A/N One more chapter left. JUST ONE! Oh, and by the way, the reviewer Maddiesaurus REX is the one who this roleplay was with! So go and give her some love! XD

Thanks to NightmareMyLove and Maddiesaurus REX

Disclaimer I don't own South Park or any associated characters, events, etc.

Stage 14. ([[{t.r.u.e—c.l.i.m.a.x }]])

11:18 pm

July 30th, 2011

South Park, Colorado

Me: why? what is going on?

Bebe: ...something not good

Me: what?

what is going on please tell me!

Please tell me. That was what he said. But what he was thinking was please help me. Please, please help me. Some part of him understood exactly what was going on, understood that it was irrevocable and final and horrible. All he wanted was to be able to see Craig again, to be able to feel him, to smell him, to taste his lips and curl himself against his warm chest. Who cared if things returned to abuse? As long as he could have Craig, nothing else mattered. Nothing. "Craig!" he screamed, a scream that ripped his throat and brought tears to his eyes. "Craig! Please!"

The beep of the computer was hardly heard over his own, now-desperate shrieks, but he did manage to see the orange flash through his streaming eyes.

Bebe: I have help going over there. okay?

Just then, he heard the sirens. The sirens. "Oh, God, no," Tweek moaned, gripping the sides of the computer like a life preserver. But things seemed to be dragging him under the water, the bloody, hellish water, and he wasn't sure he wanted to resist.

Keep fighting, he thought numbly. Type. Ask for help. For Craig… for Craig... the next words came out very weakly.

Me: The police officer is coming for us!

Bebe: no. it's okay

Me: what? help?

Bebe: they WON'T hurt you. I promise!

Me: why? WHAT IS HAPPENING?

Bebe: He's going to help you reach Craig

Me: w-why do i need his help reaching Craig?

Bebe: well, you clearly can't get to him yourself

Me: but, i would break the door down...

Why do i need emergency help

Bebe: we have to make sure Craig's all right

is the officer there?

Me: yeah he's here...

There, and pounding on the door, pounding on it, until Tweek couldn't tell the difference between the thunder and the knocking, if it could be called that.

don't wanna open up the door...

Bebe: please do. for Craig's sake.

Me: i don't wanna know what's on the other side

what HAPPENED to Craig?

why won't you tell me?

Bebe: Quite possibly, nothing happened.

the sooner we see, the safer the chances

Me: but you are acting frantic... please tell me...please...tell me what could have possible happened...please...

Bebe: open the door and we'll see!

basically, he could have hurt himself. okay? that good enough for you?

but if we get the door open

he'll probably be all right

He was inside. He was running up the stairs. He was pushing back Tweek, and, uncaring, the blonde boy let himself slump over until he was half-propped against the wall. The officer was asking questions, but he didn't hear the words, didn't care. Craig. He felt weak. Extremely weak. He just wanted Craig, wanted to be able to wrap his arms around that warm, strong body… Craig, please... what else mattered, really? Nothing. NOTHING! With Craig gone, there would be nothing. But he wasn't gone, that wouldn't make any sense… he couldn't be gone… could he have just run away? Craig… if you ran… I will chase you anywhere. I promise. Anywhere. I don't care how much it hurts. I just need to have you. I need to.

Now the officer was breaking down the door. And there it was. There it was. Right there.

Him.

It.

The body…

It.

Craig?

No. It's not him.

But Tweek's lips were still framing his name, letting it hover in the air for a whisper of a second—a question—before it was gone. Gone. And he had to say it again, replenish its life, like letting a baby bird catch a second draft of wind to stretch its tiny wings. Craig? Was it out loud? Or in his head? Craig. Please. Come on, Craig… and then he was talking in a constant, ceaseless stream, because as soon as his voice was gone, Craig would be, too. It's okay, Craig, let's go, let's do this, it's okay, get up, stop pretending, it's not funny, Craig, it's not funny, I can't handle this, not tonight, please, no, look, Craig, the police officer is here, you don't want to get in trouble, do you, Craig? Get up, get up now, stop that, stop fooling around, or I'll hurt… I'll hurt Stripe, that's what I'll do, I'll run into your room and take him and hurt him as hard as I can, Craig, if you don't stop this fucked-up joke right now…

There was nothing more to say. Nothing more to do, to live for, to breathe for. The words were gone now. They were gone. And so was Craig.

Gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Escaped. Stolen.

You took him. You took him from me.

He couldn't be gone. He was gone. He was gone. Everything was gone. There was nothing. Nothing. Nothing, and Tweek was drowning, drowning in great, dirty, gory, breaking waves that suffocated him, that bored into his lungs with their coldness, took him away, far away from anything that could possibly save him, galaxies away, universes, dimensions, so that there was no way—no way ever, ever—that he could possibly get him back. There was nothing left. Nothing.

Tweek was hollow. And it was only through hollowness, through a careful balance of thinking about nothing, caring about nothing, separating himself, riding the waves, that he could type the next words.

Bebe: tell me what happened.

Me: that-that thing blocking the door...

Bebe: yes?

what was it?

TELL me.

Me: it was...

it-

i just can't

it...

Bebe: Tweek. Please. Tell me.

Me: i wasn't prepared for the worst...

Bebe: just tell me. then I can help you.

Me: no...you can't

Bebe: if you can't tell me, get the officer

Me: the officer opened the door...

i am...

i am horrified

Bebe: okay. please tell me what happened, Tweek.

Me: he was...

i can't

he

blood

blocking the door.

Bebe: Okay.

Me: a body was blocking the door

Bebe: That's what I thought.

And was it his body?

Me: y-yes...

i

i just can't

Bebe: Get the officer on. Now.

Me: he...

ok...

Bebe: thank you.

Thank you? Like she cared. Like she cared…

"NO!" he screeched then, and it was an inhuman sound, something that pushed past all barriers, tore, broke them cleanly so that they shattered and crumbled to tiny bits. He was falling, felt blood against his cheek as his head hit the floor, and then was grasping at nothing, his nails itching and tearing against the cruelly smooth, perfect wooden floor… running into a lazy, meandering rivulet of blood—and it was so crimson, so scarlet, so violently red and real and… as it ran over his thin fingers… so warm and thin and careless, not the color of roses—no romantic shit like that—it was watered down ketchup, a half-faded memory of a sunny day in a fast-food restaurant, of laughing, smiling, life. And now it was escaping. Even as Tweek's hand turned and grasped at it, the elusive strand of forgotten life trickled away, because it had better places to be, places beyond Tweek and his stupid, insignificant problems.

Because you don't matter, Tweek. You don't matter.

And as the blood flowed away and Craig lay lifeless and Tweek cried like he never had before, so that he couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't sense or feel, the lightning came, an all-absorbing sheet of lightning that enveloped everything, until Tweek could see it whether he liked it or not. Could see the dark liquid soaking and pooling in Craig's neck, and the hand that was placed firmly in it… and could trace the hand up to the officer, and the expression on his face, which—in a better time, Tweek might have seen this—was, unbelievably, one of hope.