It's the same every night. The yelling, the screaming, the hitting: it never seems to have an end. However, the second you try to stand up to protest to them, you get a middle finger shoved in your face. The second you make some miniscule mistake, such as getting anything lower than a B on a test or you come home a few minutes late, your parents will go apeshit on you, and you'll probably gain some new bruises from your father; but when they come home drunk and forget all about picking your little sister up and you try to remind them, well, you're bound to gain some new bruises anyways. That's the Tucker family curse.
And I, my friend, am a Tucker. Craig Tucker, to be exact.
You think your family is bad? Come live with mine, that should change your mind. My family is one that seems so normal and sophisticated to the public eye, but are complete psychopaths behind closed doors. In public, my parents call me, "Craig, sweetie;" at home, they call me, "You ungrateful little asshole!"
I'm an ungrateful little asshole, just because I'm a little more concerned about doing my homework so I can go to college, instead of picking up my little sister from her piano recital? Oh, and should I mention that they would have been perfectly able to do it, had they not chugged down a gallon of vodka and coke beforehand. So, to my parent's misfortune, they have to call my aunt to pick her up. And do you want to know what they tell her? They tell her that they're helping me with my homework; and soon after they hang up the phone, they're taken over by a drunken rage, and decide to hit me with whatever nearby object they can find. Which, mind you, happened to be my sister's wooden softball bat.
I'm an ungrateful little asshole, just because I'm concerned about my life and my future, and I won't go out of my way for my parents when they get too shitfaced to care about their children.
But anyways, my parents are constantly drinking, and Ruby hates me. Ruby is "daddy's little girl" and "mommy's princess." Ruby is everything they wanted in a child, apparently; and I guess I'm the opposite. She does everything she can for mom and dad. She's too naive to understand that the more they can get away with it and the less responsibilities they have to deal with, the more they're going to drink. I've tried to tell her that more than once, but every time I open my mouth, I'm greeted with, "What would you know, assmuncher?" So, naturally, I flip her off in defense. She'll flip me back off, and then she'll make it out to our parents like I was doing something wrong. She totally makes up a bullshit lie, which, ninety percent of the time, gets me beaten.
Every day when I go to school, I feel like I have to hide. I feel like I can't show any emotion, because I'm so used to keeping everything pent up inside of me. Everyone seems to think I'm a 'badass.' They honestly seem to think I have no emotion, and for that, they look up to me. I must put on a pretty awesome facade, because not even my best friend can see through it. Even my best friend thinks I'm this tough guy that doesn't get hurt by anything. They just assume I don't care.
It's ridiculous, really. I've never met a person who has no emotions. Just because I never let them see me with my guard down, and just because I never let them see me cry... that doesn't mean it never happens. Just because I never let them see me happy, which I am not, they assume that I'm some asshole that's just too full of himself for his own good. Just because I don't let them know about my grades in school, or anything, for that matter, they think I don't care. They don't see my bruises, they don't know the reasons why. Just because they can't see inside my soul, that doesn't mean it isn't there; and just because they can't see my pain, that doesn't mean I have no heart.
I'll be honest, I used to be a nice kid. I was one of those people that you could depend on, one of those people that would help you out even if I couldn't help myself. But, that was before I was ten. After that, I began to avoid a lot of people, except for Clyde and the other guys in our group. I tried to stay away from teachers, and people that I wasn't very close to. I started making excuses to not go places, mainly because my parents were drunk as hell and attempting to break my door down, just so they could smack me around. I wouldn't look at my friends, I would only speak when neccisary. They all thought I was being an asshole; they didn't realize I was only trying to protect myself.
Miraculously enough, I barely lost any friends. Apparently, they thought 'my I-don't-care phase' was cool. It drives me insane that they think I don't care; to be honest, I probably care a lot more than all of the kids in South Park combined. But it isn't like any of these dimwitted people pay enough attention to anything about a person, other than their reputation and who they've fucked. No one pays enough attention to know who the real Craig Tucker is.
Although I have friends, I'm alone. I feel completely, one-hundred percent, alone.
When Kyle Broflovski got found out he was ranked third in our class, he went absolutely ballistic. He had been struggling to get better grades than the boy genius Gregory for years, but had never quite succeeded; however, he had gotten very close. When everyone in the class (except for me) compared their grade point averages, they discovered that no one's fit between Gregory's and Kyle's. Bebe pointed a finger in my direction and said, "What about Craig?" to which, not suprisingly, Clyde said, "Nah, he doesn't care about school."
Sometimes, after school, the football coach has open scrimmage. Any of the guys can come to play, and most of them did. I, however, was not one of those people. Sure, I liked football just fine... but playing football after school wasn't my thing. I usually spent my time after school doing homework, and then dealing with my parents whenever they decided to come home. However, on this day, I didn't have any homework. When we were playing, a weak (yet workable) pass was thrown in my direction. I was in the open, so I ran as fast as I could, and scored a touchdown for my team. These scrimmages are full-uniformed, and it's difficult to tell who the person beneath the helmet is; for the most part, the guys memorize and claim numbers. I picked a completely random uniform and put it on in solitude. Anyways, after I scored that touchdown, Stan took a look over and said, "Who's number 65?" Kyle, his best friend, replied, "Is it Craig? I mean, most of the other guys except for the melvins already play." To this, Stan said nothing other than, "No, it couldn't be. Craig doesn't care for football."
One time, I was caught in the bathroom. No, believe me, it isn't what you think. I was in the bathroom, on the stall floor, crying because Clyde was in the hospital yet again. I don't cry in front of people, especially not in school. I hadn't thought to lock the door, and it was well into third period. Obviously, some faculty member or another would be out and about looking for me; but for some reason, it didn't occur to me that that would be the first place they would look. I was so entranced by my thoughts that I didn't hear the footsteps approaching my stall, and I was only snapped out of it when the door began to open. When I looked up to see who it was looking for me, I saw a very shocked looking Mr. Mackey. After a split second, his facial expression returned to normal and he said, "You can't go skippin' class because you're havin' issues, m'kay?" His facial expression read as calm, but the look in his eyes spoke for him. They were saying, "There's no way this is that Tucker boy."
I had put food in Kenny's locker for as long as I can remember. Not much, I know; but as much as I can. If my parents catch me 'stealing their food,' I'm going to have hell to pay. But it was well worth the risk. I think he knew it was me, and I hope that it helped him out a little before he, well, y'know... passed away. Everyone went to the funeral, and everyone found it hard to believe when I stood in front of everyone to talk about him.
According to the guys, when I was actually doing my homework or getting attacked by my parents, I was 'busy at home, jacking off to Red Racer.' And when I came to school and they saw a black eye or a cut, I was 'off getting in fights last night, so I ditched the guys.' And another ridiculous, yet believed by my friends, scenario is that 'I go out to buy and sell drugs in Denver, so I'm too busy for the guys anymore.' Yeah, right, I would never fucking touch that stuff! If you think I would, you've obviously never met my best friend; either that, or you think that's exactly why I would.
When I'm at school, I'm forced to wear long sleeves, long pants, and my signature chullo. I have to cover up my face with some of my little sister's make-up. Yes, I have to do this. I'm not allowed to leave the house if I don't. And even then, I won't look directly at people and I won't speak. If I do or say the wrong thing, they'll know: and if they find out, there's no more Craig.
And as if being abused by my family and misunderstood by my friends isn't enough, I had to deal with my best friend being a drug addict and an alcoholic. I had to sit through school, watching him trip over his own feet and throw up in the bathrooms, just because we were all too cowardly to do something about it. When he would end up in the hospital, I had to go home to an extra beating, because no matter how hard they tried to force me away, I wouldn't leave his bedside. He just wasn't the same person anymore; I guarantee you, had it not been for drugs, Clyde would have realized that something was wrong a long time ago. (Luckily enough for me, though, Clyde had been released from rehab just a few days ago.)
School's hard to deal with, I'll tell you that, but it's when I get home that the real trouble begins.
On the days my parents don't go out and get wasted, (which aren't very often,) it starts when I walk in the door. "Craig, do the dishes." I have homework. "Craig, clean your room." I cleaned my room yesterday. "Craig, go walk the dog." Ruby can do it. Of course, I'd never say these things out loud. On the occasions that I do, my parents go apeshit. They'll yell at me, call me about every name possible, and occasionally hit me. However, it isn't their sober fits that I'm really worried about; what really gets to me is their drunken rage. When they're drunk, they'll tell me to do outrageous things for them. Things they should do themselves. When they get to drinking, they try to make Ruby and I do everything for them; Ruby obeys, I do not... not so often as Ruby, at least. That is why I have so many bruises, cuts, scars; that's why I'm up all night crying, afraid to close my eyes. That's why I'm such a recluse. That's the truth.
They'll come home drunk and give both Ruby and I ridiculous orders. If they aren't obeyed, my home turns into a fist-fest. My parents scream obscenities, Ruby runs to her room, and I'm caught in the middle; they use me as their personal punching bag. Suddenly, my name has gone from 'Craig' to 'asshole,' 'bastard,' 'worthless,' and so many other things. At first, it's just flying hands. I'm punched in the gut, smacked in the face, and clawed until I bleed. But that's not it, no; my parents are insistant that throwing things fixes the problem. So, naturally, whatever is in their path comes flying in my direction. Whether it's a basketball or a lamp, it's bound to smash - either off of my head, or from the impact to the wall. And then, the glass starts flying. My mother will throw glass plates at the ground, then she will pick up a rather large piece, and she'll chase me. She chases me until she gets too dizzy and passes out on the floor. However, my dad isn't done yet: he grabs me by the shirt collar and throws me to the ground. I try to move, I try to get out of the way, and I try so hard to squirm out of his reach; but the man shows no mercy. He'll kick me in the sides, throw me down stairs, hit my face. He won't stop until there's blood shed. I just like to think that they're too drunk to know what they're doing, and they probably are. But one thing's for sure: if I'm not lucky to be alive, I don't know who is.
RIIIIIIIIING
When the hell did I get to school?
"Craig, what's wrong with you?"
I look at myself on the large mirror in the hallway and my first thought is 'oh, fuck.' There's no way for me to avoid it now. There's a fresh, deep cut right beneath my cheek bone, and I have two black eyes. My eyes are bloodshot and puffy from crying, and there are bruises around my neck. There are scratches and bruises on my arms, and there is a blood stain near the collar of my shirt.
I decide to think out loud for a second, "Oh, fuck!"
"Craig, seriously. What the fuck happened?" I don't need a face to know who it is; it's my second closest friend, Token. "I'm serious, dude. You've been acting weirder than usual lately, and now this?" Now I look up at Token, only to see Clyde and Tweek standing on either side of him.
"You guys, there's something I need to tell you. Come on, we're ditching class."
Not even Tweek had a conspiracy theory for this, and not even Clyde was whining about not getting to see his 'smokin' first hour teacher.
I can hear the guys' scuffling footsteps following close behind as I exit the building. I keep walking, far away from school. The guys say nothing. No 'where are we going,' no 'my feet are tired,' no nothing. But I pick a bench across the street from Bennigan's to sit.
I take a look at the guys. Clyde looks terrified and guilty, as if he thinks this is his fault; Token, on the other hand, just looks sad and confused. I can't help but notice how Tweek's frown is even larger than usual. He isn't twitching at all, which scares me.
I take in a deep breath, "You guys, I have something to tell you," Token raises an eyebrow, urging me on, "I'm being abused."
Clyde looks down, "How long?"
"Since I was ten." I see shock in all of their eyes.
"Ten? You've been hiding this since you were TEN and none of us noticed? Ohgod." Tweek looks panicked; but then again, he's Tweek, when doesn't he look panicked? However, he looks a lot more serious now than I've ever seen him before.
"How serious is it?" Token asks, clearly the calmest of the guys.
"Well, when they're sober, they just yell at me and don't let me eat. Sometimes they'll hit me, but it's nothing too bad. When they're drunk, it's a completely different story. Y'see, I get things thrown at me, hit with things, chased with glass, kicked, thrown down stairs, yelled at, and left to bleed. Sometimes Ruby frames me for things I didn't do, and my parents beat me more. And all of this happened last night."
"Oh, my God." Clyde shakes his head, "Oh. My. God." Token and Tweek are speechless. They say nothing, they just look at me with sympathetic eyes.
"I'm sorry, I had no idea." Token looks more heartbroken than he did when Wendy dumped him. Tweek and Clyde both have tears in their eyes; Tweek is trying to be the man of the two and hide it.
I sit there on that bench for hours, just talking about my problems. They're listening to me, and I've never felt better in my life. They don't say much; they just sit and listen to me. I guess they've finally realized how much I need them. This feels-
A car horn. Holy fucking shit, please let this be a dream. I look up to see my parents in their SUV, looking slightly pissed off.
"Craig, why aren't you at school? It's one thirty! Get in the car." I look at the guys, they look scared. "You boys need to get to school, as well. I won't lie to your parents." They stand up and start walking back in the direction of the school. There's nothing scarier than a stern, female voice - especially that of a mother.
My parents are speeding, now; they are well over the speed limit, but they're too mad to care. We pull into the driveway, and I run inside of the house. I try to make it to my room, but my dad grabs me instead. I'm thrown to the ground, and I can smell the burning stinge of whiskey on his breath. Isn't it a little early for that? Before I realize what's going on, my mother is beside him, holding a metal studded belt. Fuck, no.
"Why the FUCK were you out of the house looking like that? What the fuck were you doing with your friends, not at school, bruises visible to EVERYONE, you stupid little bastard!" I feel stinging across my ribs, and the impact of metal to the gut leaves me breathless. "You arrogant little asshole! You son of a bitch! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING?" The stinging continues, I feel tears welling up in my eyes. "You goddamned worthless piece of trash! You've really done it now." Strike, strike, strike. One after another, the lashes seem to be neverending. However, the cracking noise of metal against flesh is no longer heard; there are bloody spots soaking through my shirt, and I find it hard to breathe.
Now, it's my father's turn.
"Dad, PLEASE STOP!" Now I'm crying. "Don't you fucking call my that, you little bitch!" A steel-toed boot to the side, what a lovely feeling. "All you ever do is go against your mother and I! How fucking dare you do this! We do EVERYTHING for you and you treat us like we're SHIT!" He kicks me repeatedly. "YOU DON'T FUCKING DESERVE PARENTS LIKE US, you goddamned maggot!" After about three more solid minutes, he stops his violent action.
"Do you see what you make us do, Craig? It's all because we love you, honey." My mother's falsetto sweet voice. I'm crying on the floor, too afraid to open my eyes.
"You do NOT love me."
"HOW FUCKING DARE YOU SAY THAT? What would you know!" And there it is again. I feel something striking my back, but I don't bother to see what it is. It doesn't matter, anymore.
After about thirty minutes of screaming and smacking and hitting, I open my eyes. I realize now that it's my mother standing over me with a rolling pin, and in the doorway, I can make out a small, female figure. It has to be Ruby.
"Ruby...please... HELP me!" I continue to look, hopeful for my sister to find a little good in her heart, attempting to ignore the strikes of pain I feel.
"DON'T you ask your sister to help you! SHE has nothing to do with this! SHE'S actually a good daughter. You, you're just WORTHLESS!" I feel a heavy weight being pressed to my side, but I feel nothing more than cracking ribs. I scream in pain. I writhe and cringe, but nothing will stop my father when he's mad. At last, he picks up his foot to walk away, but not before kicking me twice in the legs.
I'm now in fetal position, practically begging, "Ruby, PLEASE. Please Ruby. I'll do anything!"
"Fuck you, assmuncher! You're just getting what you deserve." She smirks, but has an unsure look in her eyes.
So I stop. I give up, and I lie there, crying. After a while, they all leave. I'm not sure where they're going, but I heard the car pull out from the driveway. I turn to lie on my back: a very painful move, but much more comfortable. I wonder if I'm going to make it to be an adult. I wonder if all of my hard work has been for nothing. I wonder how Clyde and the guys will make it without me... NO! I will not die! I use every ounce of strength I have to call 911, but I cannot talk. I cannot speak into the reciever, but I know help will come soon. I just have to hold on... Just hold... on...
I have just one more set of thoughts before the blackness takes over. If I'm to walk away from this, in which direction do I go with my life? How will I deal with this? But more importantly, where will I go? They say home is where your heart lies; but where, exactly, do you go when your heart is broken? What do you do when you're trying to find every piece of your heart, and you're not so sure where it lies? But most of all, where do you go when home isn't where you belong?
I wake up in the hospital, full of tubes; but somehow, I'm pulling through. I see nobody in my room, well, nobody except for Clyde. He's on the left side of my bed, passed out in an armchair. How long have I been here?
I look at Clyde, and I realize how unkempt he looks. I see dark circles under his eyes, and his hair is a greasy mess. I realize that his clothes are the same clothes he was wearing the last time I saw him; however, now they are much dirtier. By his side, there is a pile of books. From the looks of them, they're mine. There are plates stacked on a small table in the corner of the room, and I notice that Clyde is holding my hat in his hands. I can't help but crack a slight smile of the irony; a few months ago, he was in my condition, and I was in that chair. But now, it's the other way around.
But when I flip to face the other direction, I see a very jittery Tweek curled up on a couch cushion. He is asleep, but barely. Token is dead out on the floor, wrapped up in a white hospital blanket. Kyle is reading some sort of novel on the floor, under the light of a small lamp. Stan and Cartman are both sitting with their backs against the wall, whispering about someting. I take notice that even Butters and Pip are here, playing some kind of board game, but not looking the least bit happy. Kevin Stoley is playing a game (which I'm guessing to be Star Wars) on his PSP, and even the fucking antichrist is here. There is the over-smart British kid, Gregory, staring at the floor; I'm not sure if he's sleeping or if he's awake, so I just look away. Christophe is sitting Indian-style in the middle of the floor, intently staring at whatever manuel he has sitting in front of him. Suprisingly, Wendy, Bebe, Esther, Red, and Millie are here as well. They're gossiping about something by the door, sitting atop a pink fuzzy blanket. I'll never understand girls.
I didn't notice the nurse walking in, but I looked at her right as she touched my arm.
"Oh, sweetie, you're awake. The kids were worried you were never going to wake up. Do you know how long it's been?" She's whispering in a singsong voice. I shake my head no, since I cannot speak with this tube in my throat. "Well, it's December." Uh, WHAT? I'm guessing I looked the way I felt, because the nurse whispers, "Now don't panic, honey. You've been in a coma, but you don't seem to have any lasting issues." I nod my head yes, and the nurse says, "We couldn't get the kids to leave. Ever since winter break began, they've all been camping out in your room. For whatever reason, the staff allows them to stay. It's cute, actually." I say nothing, I just try to smile. She adds, "Ring if you need anything." With another nod, the nurse turns and walks away. I sit in stupor, still confused by the fact that it's been over four months.
I make grunting noises to get the attention of my classmates. Apparently, it works, because in less than ten seconds, all of my classmates are gathered around the bed.
"Oh my God, Craig, I missed you so much!" Clyde basically attacks me into a bear hug. My friends fill me in on every detail of what I've missed: tests, dances, football games, new couples, new students, whatever.
I look around, and I see that every one of them is smiling. Except for the antichrist, of course, but he seems to be content with the fact that he doesn't have to bother with another soul.
And it is then that I realize, I've never really been alone.