Addict

A/N: I'm proud to present my favorite chapter of this story. Besides the second to last one. But who's counting, right? Anyway, this chapter is meant to be taken seriously even though the end of it is relatively meant to be humorous. You're going to meet Craig's dad. Oh, he's a...lovely. Lovely. Man. Also, more on what happened with Thomas.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?
Warnings: Use of drugs. Not just mentioned. Use. Understand that I am in no way condoning the use of drugs, but I'm also not putting down anyone who uses them. Drugs. They exist. People use them. Even fictional people. Shocker, I know. Oh and Wendy. She deserves a warning.

Chapter Eight: Your Forgot To Switch Your Feelings On

The weirdest thing, out of it all, is that Wendy looks like she's been waiting for me. I mean it's weird that I'm even going to talk to her and it's weird that I had a feeling she would be here and it's weird that I can smile at her. But what the fuck is Wendy doing in a fucking fast food restaurant at three in the afternoon? She's been a vegetarian since fifth grade. Or a vegan. I don't know which is which or which she is or both. She's drinking a Coke or a Pepsi. Once again, which is which?

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," I say.

Ah, silence. It's not so much that it's awkward but it's more like what the fuck am I supposed to say to her. I'm grasping at straws here, literally, because I just ordered a shake from the guy at the counter and I'm grabbing a straw. I had to get up from sitting across from her for a minute so I could think. Wendy, seriously, does not let you think. She wasn't even talking but my mind was about to explode. I sit back down across from her.

Ah, silence. She just nods at me, kind of. It might be a nod, but it isn't really. It's more like a can't-you-go-away-I'm-being-polite thing. As luck would have it my shake is being annoying. I try to take a sip and it simply doesn't work. So then I have to suck on the straw for a while and look like a total retard while doing so, and it still doesn't work. I take off my gloves and stuff them in the pockets of my jacket and that, of course, doesn't help at all, I just wish I had my gloves back on, but I know I would look even stupider if I did so.

"Kenny told me to talk to you," I finally blurt out.

"I know," she says, leaning back in her seat and taking her drink with her in a precarious balancing act that would make Tweek hyperventilate. She blinks at me and smiles like she's some sort of sophisticated businesswoman. One thing about Wendy, she's never worn make-up. Except once, in third grade, I think, but she's never really worn it. All through middle school and even now when some girls build shrines to mascara, Wendy doesn't have a hint of that shit on. Okay, maybe she does, but I can't tell. And it's not that Wendy's a gorgeous babe who doesn't need make-up.

No, she could use some. It would bring out her eyes or something gay like that. But, I don't know, I respect her, I guess, more than most girls because she doesn't buy into that shit. It makes me trust her a little more. It doesn't make me hate her any less. Trust and respect, yes. Friendship, fuck no.

"About, um, British Lit class," I state, sounding terribly idiotic.

"I know," she repeats, taking a sip of her drink while I'm still struggling with mine.

"And - and you know," I finish, biting my lip.

"Tweek," she says, easily, with a little smile. "Kenny told me everything." I want to ask her when she and Kenny started having heart-to-hearts but judging by the look on her face I don't want to know. I never want to know or need to know the dynamics of their relationship. Never. "And the thing is I'm getting the feeling that he sent you with the idea that I was going to solve your problems, but actually, um." Now she's the one who falters a little, settling down in her chair and placing her drink on the table, fake smiles and all. "Actually, I need to apologize to you."

"To me," I say, slowly. "What did you do?" It's funny how I immediately realize, just by looking at her, that she did something, a Very Bad Something. She didn't even have to tell me. I realized it halfway through her little monologue. Wendy doesn't get nervous often, she's pretty in control from what I've seen. But she has this stupid necklace she wears all the time. Stan gave it to her when they stopped going out. Something like 'we'll always be friends, just now I have to be drunk to 'accidentally' have sex with you.' Anyway, she's always wearing the stupid thing and right now she's clutching onto it like she needs it to live, which makes me assume she's nervous.

"Nothing!" she cries, the high octave at which she does so garners some attention from the few other people here this afternoon, but also tells me that it is, most definitely, not nothing. "It was an accident. I have Brit Lit with Kenny and Tweek and we were in a group working on allegorical meanings in Lewis Carroll's poetry and Tweek was being quiet and he's never quiet and, I shouldn't have, but I asked him what was wrong."

"Uh, it's okay?" I say, tentatively. Because, honestly, I don't see the problem here. Only then do I realize that Wendy's not done, she has more to say and she's going to say it, she's just trying to figure out how.

"No," she says, harshly, "that's not it. He didn't answer and then Kenny told me it was because of you, that you weren't paying attention to him very much, or at all really. And I did the stupidest thing. I mean, I wasn't thinking at all. I had just kind of assumed because you were with Christophe all the time and you two seemed so close. I should have kept out of it, though." She's kind of babbling now, playing with the necklace in her hands and blowing her bangs out of her eyes.

"What did you tell him?" I ask, as calmly as I can, getting her to look at me.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, I just, I assumed when I shouldn't have," she says, quickly. "I said something about how people move on and make new friends and that even though you and Christophe were best friends now it didn't mean he was alone." I could probably strangle her right now. I'm angry enough. I know she didn't mean it. But, oh my God. I could strangle her right now if there was no one around. "As soon as I said it I realized it was the wrong thing to say. Tweek kind of freaked out and didn't talk for the rest of the hour."

As much as I would like to strangle her right now, I know I shouldn't. Besides the fact that strangling people is wrong, I mean. It's just, Wendy didn't mean to, but she effectively told Tweek that our entire friendship has been a lie. All through fourth and fifth grade he was so sure we wouldn't stay best friends and by the time I had him convinced that we would, it all fell apart. We all fell apart and and I had to work even harder in ninth grade and tenth grade and finally this year I felt like we were there. He trusted me and with one mistake Wendy Testaburger ruined everything.

She always ruins everything.

"Alright," I tell her, keeping my voice steady. She's upset, but I doubt she really knows what she's done. She doesn't know Tweek like I do. No one knows Tweek like I do. "Alright," I repeat, because I can't think of anything to say. "Alright, Wendy, that's alright. I mean - alright. You didn't mean to, it was just mistake, right? Alright."

"Craig," she says, softly, reaching out to - I don't know, touch my hand or something I don't want her to do. I pull away and she leans back in her chair again. Tweek would freak out. I know he would. I know Tweek better than anyone. I thought I knew Tweek better than anyone. He shouldn't have gotten that upset, I knew there was something else. He worries about everything, about killer bees and Godzilla and flesh eating bacteria that you can get from killer bees and Godzilla. You would think that not being best friends with me anymore would be on the bottom of his list, but I've never seen him freak out like this. I must be in the top five.

"I really am sorry," Wendy says, sounding like she really is sorry. Any self-respecting human being would make sure she's kept out of the crossfire, would let her know she couldn't have helped it. But I'm Craig, not a self-respecting human being. I don't let things go. I'm pissed off at her for no good reason. I hold grudges and no matter what, even if Wendy apologizes a million times, I will never like her.

"Are you sorry for Thomas, too, Wendy?" I ask her harshly.

"Craig," she says my name again, firm this time, like she's talking to a child, "I did what was best for Thomas. I certainly am sorry that he moved away, he was nice, but you know he's better off now."

"You didn't start off to help him, though," I point out. "Don't act like you had that intention in the first place."

"Why does it even matter?" she cries, in that high pitched voice, grabbing at her necklace, obviously upset. "He told me you were using him. He knew what was going on! I still talk to him, you know, and he's let it go. You can't for some reason that I don't understand. I've been nothing but nice to you all these years and it's like you hate me or something, Craig. I can't do anything right, I get that, I can't make everyone happy."

"How's he doing?" I mutter, not looking her in the eye.

"He's getting a lot better," she tells me, quietly. "The place he's going to now is a lot more equipped to handle with his Tourette's. Now his dad visits him and his mom got remarried. And he's controlling his tics a lot better. I knew he had to get out of here. This place was a dead end, he just needed the help to talk to his mom about it. I never meant to cut off contact between you two completely."

"That's not why it bothered me so much." Wendy sighs and I know why. I'm leading her around in circles, making her recall things she probably hasn't thought about in years and then I tell her that's not even the problem. "It was Tweek," I explain. "I was using Thomas, you're right, but I was using him - more than I ever realized. Other people build walls around themselves, I had Thomas. Somehow having him around...I could ignore what all of it was doing to Tweek and the second you took that away, I had to face it. I had to face what I had done."

"Oh, Craig," she says, with another little sigh. "I am sorry for that. But - "

"I know," I interrupt and she smiles faintly. I still hate her.

But I can't blame her. Not for Thomas and not for Tweek. I somehow manage to talk to her for a few more minutes and even make her laugh a few times. After a while she has to go. Date with Gregory she says with this kind of hollow laugh and a forced smile. I just grin and tell her we should do this more often. She rolls her eyes and leaves with a 'Sure thing, Nommel.' We both know this is not going to happen more often. Unless she decides to screw up more relationships I have. No, I can't blame Wendy. I'd like to, but I can't.

I can only blame myself.

Blame is stupid. I mean, if we didn't blame anything on anyone the world would work a lot easier. But its human nature, you know. Everything has to someone's fault or we can't rest at night. I think that's why suicide is so hard to deal with for the people left behind. Everyone ends up blaming themselves when someone commits suicide. Because no one wants to look at the dead kid and blame him. When it really is the dead kid's fault, every time. And, okay, that's a little insensitive. But kids like that annoy me. The kids who kill themselves because their dad hits them or their girlfriend broke up with them.

I'm sorry, but, turn on the news and look at a couple of third world countries for a second. The kids there have a million reasons to kill themselves, but, no worries, they have government officials to do it for them. I guess what I'm saying is, you can throw around blame as much as you want, but it doesn't ever actually help anyone. This really makes me a hypocrite, because I blame everyone for everything. But that's not even my fault. We're conditioned to blame people for everything.

So I just blame myself. At least for this one. Things were going fine until I made the oh-so-genius decision of just not seeing Tweek. What the hell was I thinking? Alright, admittedly, I couldn't have foreseen Wendy doing what she did, but I should have figured something like that would happen. And now everyone thinks I'm a jerk. Not that they didn't before, but now it's solidified. Craig Nommel: Jerk. Awesome, I don't fit in with anyone anymore. I'm just a jerk.

Well, that's not completely accurate. Things actually get back to normal, in a general sense. I don't mean normal like all of a sudden South Park turns into a normal town. No, no, no, as much as I wish that would happen everything still stays on it's own little path to being completely fucked up. But, like Kenny's dying is normal to everyone, that's the kind of normal we get back to. I sit with them at lunch, go to Token's for a sleepover after about two weeks, talk to everyone like everything's the same.

The funny part is, even Stan and Kyle are back to normal. They're not groping each other in the locker room or anything. Oh, fuck, they have got to be doing stuff when no one's around, that's obvious, but they're just best friends to everyone else, acting like nothing has changed. I ask Stan about it, but he just grins and acts like he has no idea what I'm talking about. Kyle, on the other hand, asks me who told me about it and I just laugh and tell him who. "You, stupid."

What I mean is, nothing has drastically changed. Cartman's still lusting after Wendy who sits across the lunchroom, probably imagining her in a Nazi uniform or something. I bet that's how he gets off. Kenny still steals everyone's food at lunch and spends most of the bus rides giving advice in-between sex jokes. Clyde cries when he fails the Human Bio quiz, Token aces the Human Bio quiz. I do mediocre. Tweek slowly returns to his paranoid self and he's freaking out about witches and ghosts by the time the Halloween dance is coming up.

It's back to normal for us and, hey, it only took a whole month!

There's one thing that's missing and it's not because I didn't go looking for it. Christophe is gone. I don't mean he's on vacation with his mother in France or he's skipping school. He just doesn't talk to anyone. Not Gregory, not me, not Kyle, not Pip, not even Damien and, believe me, I asked. We're in French together and he just ignores me the entire hour. Thanks to Kyle I'm managing an average grade, but I want my French boy to help me out. My fucking French boy, no one else's, it's weird without him. The one person who has, honestly, been with me through everything is now ignoring me over, I can only guess, a few words I said to him when I was angry. It's infuriating. I flip him off whenever I see him, it makes me so mad.

The lack of nicotine is having a startling effect on me, because I can't just get a few from Chistophe anymore. I have to steal cigarettes from my mother. I would try and pass off as 18 if I had any resemblance to someone older than, oh, fifteen. But I don't. My mom doesn't have the same cigarettes Christophe always has and his are my favorite. Not that I know the brand or anything. I just like them because Christophe hands them over. I even went to ask for some one day at lunch, but no one was behind the school.

Kyle got his hat back. I asked him how and he opened his locker to dig out the note that Christophe had left with it. It says a bit in French that I could read but I don't want to. Christophe calls Kyle 'mon cher' and, honestly, it all seems a bit too personal for me to intervene. Not that I'm Craig, Saint of Privacy or anything, but that's just pushing it. Kyle wouldn't talk about it anyway, every time I mention Christophe he brings up something else to talk about.

"Do you think he talks to anyone?" I ask, on the bus. I sit next to Kyle for the brief three seconds I know I have before Stan shows up to join us. Tweek is freaking out behind me because there's a ghost cut-out on the bus window, decorations to get us excited for the Halloween Dance that, oh, about, no one is going to. "Christophe, I mean," I add after a moment that would be silent had it not included Tweek screaming about the Russian government sending ghosts after him.

"I know who you mean," Kyle snaps, not looking at me. Then, in a softer voice, he says, "And, no. As far as I know. I mean, he probably talks to his mom and maybe his brother, but I never see him talking to anyone from school." And that's that, Stan joins us. Less joins us, more tells me to get the fuck out of his seat. I don't argue, just switch seats with Tweek so I can protect him from the cut-out ghosts on the window and listen to Clyde tell us how his house is haunted. Every year he tells the story and every year the story gets more and more dramatic. This year it seems that an entire family was mutilated in his basement and now they haunt there since the guy stored all their body parts there for years. Before he ate them or whatever.

"Jesus Christ!" Tweek cries, staring at Clyde with wide eyes. "How - ngh - how do you sleep at night?"

"Oh, they like me," Clyde assures him with a grin. "It's my mom they don't like. That's why my parents split up all the time."

"Sure, Clyde," Token says, rolling his eyes. He's doing Psychology homework, which I will be borrowing from him tomorrow because it's fucking hard, but Token being Token doesn't even look up from it as he destroys Clyde's explanation. "Your parents split up because some ghosts bother your mom? Excuse me, but I have met your dad, and I think it's more because he's a total ass. Besides, why haven't I heard of this before? A cannabalistic serial murderer wouldn't exactly be easy to keep quiet."

"Shut up, Token, dude, you ruin everything that's remotely fun," Clyde whines. "It's not like anyone besides Tweek believed me anyway." Token just shrugs and Clyde punches his shoulder. To be honest, they don't make any sense as best friends. Token's pretty cold and academic. Wouldn't believe a ghost story even if it wasn't shit like Clyde's is. Clyde, on the other hand, believes in them just because he wants to. Like he said, just for fun. I guess they balance each other.

"So there aren't a-any ghosts in your house?" Tweek asks, completely innocent, I'm sure, but Token snorts and turns the page of his Psychology book a little too hard and I flip him off even though I know he won't see me do it.

"No, Tweek, I just made it up," Clyde tells him. "Ghosts aren't even real anyway. It'd be fucking cool if they were, but it's all bullshit people make up so they can make money or whatever."

"Ay! That's not true," Cartman says, breaking into our conversation, like he's been part of it the whole time. "I saw pirate ghosts one time at Halloween, like, a forever ago. It was hella cool."

"Gah. Where?!" Tweek cries, grabbing onto my hand.

"Cartman, you douche, those weren't real and you know it," Kyle yells. And there they go again, fighting about something that doesn't even matter. Kenny and I exchange a look across the aisle, he probably knows whether there are ghosts or not, but he just seems amused by the whole thing. Stan looks upset about it, maybe because the last time we all talked about ghosts was at the funeral and we all try to not think about that, but it could just be because Kyle isn't paying attention to him, I don't know. I stop paying attention after Cartman throws his German notebook at the redhead.

Cartman calls me fag when I get off the bus with Tweek since we're still holding hands, but I just flip him off and stay quiet while we walk down the street to Tweek's house.

"There aren't really ghosts, are there, Craig?" Tweek asks, quietly.

"I don't know," I tell him with a shrug as we walk towards his front door. We stop holding hands while he fumbles for the key. "I've never seen one, but that doesn't mean there aren't any. I don't think they bother people though. If I was dead, I wouldn't want to bother anyone. Maybe some people who made me angry or if someone killed me or something." It seems rational to me, but then again if that logic is true we all should have been visited by a certain ghost at some point. Tweek seems to accept it as fact and lets me take the key from his shaky hands so we can get inside without it taking five hours.

"I think there are ghosts," he says as we drop our stuff off on the couch and go into the kitchen. I let out a little 'oh?' as I start to make coffee for him and search the cupboards for something to eat. "Oh, God, yeah!" he cries, like he's excited to discuss this. Which is strange, since Tweek is so scared of ghosts he won't go to funerals, he was the only one missing out of our group after all. "Not like everyone says, though. Like - gah - you know? Not like they sit around and watch us all the time, but maybe they have their o-own little world or something."

"Yeah?" I say, a bit interested now as I open a box of cereal and decide it's better than whatever my my mom will be making for dinner.

"Well, Jesus, I just think it would be nice!" he cries, like I laughed at the idea. "Y-you know, like after you die you get a second chance. Everyone deserves one. Well - ngh - almost everyone." He's not really looking at me anymore and he's twitching even more than usual. I don't know, like he's expecting something now. I stay frozen for a few seconds, hand posied to reach into the box of cereal. When I finally do so Tweek exhales a long, shaky breath and I do too, I hadn't even realized I wasn't breathing. I laugh a little bit as I eat a handful of cereal. What the fuck is wrong with us?

"So that stupid dance, huh?" I say as he pours the coffee that's finally done into a mug. "How lame is that going to be? Not even Gregory and Wendy are going to that thing tonight." I'm a bit suprised the two of them have lasted this long. Not mad about it like Cartman, who's ready to kill the Brit, but just more shocked. Wendy has never lasted in a relationship this long and I always get this feeling from her that she doesn't even like Gregory much.

"I don't know how lame it's going to be!" Tweek cries, his golden eyes flashing to meet mine. "That's too much pressure!"

"I didn't actually mean that...never mind. Don't worry about it, alright?" I say with a small smile. He opens his mouth, but then just nods and smiles back. Honestly, Tweek is the only person in the world who would actually freak out over something like that. It's monumentally, intensely, extremely adorable. Not that I would ever tell him that, but I can think it to myself while I watch him drink his coffee.

I don't know if I stop thinking or if I just finally let fantasy bleed into reality, it's almost like it's beyond my control, as if some force of the universe pushes me towards Tweek and lets me silence the next sentence he begins to say. "Do you think Jimmy - " is all he gets to say before I kiss him. I don't, like, french with him or anything, I just lean forward and let myself kiss him and then pull myself away. I don't lose control completely, but I wasn't planning on doing it either. He spilt his coffee in the process, on the floor and on my sweater and on his shirt. He stares at me and I avoid it. My mind is basically screaming at me: What the fuck did you do that for?

"Jesus Christ!" Tweek finally manages to squeak out. "Don't do that! My parents would kill me and your parents would kill you and then everyone would talk about us and they'd make fun of us and it would be so much pressure, Craig!" He's spilling more coffee, his hands shaking a mile a minute, his eyes wider than I've ever seen them, some mixture of emotion on his face, but his voice truly scared, so scared that I find myself feeling that way just because of what he's saying. "Don't do that!" is all I can hear now.

"Okay," I say, like it's that simple. Nothing else, just okay. I leave without saying anything else, just grab my jacket, slam the door and walk home. It's only until later that I remember Tweek spilt his coffee all over. It's the first time I go home smelling like coffee instead of cigarette smoke. My mother asks where I've been and I don't answer, just go up in my room and lock the door. Don't do that is echoing in my mind.

I've never been shot down before and the first time I am, it's by the only person whose approval ever mattered.

Needless to say, I'm not entirely excited to do anything for a while. Not entirely excited to think about anything. Not entirely excited to remember anything, either. I just sit around in my room all night. People call my cell phone and I don't answer. I watch more episodes of Red Racer than I can count, but I don't really watch any of them. Halloween is Saturday, but I couldn't care less. People call my cell phone and I think about answering it. Sunday comes and I tell my mom I'm sick to get out of church. My cell phone is dead because I haven't charged it. I don't want to end up the same way so I get up and try to figure out what to do with myself.

It's a little bit crazy, but I know what I want to do. Lysergic acid diethylamide. LSD. Acid. Whatever you want to call it, go ahead, whatever makes you comfortable, like health class when they told us we could call sex intercourse and we all just stared at them. If the government asks I'll pretend I took a little bit too much cough syrup or something. Seriously, though, it's not like I have acid sitting in my dresser drawer. Well, I do, but it's not mine exactly; it's just in my room. I'm holding it for a friend. Or whatever.

It's Clyde's. And mine, technically. Once, during the summer sometime, his cousin gave him a sheet of acid and, we, being the smart young men we are, decided we should take some at noon. Actually it was rather smart because my dad was out of town for the week and my mom was on some Girl Scout field trip with my sister. So that meant we had no one to catch us eating eight boxes of macaroni and cheese and watching I Know What You Did Last Summer like it was actually scary.

The best part, in retrospect, of course, was that the killer in the movie wasn't what scared us. It was Jennifer Love Hewitt's hair, for some reason I don't quite remember. I also don't quite remember how we ended up breaking the television or even if it was Jennifer's hair that caused us to break it. All I remember is freaking out when we came down from our high and somehow having the balls to take three hundred dollars out of Clyde's college fund to buy a new television.

The other best part, also in retrospect, and also of course, was that my mom caught us. Came home around eight and found us trying to hook up the the cable box to a very obviously brand new television. Plus if you went into the kitchen you would have discovered a lot of poorly made food. Chocolate pudding for example, with the powder mix hardly even mixed in and macaroni and cheese that we had gotten the 'revolutionary' idea of adding vodka to. Chances are that was my idea.

But she didn't tell my dad. Which was a very, very smart thing to not do. She just cleaned all the bowls up, put extra water in the vodka bottles so he wouldn't notice any of it was missing and helped us clean up the rest of the living room so it looked like she had just done an exceptional dusting job on the television set by the time my dad got home the next day. Trust me, it was a Very Good Thing that he never found out I did acid. And not because I would have been grounded or gotten talked to about the importance of not doing drugs when my mom had just bought a bulk pack of macaroni and cheese. It's just that, well, there are a few things about my father that make drugs totally unacceptable in this household under no circumstances ever even if there is a lot of peer pressure or a girl involved do you understand that young man.

First off, my father hates hippies. I don't mean he never wants me to go to Berkeley and would kill me if I even thought about wearing all-natural hemp clothes and went vegetarian. I mean all that plus he absolutely hates hippies without even knowing what they are. Anyone who does drugs is a hippie to him. Anyone he thinks might know what drugs are is a hippie to him. I'm pretty sure if my family watched movies together and someone did drugs in a movie, he would turn it off and label it hippe garbage.

Now, secondly, my father is one of those Government Conspiracy kind of crazies. Like: "We never landed on the moon; it was a set-up on a soundstage!" And: "9/11 wasn't real; we crashed planes into the World Trade Center on purpose!" And, alright, believe what you want to, that's what this stupid country is about. But his favorite - absolute favorite - theory? Oh, boy, I think someone was on acid when they thought it up. LSDs were distributed to 'hippies' back in the 60s and 70s so that the government could go to war without anyone fighting against it.

Well. Okay, there are a lot of fundamental problems with that theory. I don't ever bring them up with him, because I'm treading on thin ice having been created from him chromosomes anyway, and I don't feel like going any further. But I think the point is relatively clear. The point of, oh...my God, Craig should never, ever do drugs and he doesn't even need 'life coach' or Miss Something to tell him about that little secret, does he? That's true and I'm well aware of that.

You could even argue that taking two tabs of acid from the sheet I have, Clyde's sheet - cleverly disguised as a sheet of acid underneath a few pairs of boxers, I know - is something I do in spite of all that I know. Like I looked at every reasons why not and in a frenzy flipped them all off. But. Oh. My. God. It's the worst mistake ever and I know it is the second I feel the acid dissolving on my tongue. I still have a few seconds of clarity before it settles in to think, luckily.

My dad has been in...somewhere. Europe or Asia or Germany or Las Vegas. For two weeks on a 'business trip.' He takes them all the time. He's on a trip and I am too. He'll be back tonight so I have to eat dinner with my family or he'll get suspicious. My mom wouldn't care if he wasn't here, I could stumble up to her and ask her for something to eat and she'd make it, she wouldn't want to make it, but she would, because my dad wouldn't be here. Jesus Christ, though, I really want to eat. I'm hoping we put vodka on absolutely everything.

And by now I'm seriously tripping balls. Seriously. I could organize a few Little League games with the balls I'm tripping. One thing is clear in my mind though: make sure dad doesn't notice. As much as it might seem like a nice thing I don't want to get killed by him tonight. It could solve a lot of problems, though. Logically to me, illogically to everyone who isn't on acid right now, a shower is in order. The part of my brain that isn't totally fucked up protests this, but the fucked up part of my brain is in charge right now. A shower could, possibly, wash the acid off of me. That's what we did in Chemistry when someone spilled something on themselves.

Never mind that the acid is in me and not on me, that little fact is alluding me completely right now.

I stand in the shower for a while. I'm proud of the fact that I manage to get my boxers off, but my shirt has pretty much become part of my skin so there's really no hope in getting it off. I'm fascinated a bit by the water that's coming from - somewhere. It must be raining, which is rational; it's raining in my house. We must be having construction done. Maybe a whole new extension of the house where I can wallow in pity.

I leave the bathroom against my better judgement, because my father is home and starts banging on the door telling me I've been in the shower for an hour. It's only been five minutes but I'm not going to argue with him while the walls are changing color. That's way more than I can handle right now. I manage to change but my hair is soaking wet and, for the life of me, I don't know how to make it dry.

When I do make it downstairs to the table where my family is waiting my father congratulates me, sarcastically. I'm pretty sure my mom knows something is wrong. I wonder if she notices it too. The fact that the chicken she cooked is still breathing. "What is wrong with you people?" I mutter as my father pulls a piece of chicken off savagely and rips into it. Dead as the chicken might appear to be, it's still breathing, in and out, just like us. I just might have to become a vegetarian. I'm already a hippie anyway.

"What are you talking about, boy?" my father asks as he chews on the still very much alive chicken. It sounds like he has an English accent and it's positively grating. He might as well have called me 'guv'na.'

"Craig, are you all right?" my mother says in a calm voice that tells me she doesn't care either way.

"The chicken!" I cry, probably sounding like a madman to them. My sister is staring at me disapprovingly. She looks just like my mother. Oh my God, maybe she is my mother. That would not be good. What am I? Amish or something? That makes sense, they believe in polygamy don't they? Holy shit, I'm Amish. Somehow I manage to collect myself. "The chicken," I state, staring at it, "it's chicken." It's a profound statement, in my mind.

"Yes, it is," my mother tells me. Either she's very naive or she's very good at acting like she is. Or she's not really my mother and someone switched places with her. If the latter is the case it is a superb costume, very nicely done. But then, aren't we all wearing costumes? Just figments of our own imagination. We all wear masks every day; we have no idea who we really are, because slowly we become that costume. The costume is us.

It takes me a moment to realize I've just mumbled all that out loud, albeit quietly, and that my family is staring at me. "I need to be alone," I say, standing up. I don't wait for anyone's approval. Not even my Uncle Joey who, by all accounts should be in jail right now and most certainly shouldn't be under the kitchen table. I'm sure my mother had completely figured out I'm under some sort of influence. My father probably has an idea as well, but doesn't want to admit it to himself. And my sister probably thinks I'm going insane.

I think my sister would be kind of right.

In my room I search under my bed until I find Stripe's abandoned cage. My old guinea pig, he died when I was in sixth grade. Lived a while. For a guinea pig I mean. I neglected him after a while, forgot to feed him. It got worse and worse until we went to Florida to visit my Grandparents over winter break and I left Stripe behind for two weeks. Realistically, he was going to die soon anyway, but I freaked out and never did let my mom get rid of his cage.

It's kind of nice, you know. To just sit there and wonder what it would be like to live in the cage. To be completely dependant on everyone around you with basically no free will. I kind of feel like that right now. I'm in a cage called South Park and whoever it was that was taking care of me just said 'Whatever, dude' and left to go see his grandparents in Florida. "I hope your grandparents die," I tell the empty cage.

I probably could fall asleep now. But, no, that's not like me. I have to go in the kitchen, sneak out like a spy, like I'm back in fourth grade playing with my friends, for a box of cereal and orange juice. I eat the whole box and down the whole carton in less than five minutes - in what feels like less than five minutes to me, at least - and then I find my cell phone. I have missed calls and new voicemails and text messages, but I don't pay them any attention. I don't know why I do or even if I really mean to or if I forgot to take him off speed dial, but I call Christophe.

Christophe doesn't have a cell phone so he just picks up his home phone and says, "Bonjour." Which, at the time, is extremely hilarious. Come on, who says hello in French?

"Oh my...dude, you will never guess," I say to him, my own voice sounding weird as I reach out to the empty cage in front of me, "you will never guess what I'm doing right now." For some reason I can't reach the cage. It keeps eluding my grasp and that is also very funny. "Bonjour," I mutter to myself as I listen to Christophe sigh on the other end of the line and, still, the cage won't let me take hold of it.

"I zink I 'ave a pretty good idea," he says, stonily.

"Bonjour," I say, a weird laugh that is not my own echoing out of my mouth. "Try me."

"Drugs," he responds, like he has a personal vendetta against the word.

"Bingo," I say, falling over in hysterics. I hear the French boy sigh and then a door slams and he's breathing differently. "You're outside, I'm coming too," I tell him, jumping up. A bit too quickly, I nearly fall down but manage to grab onto my dresser before I hit the floor.

"I am coming over to your 'ouse," he says, slowly. "Do not leave, Nommel, do you 'ear me?"

But I'm already outside. Without a jacket and wearing shoes that are dangerously close to falling apart, but outside nevertheless. I tell him as much and he sighs again. "You're doing that a lot," I say. I doubt he knows what I'm talking about. "Let's go to church," I add, like it's a brilliant idea to go to the House of God when I have LSD in my system that might almost be starting to wear off a little and while I'm wearing boxers in the middle of the winter. For a second I even think I hear the voice of God.

"Why in ze world do you want to go zere?" Not unless God has recently acquired the voice of a cynical French teenager. "God iz a cocksucker."

"Maybe he'll give me a blowjob then," I say and, for the first time in my life, I giggle.

"What," he says, angrily, "does zat amuse you?"

"Yeah, you know, it kind of does." I've stopped in front of Tweek's house. I can see the light on in his room. It's seriously calling to me. I mean, the light is fluxing towards me, like a rainbow of colors. It wants me to go to Tweek's house, but I'm not done with Christophe. "I mean, what I mean is, I mean." I'm off to a good start, because Christophe sighs again. "All you do Christophe...Christ...Jesus Christ. All you do is talk about how much God fucks things up. Maybe it's you."

"Excuse moi?" His voice is quiet and low, even angrier than before.

"Maybe you're the cocksucker," I tell him, my eyes still on the rainbow in front of Tweek's house. Suddenly I hear the shrill beep that lets me know I've been hung up on. I yell out a few words that I don't comprehend and throw the phone down in the snow, backing away from it, the shrill sound imbedded in my eardrums. I'm almost sure that I hear someone call out my name. Like maybe Tweek went to his window and saw me and decided now he could talk to me.

But if it is Tweek I don't stick around to find out. I run down the street, covering my ears with my hands, trying to wish away the sound. When I reach the church I find that the door is open. I think they have midnight service or something. There's an old lady lighting a candle for the Virgin Mary. I walk up like I'm going to do the same thing. But really I'm staring at Mary and wondering how she stayed a virgin that long. I'm no expert but even guys in Israel had to be horny sometime. Or wherever it is that Mary was from.

The old lady keeps glancing at me, all nervous. I smile at her but I imagine that I must look like I'm a smiling creep on drugs. Only worse, since I don't even have pants on. There's an altar boy setting up things or putting things away or practicing one of the two. Whatever altar boys do, he's doing it at the altar. He looks bored out of his mind. I want to go up to him and tell him I'm on acid right now. I don't think he would tell Father Maxi, he's probably just ask me where he can get some. In my underwear drawer, I would tell him.

There are two confessional booths in the back of the church. One is used all the time. The other one, I found out while I was dating Porsche, is rarely, if ever used. Mainly because no one ever confesses sins in South Park. We'd seriously have to have a town meeting if that happened because some of the stuff people would be confessing...I can only imagine the penance that would be doled out. Kyle would be spared. Stupid fucking Jew.

By now I'm already in the useless confessional, leaning against the grate that would seperate me from the Priest if there was one in here. All of a sudden I'm exhausted and the stained glass window next to me is swirling like tie-dye. I'll have to tell my father that, he would get a laugh out of it, then call me a hippie. Yeah, by my father's judgement I'm a hippie now. But, and they always told us this in church, the only judgement that matters is God's. In which case, I'm screwed.

"What a cocksucker," I whisper as I close my eyes and slip into unconsciousness.

A/N: lol lame melodramatic scene that I had to write. Yeah, LSD. I would have warned that it was only LSD, since it's not heroin or coke or anything, but I didn't want to ruin it too much. Anyway, although I do sort of 'nothing' Wendy, like I honestly don't care about her either way, but I do want to make it clear that the poor thing may have messed things up, but she didn't mean to. So, no Wendy bashing. None. I know it almost seems like I'm bashing her in the story, but Craig doesn't like her and hold grudges so I can't portray her entirely as I would like to. Welcome to the wonderful world of character perspective limitations.
Now, if any of you are confused about what happened with Thomas, let me know, I can explain it further to you, but I think it's pretty clear what happened and why it upset Craig so much.
And yeah, Christophe has a brother. Who is a semi-important third tier character. Or something.
Something that made my day! I seriously laugh every time I look at it. Go to Wikipedia and look up slash fiction, then look at popular pairings. I swear to God, I was not expecting Stan and Kyle to be there, but, dude, they are! So weird.
Speaking of which, I actually have a Style fic, a long oneshot compared to my other one, up now, so check that out if you want to.
Long Author's Note, Jesus.
Remember, the more reviews I get, the quicker I get the chapter up.
Until next time, tweekers