occasionally being a guest-speaker at the high school to advocate for everyone to pursue their passions and to know she's available to talk or text or whatever at any time. It's really amazing, but Bebe was always like that.
I don't know, I stare numbly at the glowing screen before me, should I talk to Stan? What's the worst that could happen? I smile slightly, looking up from the screen to see Tweek rushing around filling orders, five or six people waiting. I glance down at the time, it's gotten late, since I've been sitting here thinking. I sigh, closing the laptop and returning it to my messenger bag. I slide out of the booth and sling the bag over my shoulder, I'll try to focus at home, another sleepless or nearly so night ahead. Just as I'm about to walk to the front to get another coffee, Stan enters and goes up to Tweek. Tweek is busy making Stan's order when I approach the shorter, slender noirette.
"Well uh, hey Stan," I speak softly, my normal tone.
He turns to me in surprise, scanning my appearance and settling on my face, uncertainty plain.
After a pause, "Butters?" he ventures.
"That's me," I chuckle.
"Holy shit," he breathes looking up at me, which is weird, I was pretty short until senior year, shorter than him even.
"How are you? Really," I ask, taking advantage of his surprise to hopefully get an honest answer.
"Fuck um, shitty. I mean, it's kind of complicated."
I shrug, "I have time, but I understand if you have some where to be."
He glances away, Tweek left his coffee on the counter a few feet away.
"I do, I've got work in about twenty minutes."
"All right," I withdraw a business card from my right-hand cargo pocket, my personal number, work number, and email printed on one side with the newspaper and its logo on the other, I extend it to him.
He looks shocked but covers it by quickly taking the card and his coffee, calling over his shoulder as he leaves, "I'll text you later!"
And so I step up to the counter and order my usual.
"Hey Butters," Tweek offers a smile as he rings up my drink before turning around to make it.
"Doing okay?"
"I don't know. I've been trying to explain it to myself. And that's not going well."
"I'm around if you want to talk. About anything. Or if you want company after work," I offer, I know Tweek has been doing better since we matured but there's a lot he never says, which I understand.
He's silent, finishing up my drink. When he turns around and places it on the counter for me, he's staring hard at the counter instead of me.
I wait patiently, inhaling the wonderful aroma of my coffee seeing as how it's too hot to drink yet.
"I... I think I would like that. But I don't want to keep you from your work."
"You're fine, if you don't care, I can do some while we hang out."
Tweek nods, he understands how hard focus can be, we sometimes do this, hang out, discuss everything on our respective mind's, sit in relative silence in his kitchen, or go star-gazing because it reminds him of Craig.
I offer the blond a smile before going back and sitting in a booth while I wait for him to finish closing.
When he's ready to go, I ask, "What would you like to do?"
"My house," he replies simply, letting me brave the cold first before locking the store behind himself. Together we trudge through the cold to his house, once inside the door promptly locked and boots discarded. I set my bag down on the couch and join Tweek in the kitchen were he has already begun to brew a pot of coffee. A hazelnut blend I see as he returns the package to the cabinet.
I lean against the unneeded counter as he bustles about, preparing dinner for us, nothing overly fancy, simply a frozen dish. He tells me it will take the food just over an hour to be finished so I thank him and we sit in companionable silence while the coffeemaker brews the coffee. I sip my coffee and wait, if he wants to, he'll talk when he's ready otherwise we'll do our own activities and just enjoy the companionship.