3.4 Untimely Afflictions of Tattered Hearts
af-flic-tion
1. a state of pain, distress, or grief; agony
2.a cause of mental or bodily pain, as sickness, loss, calamity, or persecution.
Under the vile, watchful eyes of society, what extremes can occur? When there are no outs, when a pawn becomes cornered into defeat, what action would you suspect? Not all placed in corners will fight, but when the victim does, often, the results can be disasterous.
"But if I move my place in line I'll lose.
And I have waited, the anticipation's got me glued."
Expo '86, Death Cab for Cutie
A storm was brewing, restrained only by the towering mountain peaks that guarded the small town like sentinels. The air was brisk and haunting, seeking, imploring those that were brave enough to face its cold embrace. A static of the unknown hung heavy over the town, sliding along the skin and causing hair to raise by the mere impending doom that seemed to resonate in the unusually quiet streets. Small bouts of snow flurried down to the icy ground, covering the ugliness of the world and the secrets of the children in a blanket of impenatrating whiteness. But the beauty of the stilled snow drifts, glistening in the muted light, could do nothing to brighten the natural grey that the world turned under the static building high above, clouding out the shamed heaven's far above.
Tweek had returned home in a daze, feeling unattached to the world he belonged in, his mind a numbed haze of white noise as he merely existed for the remainder of the evening, eating obediently as expected, speaking mildly of his day to his parents without truly recalling what had happened. He took his offered coffee upstairs and let it sit untouched, cooled to a milky unattainable mess forgotten on his bedside table. And when he fumbled into the aquamarine bathroom, he turned the shower knobs on automatically and lost his stomach contents into the porceline bowl in silent heaves, the steam waving over him as he finally came-to from his internal daze.
When he slipped into the shower, the scalding water pelting down on his face, Craig's words tore through him, his reasoning for his actions, his smug, sadistic demeanor, those final cutting words; Yeah, well, fuck you too, Tweek. Those words sound familiar?
The tears melted into the water that dripped from his sickly white face, dripped down the gold locks of hair plastered to his skin, swirled down the drain in a clockwise motion, washed away without a care so easily forgotten and taken advantage of. Just like himself; Craig had manipulated his emotions to get what he wanted, manipulated the people around him into the perfect playfield, but when his most valuable pawn had rebelled, he had been destroyed.
And that's how Tweek felt – destroyed. His insides ached with the effort to empty themselves of every known emotion associated with Craig Nommel, his eyes burned with the effort to contain how broken he felt. He still felt the rough touch of that afternoon scraping across his skin, the short fingernails digging into his skin and flesh as Craig had decided to prove to himself that the blonde could simply not survive without Craig. With a loofah clutched desperately into his shaking hands, he scrubbed every inch of his skin that Craig had even laid a finger, his lips, his tongue on, scrubbed until his skin burned under the excruciating temperature of the water, scrubbed until he was raw and open and ached all over.
It was crazy, how Craig made him feel such a rollercoaster of emotions that spanned from overtly elated to crippling defeat. How their Thanksgiving trip to the mountains had been a beautiful experience, only to be coated in the residue of glimmering doubt by chemical addictions; how Craig's desperate need for Tweek kept the blonde sedated and amiable. Until the cruel fates played their hand in the game, until Craig could no longer control the clever schemes of his wicked mind, until the Nommel boy was thwarted. How quickly Craig could turn from the pleasant, wry boy of his childhood to an emotionless sociopath that fed on the fear and pain of his supposed loved ones.
It was crazy the control and influence Craig held over him, that he was unaware of. Who else do you have? A single comment that had reeled the blonde into the hurricane that was Craig Nommel, a single question that manipulated Tweek's loyalties, made him feel weak and unneeded without the raven-haired boy that had been his best friend. A single question that had hooked Tweek by the lips in that dusty, piss-smelling bathroom.
I want you to know how I feel, and I don't want you to hurt because of me. A single admittance to the humanity that Craig harbored, a single-viewed window into the depths of an emotionally confused and frightened boy that Tweek had so desperately fallen for. The last moment Tweek could recall hadn't been whitewashed in the chemical dependencies of his best friend's addiction – the moment that had, without a doubt, spiraled the boy into addiction. Because when Craig could feel, Craig loathed himself and couldn't cope with the intense emotions that threatened to consume him, had no control over the situation at hand, or himself.
But he wasn't the only pawn in the dangerous game that Craig played, he remembered, as the cheerful face of a smiling redhead flashed in his mind's eyes. Red was a simple girl with humanitarian dreams to teach children in third-world countries – Red was an angel that bandaged scrapped knees of the kindergarteners, tutored younger-classmen afterschool, unselfishly let go of the boy she had a keen eye on for years for his own happiness. A happiness he took advantage of by cutting the wings off of the angel that was Red. Tweek couldn't comprehend why Craig had thought that he would have been okay with the thought of a botched abortion, couldn't stomach the idea that Red had suffered unduly for a crazed ideal. It was his fault Craig had conned the girl into an action she had not wanted; it was his fault a life had been snuffed out in the womb.
It was a guilt that hung over his head and sank like a rock in his stomach, as his mind reflected on the bundle wrapped inside of the winged Batking's arms, what was, and what could have been. It was a guilt that made it hard to exist, a guilt that threatened to tear him from the inside out. He imagined a plump little being with shocking red hair and meadow green eyes cooing joyfully at the mere ability to live. He stared numbly at his mother's razor in his hand, the sleek metal grinning wickedly up at him, silently urging him to break skin and end his treacherous life.
Knuckles white with exertion, he threw the razor through the small part in the shower curtain and pulled his hair, shaking his head as the tears fell. "I'm nothing like Craig. I won't take the easy way out of this pain. Pain is a good feeling, pain makes me human. Pain is better than nothing. I won't!"
He forced his aching muscles to push himself up and turn the water off, reveled in the chill that washed over him, the sensation of gooseflesh rippling over his skin as he hastily toweled off through the aching rawness. He was exhausted and drained as thoughts continued battering at his fragile mind.
"Let me save you, my falling petal," the hideous purr of his imaginary demon swirled, cutting through the insidious clamor of emotions, calming the storm of thoughts and easing back the heartache. For once since he had run, run from the twisted truth of Craig, run from the feeling of losing his life, he felt at ease, felt as if he could wake to the summer glow and forget everything that had transpired.
"Thank you," he mumbled to the shadow at the edge of his vision as his head hit his pillow and swallowed him whole, reaching through the inky blackness of his mind to pull him under.
For once, he didn't fight being dragged to another time, to another place, to another dimension nestled inside of his head, instead he embraced the tangles of the demon's lure and let himself be guided. His feet knew the path well and lead him in the nagging direction that he felt he had to go to. The path was one he had walked many times in his life, a path he grew up traversing in the rickety old mountain town. The sidewalks were cracked in the autumn fog, allowing tiny roots of weeds take ownership in the crevices of the concrete. The summer grass that had taken over the edges of the side walk were a sad brown that had dried up and perished in the coming warpath of winter. The residential houses he knew so well were a blur at the edge of his vision as his destination came into view, the chain-link fence covered in the debris of dead ivy vines, rusted at the links, shuddering in the slight breeze that emitted from the play ground.
A forced smile played on Tweek's lips as his feet lead him through the screeching gate of the play area and across the worn mulch, across the flittering leaves that blew in tiny circles from trees blown bare in the winter's harsh presence. He was alone, or so he thought as his gaze travelled across the old play equipment and settled on a lone figure swaying back and forth on the swings.
A figure that turned caramel eyes on him and smiled, raising a hand and waved. A figure with buttery golden locks in a disarray, a figure with a terrible moose scarf tied gingerly at his collar.
"I've been waiting for you, for this moment, for a long time," the figure said, voice dripping with sweetness and knowledge.
"How did you…I don't….are you, me?" Tweek asked, scratching at his head as his Self continued to sway on the swing without pause.
"Yes and no," his Self answered. "I'm the part of you that you let Craig have, that part of you Craig owned. I'm the part of you you've been missing since the moment Craig swept you up in his world."
Despite the bizarre scenario, Tweek just gave an acknowledge nod as he took a seat next to his Self and mimicked his time to the identical figure on the swing. "So why are you here, then?"
"Have you no doubts about the boy you placed so high on a pedestal?" his Self asked with that knowing smile as all of Tweek's insecurities reeled like a film in the dancing fog before them. Finding out Craig had overdosed himself in the bathroom they had had their first illicit affair in during school hours; seeing the mawing slices of fresh cuts chiseled through white and pink scars drizzling down freckled wrists, because of the boy's self-loathing; finding the tiny baggie in blue coat pockets that held the drugs that made Craig okay with himself; the feeling of absolute betrayal and disgust about Craig's desperate attempt to keep from losing the blonde.
The smug, vicious smile behind the back of a frightened redhead, the gush of blood across the stark-white of a stretcher, the condemning browser history in a cell phone. The cutting words spit like venom as Craig turned and walked away with finality.
Swallowing back the sick feeling deep within Tweek asked again, "So why are you here?"
"There's no lost love for Craig," his Self answered, swinging slowly to a halt. "You've been forcing the feeling for a while now, haven't you? Craig is what you always wanted, what you thought you needed, but you cannot save a sick dog from himself in most instances. You tried to play the martyr, ever since you went back to school, seeing the vulnerability, the need in Craig, the confusion he couldn't quite hide. As much as it hurt you to love him, you did, but was it a love you wanted, or a love he needed?"
He buried his eyes deep into the heels of his hands as his world tilted at the realization. "No, no, I loved him. I love him. Don't I? I just…I can't deal with his version of crazy."
"Isn't that the ironic part?" his Self asked with a smile as his childhood filmed before him in flashing images in the fog, of Craig pushing him away because he was a diagnosed nutcase. "You are one in the same, but where you embrace yourself, he pushed against it, because you are what turned his sanity otherwise. So I ask again; did you love him for you, or for him?"
"I…I don't know," he finally answered, looking at the smiling visage of his Self.
"I think you do," his Self answered, motioning to the merry-go-round spinning slowly by itself in the stiff wind that emitted from the piece of playground equipment where it all started. "You loved Craig very deeply in a way you loved no one else, for his curious acceptance of the boy that was religiously different from everyone else. You loved him romantically when you realized his feelings crossed a boundry unacceptable in society. And you will love him until the end of time itself, but, in a way jaded from his atrocious actions that have come to light. Which is why I am here, because you've come to realize, you cannot give Me to him anymore."
Slowly he nodded as the truth wrapped around him, warming him from the inside out. "You're right. I'm bad for him, like he's bad for me. We're like oil and water, we can make beautiful things together, but we can't be together. We feed off of each other, manipulate each other, tear each other down. It's a vicious cycle, how we turned from friends to lovers and back again. A terrible expo," he smiled to himself, mirroring the look his Self offered. "And as much as I wish we could be like we were, we can't, and I'm okay with that."
His Self reached out and took his hand. A warm, pulsing sensation started at his fingertips where that touch lingered. "Don't forget those that have waited for your attention patiently to ride into the merry-go-round of your life that have been lost in the fog that is Craig."
Tweek glanced to where the figure was pointing as the fog of his mind receded back from the merry-go-round, revealing the faces of the kids he grew up with waiting in queue. Conner's bright red flaming hair and splatter of freckles stood out next to the inky blackness that was Esther's hair. Butters clacked his knuckles next to pudgy figure of Clyde, with hands entwined with the smiling face of Bebe. Kyle, Stan, Wendy, the queue continued all the way to the solemn figure of Kenny with the hazy edge of feather wings glimmering in the soft muted glow of his mind. And at the front was the perpetual frowning face of Christophe with a pick gnawed thin between his teeth, glowering at the rest of the kids.
"Don't forget those that have been at your side, and want to continue to be there," his Self said as he turned around to face the warm figure. With a secret smile his Self reached out and pulled Tweek, melting into the blonde at contact, the warmth filling his body as the piece of himself he had been missing melded back in to himself. He felt refreshed and at ease, knowing that despite he would always love Craig, he wouldn't lose himself to easily to the actions of the Nommel boy.
He felt alleviated, completely, for the first time in ages as he turned around and the figures of his childhood faded with the reminiscent fog, leaving only one perched in the center of the merry-go-round, scaly wings folded precariously behind him, scarlet eyes glowing with sincerity, a smile flashing fangs on dusky lips.
For once, there was no hesitation as clawed fingers beckoned him forward; for once the Technicolor ribbons of his mind hesitated at the edges of his vision and vanished. He reached forward, amazed as his fingers gingerly entwined with those of the Batthingit, allowed himself to be pulled forward onto the merry-go-round. As his foot made contact with the faded paint of the metal, a gale blew out from the toy, a flurry of autumn leaves spinning in a circle of wind from the center.
"When I heard your mind beckoning to me so many years ago, you were but the weakest glass chalice, chipped and fragile, threatening to shatter with the slightest of touches." Curson reached a clawed hand out and balanced a glistening golden cup that materialized from the air. "You were threatening to break from the ridicule life offered you, toeing with the idea of internal collapse. But now, you have lifted yourself from the ruins of the person you were."
"Does this mean you're going to find some other poor soul to torture into insanity?" Tweek asked with a fluttery grin that reached his caramel eyes as the chalice melded from view and clawed fingers gingerly brushed his peach cheek, a cheek he had once had torn open by the very being in front of him as a bid to prove himself part of reality.
"Never, my sweets," those stony lips whispered, scarlet eyes glittering indecisively. "For it is you that make me human once more, for it is you my existence beats for." As the demon leaned forward, Tweek found himself mimicking the motion. Before, he would have stepped back, turned tail and hidden in the labyrinth that was his mind, a labyrinth easily skirted by his personal demon. Before, he would have fought and cursed and screamed. But now, he leaned upward and met stony lips with his own, feeling a certainty settle on his shoulders as the ground gave way into the blackness of his mind and he fell into lulling slumber.
"I will see you again one day, my sweets."
…
When Tweek awoke with a bright smile on his face, he felt rejuvenated and new, every concern from the day before fluttering to the ground like the snow that drifted from the heavens. Sitting on his bedside table was a single black rose with red tips on a piece of old parchment, flowing handwriting spelling out the note: you gained your thorns my precious rose. You are a marvelous tune infectious to those around you. Do not forget, your venomous Bat King.
Tweek dove into his mind, to the sanctuary built for his personal demon, and found no hint of insidious presence, found no Technicolor ribbons dancing around his feet, lulling him closer, found nothing where the cage of bitter words had kept the demon imprisoned. When he came to reality with a deep sigh, he fought the sinking feeling of sadness of having his Self back to himself. Curson had bought him a new beginning, and with it, had disappeared as easily as he had slipped into existence. It felt strange with how much hate he had for the Bat King, to miss his quiet illusiveness. It would be an adjustment to get use to.
One simple epiphany of a dream could not change the situation of the day, however. Guilt still bubbled from within, a guilt that Tweek couldn't quell or solve, but with rumors that Red had returned home to recover, he knew what he had to do. He bundled up against the cold, gathered what allowance he had, and took himself to the florist on Main street. He picked a simple arrangement, included a note anonymously, and left with resolution in his mind. He could never make what she went through up to her, but this way, she did not blame her condition on him, like he already did. The blonde would never have wanted her to go through the pain, the self-loathing, and the guilt of an abortion due to a dysfunctional relationship she attempted to save. You deserved none of this. I'm sorry you found yourself involved.
He surprised himself when his feet walked the path up to a familiar covered front porch with a full ashtray sitting on the faded banister, a worn and used shovel propped next to the front door, but he knew this was one person he had to make quiet amends with. In his mind hte reserved face of the Mole watched him from the front of his internal queue, and the hesitation he felt evaporated as he jammed his finger on the doorbell, one, two, three.
The door opened with a creak and Chistophe stared down at him, grey eyes wary, a bruise blossomed in colorful purples across his jawline. "Well, I wasn't expecting you," his dry voice said, cutting through the blonde.
"Can I come in? It's cold out here," Tweek pleaded, although the icy feeling sliding through him was from the cutting look Christophe offered.
The French boy shrugged as he stepped back and waved the smaller boy inside, shutting the door with a resounding thud. In this house that felt like a second home for years, Tweek felt out of place as Christophe shoved passed him into he living room and plopped down on the oversized stuffed chair in the corner.
"I suspect you're 'ere to reprimand me for beating the snot out of Craig, oui?" Christophe asked nonchalantly, crossing his arms in defense.
Tweek raised a brow questioningly as he peeled off his coat and shook the snow out of his hair. "You did what?"
"Craig picked a fight 'e 'ad no 'ope to win."
Tweek hid the smile at the mental image of his two friends facing off...well, his one friend and his ex-whatever-Craig-was. He swallowed hard at that thought, of how quickly everything had changed and been turned upside down, and the anxiety began to creep up on him again. "Well, I hope you kicked his ass real good," he replied, trying to keep the waver out of his voice, knowing Christophe would pick up on it.
And pick up on it he did. brows furrowed in concern he asked, "What's wrong wiz you? Zis ez a pleasant change for me, but for you, zis ez abnormal. What changed?"
"Everything," Tweek huffed, swallowing back the creeping emotions that sucked at him like a rising tide. "Christophe, look...I'm sorry. For never listening to you, for never trusting you about Craig. You were always right, I guess I had to learn that for myself, what a shitty person Craig really was beneath his charming attitude. I was blinded by my own emotions, by my need to protect him, and I'm sorry. I wasn't a very good friend to you."
For the first time in a long time, Christophe balked, unsure of what to do. Tweek looked lost, but resigned to his fate, like a man knowing his ill fate, a man trapped inside a burning building. The blonde dropped his gaze downward, buttery bangs falling over those caramel eyes.
"I wish you 'ad found out in another way the evil zat ez Craig Nommel," Christophe uttered softy, his voice like a warm presence as he walked over and slung an arm around the lost looking blonde. "I would never 'ave wished zis on my worst enemy, let alone, my best friend."
All of the calm reserve, the feelings of ease, disappeared in the comforting arms of Christophe, and Tweek lost himself. For the first time since he had found resolution in Craig's terrible actions, all of the years of tortured love bubbled up in hiccuping sobs. The tears flowed as flashed of memory ran through his mind, as the heartbreak threatened to consume him again.
"Why me, Christophe? After everything I've been through, after everything I did to try, why did I deserve this?"
"You didn't," the boy offered. "Your only fault was loving 'im far too deeply without reserve. You gave 'im your all, and 'e took blind advantage of zat. Et was not your fault, Tweek. Often the most passionate of lovers are those most deeply wounded. Do not forget all you 'ave left to give to ze world. Despite what you always seem to believe, Craig does not define you; you are a wonderful person wizout 'im."
Sniffing, Tweek tried to crack a watery smile. "Shit, why couldn't I just fall for you? I'd never have had these problems."
"Life doesn't give in to the easy choices," Christophe said as he wiped the tears from Tweek's cheeks with an affectionate smile. "Anyway, you would 'ave 'ad ozer problems. I am not a man of passion such as yourself."
"Neither was Craig," Tweek replied darkly. "He was manipulative, unfaithful, uncaring. He took, and took, and took until there was nothing left. He knew how to hurt me, and he did it often. You know his last words to me? Well, fuck you, Tweek. Those words sound familiar? He used the same line he did all those years ago. And he'll just keep hurting me, Christophe. He'll keep taking until there's nothing left. And I can't do it anymore. I can't be his excuse anymore to hurt everyone else for his own well being; I can't be his excuse to continue destroying himself."
"And yet, here you are, still allowing yourself the idea that you were 'is excuse to produce such atrocities. You are not 'is fault, 'is reasoning. Zere ez no blame to be 'ad on you. Craig is delirious, delusional, and sick beyond 'is own capabilities. But do not punish yourself because of 'im."
"I wish I could have seen the warning signs before things got so far," Tweek replied seriously as he curled in on himself. "Before everything spiraled out of control. Man, I really should have listened to you the first time you told me he was bad for me. I should have cared a little more about what others saw, and not about how much I felt. Why the Hell have you stuck around this long?"
A graceful shrug as those grey eyes settled on the blonde. "Because in you, I see a lot of me. Because you were just a wounded outcast, like I, with no one else zat understood. Because zere 'as not been anyone else, since my fazer, za I 'ave shared so much wiz. Because you are my best friend, Tweek."
The blonde laughed nervously under the scrutiny of the harsh French boy, but deep inside, those words melted the hurt that had been building steadily with the snow outside. He leveled his gaze on his friend, aching, feeling raw from everything that had transpired. "You know, I lied to you."
Baffled bewilderment. "You what?"
"Lied to you. That time on the dock, before Thanksgiving vacation. When I kissed you just to see if I felt anything. I lied when I said I felt a little fuzzy. In fact, I felt a lot from it." Normally, the blonde would have hidden under a rock before ever admitting it, but he ached already, nothing else could make the heartache any worse.
A sigh as the Mole ran a hand through his messy brunette locks. "You know I can't, I won't, be zat to you, Tweek. Not now, not wiz everyzing already burning to ash around us."
A quiet, nervous laugh. "I don't want you to be that to me, Christophe. I just...God, Chris, I hurt so fucking much, and I feel so goddamn stupid for letting myself get hurt like this. And I just don't want to be hurt again."
"I am not Craig," the boy growled, a stern look crossing his face as his fist clutched deep into the worn leather of his gloves. "I am not going to run because you are a passionate person, I am not going to run because you feel so much. You're feeling ez what makes me a better person, what makes me more relatable to ze ozer kids. I am not going to 'urt you."
Despite the wish that he had never stepped into the callous whirlwind that was Craig Nommel, he knew that if he hadn't been pushed so abruptly away from the blue-hatted boy he had called his best friend, this gruff, French companion of his never would have entered his life, and for that small favor, Tweek was grateful to Craig. Despite the heartache he caused, the confusion, the rampant emotional rollercoaster over the years, without Craig's brass attitude and discourse for the blonde's feelings, Christophe never would have been a thought in his life. Despite the feelings of hopelessness and loss with Craig, the feelings of not being able to live without his green-eyed counterpart, staring into the grey eyes swirling like mercury with temper, Tweek knew Christophe was someone he wouldn't survive without.
With a breathless whisper of resolution the blonde's voice resonated, "I know."
...
Through the small flurries blowing benevolently through town, a static held the sane inside, a feeling of impending destruction in the silence before the monstrous clouds overhead unleashed their fury upon the small mountain town. The gale that blew between the streets, twisting up snow and dancing the powdery whiteness through the air was nothing compared to the internal storm that waged in the diseased mind of a green-eyed boy.
Craig had never in his life expected the fates to turn their cruel hands on him and pry his happiness from his shaking, freckled hands. He had never expected that loss could burn so deeply, cut into the very core of his heart and his being. He had never felt as empty as he did now with the comforting thoughts of Tweek stripped ragged from his mind.
Tweek, his perfect blonde, the reason he continued to exist against the bitter struggle of his own shame. Tweek, the one person he knew without a trace of a doubt he could not live without. Tweek, a poison to his mind, his heart, and everything Craig stood for. But those soft caramel eyes, those buttery blonde locks, the awkward tics and obsession with the caffeinated sludge he drank...Craig couldn't imagine his life without the influence of Tweek Tweak. It had been a struggle those two years he had snuck around to catch glimpses of the forelorn looking friend he had left at the edge of Stark's pond that fateful day in fourth grade. It had made him dangerously angry to watch his blonde lose himself under the acceptance of that French bastard, watch the meek, quiet blonde turn hard. It had made him furious to watch the smug French bastard walk back into his blonde's life and sweep him in so easily.
That French bastard...if it weren't for Christophe, none of this would have happened; if it weren't for Christophe, Tweek would be shamelessly unaware of the implications of Red's hospitalization. Tweek would still be clinging desperately to his side, would be blindfully unaware of the demon harbored deep within Craig that was willing to do anything to keep his precious blonde from succumbing to the doubt that society placed on them. But he did know, and he had run - run from how deeply, insanely, Craig loved him.
And love Tweek he did - how could he not? He battled internally with the feelings that sucked at him from deep within, the need that clawed at his throat suffocatingly at the mere thought of Tweek. Since the first day he had seen him in the supermarket as young tots, he had been deeply intrigued, something pulling him into the magnetic persona the blonde harbored. Over the years, that intrigue had melded into overpowering attraction that crept along his skin, lighting his nerves on fire at a mere glance sent his way, at a simple brushing of fingers across his by childhood accident. Over the years, he felt trapped under the suffocating presence of Tweek, as if he were fighting a riptide that sucked him deep under the mysterious and deadly sea.
Deep in his mind he sat at the center of a whirlwind of images that flashed curiously, making him queasy and sick by the blur of emotional roulette it sent him into. The shy round-eyed boy of his youth, drawing roughly with crayons in kindergarten, slamming the stick of color onto the paper and rubbing hard enough to tear the paper. The teary eyes as the blonde clutched the ripped image of a stickfigure woman and himself ith a heart between them - those eyes that burned deep into his five-year old soul. The face that had become more angular as the years had passed, a nose that had grown longer and turned to a button at the end, those imploring, longing caramel eyes and sweet lips that breathed his name in pleasure.
I still love you, sorry. The words spoken the second day of school as Tweek turned away in disappointment and ran into the thick fog that hid their secrets, that echoed Craig's harsh words of betrayal as he put the blonde down once again. The sick truth that Tweek had, and always would, care incredibly for a boy that deserved so much less then the sweetness Tweek had to offer.
Prove it to me, Craig. Show me. The taunting words of a determined boy, a boy with the hardened edge of doubt, as Craig had done the one thing he promised he never would - lost himself to the emotional storm, lost himself so deeply in Tweek he hardly felt the bitter sting of the waging storm in the field he had ran to corner Tweek about his own emotions. A turning point in their relationship, one would think, for the better...but ultimately, that wasn't the case.
For you to be okay with yourself. The softly spoken words of a wish the blonde would have on a shooting star, the resignation, and worded acceptance, that Craig never would find solace in the feelings he shared with the meek blonde boy.
You're right, Craig, who else do I have but you? Everyone, it had turned out, everyone had been so elated to have the coffee-sipping boy back into their routine as South Park elementary students. Where Tweek had once clung desperately to their quiet group of rambunctious friends, he had branched out and touched the hearts of many those few years he had no one. Which, he surmised, was all influence of the bitter French boy.
A French boy he hated with every ounce of his being, a French boy he wished would find an untimely demise or disappearance, a French boy he wanted dead and away from the beautiful blonde boy that encased his existence.
In reality, Craig had faced the brutal storm outside and followed his precious Tweek around town, watching, waiting, hoping for some sign that he missed him as desperately as Craig did. Instead, he found the smiling face of his counter part infuriating - instead, he found that his blonde ran into the bruised arms of his nemesis.
His mind whirled about the possibilities as he wandered aimlessly through snow drifts, feeling none of the elements as he lost himself to his mind. There, he saw his blonde entangled in the snarl that was Christophe, sniffling and crying, finding comfort in the tawny arms of the Mole. There, he saw a future pan out where his blonde laces nail-bitten fingers with the compost-encrusted one's of Christophe. There, he watched in dismay, as lips met lips, as shaking hands explored a tanned scarred body, as it was Christophe's name spoken softly, lovingly, in the heat of carnal intrigue.
I ask again, can you let someone else have him so? the cruel voice of intent asked, lacing through his mind dangerously, lighting up the darkest reaches of his subconscious with the image of Tweek tangled indecently with the French boy. His blonde boy, staring lovingly up at the flushed face of the French boy, licking, sucking, using his mouth tantalizingly to illicit small words of foreign encouragement. His blonde boy with a matching golden band around his ring finger that flashed the truth of the situation, his blonde boy kissing the corners of Christophe's forever down-turned frown.
His blonde boy no longer.
Can you let someone else claim this piece of you? the voice curled through his subconscious, slicing painfully through him, hissing the truth he knew.
"No," he mumbled to himself, barely registering the faint image of the winged beast at his side. No, he couldn't give up the piece of himself that made him a better person, that drove him into a slow descent into fumbling insanity. He couldn't share the shy lips of his other half with anyone else - he couldn't imagine anyone else relishing in the bitter green-apple smell of his buttery golden locks. He couldn't live with the idea of anyone else fumbling to hold hands with the sweaty, fidgety blonde; couldn't fathom anyone else tangled amiss those deep brown sheets that dominated his tin twin-sized bed.
He wouldn't let anyone else have Tweek if he couldn't.
How can you live knowing your lover hates you so?
How can you survive the ridicule of losing the one thing that mattered most?
How can you allow yourself the decency of breathing the same air as Tweek?
The echoes of purring loathing whispered at his ear, taunting, as his feet lead him on a mission all theri own. There as no recognition of the houses that he passed in a blur, no recognition of the bitter wind tha cut through his blue-down jacket wrapped tightly around himself. He was lost to his thoughts, to the winding trail deep inside himself that lead to...where? Away from Tweek, or straight into violent, crashing emotional storm brewing deep within? He wasn't sure, but he ran blindly through the cutting words, the sweet nothings, the soft touches landed in the past.
In reality, he wandered the torn-up dirt road, frozen over by teh violent storm that threatened overhead, a road cluttered at the edges with pieces of trash, crushed Pabst blue cans, and cigarette butts. A road that crossed the rusted iron tracks of a long-forgotten trainway, a road that lead to a ramshackle of a house, the yard littered with car parts from an old beat-up Ford with rusted-out fenders, sitting precariously on cinderblocks. Next to the broken fence with panels missing an old torn-asunder couch straight from the eighties sat covered in trash. There was never a lack of broken furniture or appliances as lawn ornaments at the McCormick household, leaving much to be desired about the residency.
He could tell by the bitter, acrid smell wafting from the garage and the old-school rock music blasting through the paper thin walls that Kenny's parents were toking out and lost in a world of their own. Kenny would be with his friends by circumstance, playing somewhere away from the bitter reminder of his existence - Kevin, as always, would be downtown playing pool in the bar with the older kids of the town. And Karen had been giggling uproarishly with his sister when he had left in a daze that morning, assuring Craig that he was free to do what he had to.
He opened the peeling, warped door without hesitation and crossed the sticky, filthy carpet of the living room, barely registering the smell of cat piss and spilled beer as he walked down the short hall to the McCormick's bedroom and slipped inside, Kenny's harsh voice echoing in his mind. Seven, Craig, I was fucking seven the first time I shot myself in the head with my mother's handgun behind the broken down Ford in the yard.
Of course, the McCormick's weren't one for gun safety, and Craig found the sleek semi-automatic gun sitting on the stained sidetable that harbored an ashtray and half a warm beer. Like all of the young boys in the redneck town, he had learned at a young age how to handle a firearm through trips to the woods to hunt and shoot beer bottles precariously placed on a rotting fence. He clicked the sliding release and checked the mag, opened the slide to clear the chamber, a routine his father had engrained into his young susceptible mind. With a silent nod he pocketed the small subcompact gun, a chilling smile spreading over his thin lips, one destination in mind.
...
He spent the remainder of the morning freezing in an open snowy field, watching the white slush mixed with rocky soil being flung into a neat pile as Christophe dug at the ground silently. He sat high up on a boulder out of the way, Arcade Fire floating through the thin mountain air from his iPod, watching his friend tentatively. The quiet singing of the Mole, rolling in his thick accent, never seemed strained even as he dug hard into the ground, exerting large bouts of energy to tunnel into the frozen soil. It was a sound that lit Tweek's spirits, made him smile at the dark clouds high above, knowing everything would be okay if only for this carefree moment.
After a while of quiet boredom Tweek mischievously balled up a handful of snow and launched it at his friend's head. In turn Christophe scooped up a glob of slush and tossed it unceremoniously at the blonde. By the end of their impromptu war, the two were shivering, soaked, and in need of a box of tissues.
When he returned home, dripping and cold, Tweek found the house empty. A quick search found a note on the counter from his mother, that she had gone out to the grocer for some last minute items to make a pie, and his father was at the shoppe until later. Lunch was made and in the fridge, the coffee maker was set for a fresh brew if he wanted, and she would be home soon. He stripped of his soaking clothes, bundled into a ridiculous cat sweater and pajama pants, slid around on the kitchen tile in his stripped fuzzy socks, and felt as if nothing in the world could be more perfect at the moment.
Humming to himself he went about fixing himself a cup of coffee with a smile plastered to his face. He had played the voice messages blinking ominously on the phone and learned that Red had received her gift and was assured in an exhausted, quiet voice that she was okay, healing would take time, and in no way did she blame him. He couldn't fix her, he couldn't ease the hurt Craig had caused, but he felt okay just hearing her voice. And spending the morning with Christophe goofing off had been nothing short of what he needed. To relax without worry of what was to come, to spend time with a friend that had been at his side through everything that had tormented him so, to see the gruff French boy smile without reserve. It was nice and refreshing. Nothing could go wrong.
At least, that was his thought as his brows furrowed as the doorbell jingled conspicuously. It was probably just Christophe, coming over for another strange adventure, or maybe even Conner, seeing the perfect opportunity to play with the dazzling layer of white snow blanketing the ground. But as he walked to the door and peaked through the curtains, his heart stopped, seeing the strange visage of Craig standing on his doorstep.
The bell rang again as anxiety clawed at his throat, stealing his breath. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, drying his mouth to cotton, causing his hands to shake and jitter at the mere sight of this boy he had given his all to, his all for. He knew he wouldn't be able to escape, knew he'd have to see him come Monday at school, but backed by the quiet umbers of his peers he hadn't been afraid.
Now, standing alone in his living room, swallowing back his thudding heart, he was frightened to face the one boy he thought was everything to him. Now, he wanted to run, to hide, to sneak upstairs and disappear into his closet and hope that no one came looking. Now, he wished his mother would pull up and protect him; now, he wished he had never left the frozen field with Christophe.
But his body betrayed him, and walked straight to the entry alcove of his home, taking small, jittery steps as his hand reached out and turned the door knob the third time the bell rang high above omniously.
Craig looked lost, not physically, but troubled on a path he wasn't sure of deep within. His eyes were sunken and glazed, the meadow green sparkling noxiously in crazed glee. His face was haggard with exhausted lines traveling around the corners of those mysterious eyes. And the smile on his face was something that shook Tweek to the core, because i was far from happy, it was sadistically vile, just like Craig always would be.
"Tweek," he breathed, a hand reaching out slightly, only to drop to his side.
"What-what do you want?" he asked, stepping back involuntarily.
"I needed to see you," Craig said, the smile never faltering. "I needed to talk some sense into you."
"Sense into me? What the fuck do you mean, sense into me? I'm not the one that did terrible things," he voiced, anger flashing across his face. "I'm not the one that needs sense talked into."
Craig didn't seem to hear him as he looked up under his unruly black bangs, hat pushed low over his forehead. "You know I love you, right? I love you so much, my insides hurt and flutter. Hurt as if they've been torn out and stamped into a bloody mess of entrails. Hurts because I'm so empty inside without you."
"I can't help you," Tweek said, fighting the urge to give in to the words spoken by his nasally best friend. "I can't, I can't do it anymore, Craig. I tried. I tried for a long time. I gave you everything. I loved you so fucking much and it got me no where. I just, I can't do it anymore."
"Funny thing is, Tweekers, I'm no really giving you a choice," Craig replied, cocking his head as he pulled a shining piece of metal from his pocket and leveled it dangerously at Tweek's forehead. The blonde swallowed back a scream as his blood turned to ice, realizing that his crazed friend had a gun pointed steadily at his head. How could they have gotten to this point, he wondered to himself, as he eased his breathing to a normal rate, fighting back the urge to hyperventilate and panic.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked as calmly as possible, hating the way his voice hitched and his eyes burned, realizing his life was in the hands of Craig Nommel, as it always had been before.
"Why, Tweek, really?" Craig asked with a laugh as he waved the gun around, rolling his eyes. "How is it we went from perfectly fucking okay to ruins in mere minutes? How the fuck much could you have really, honestly, loved me if you couldn't look passed one discretion, one mistake? Oh, I know, you clearly didn't give that many fucks about me. Clearly, all those passionate nights between the sheets and lost words were nothing but your sick game to fuck with me, the way you ran into that motherfucking French piece of shit's arms, huh? Clearly, you've just been stringing me along for your own sick pleasure, trying to get a rise out of me, trying to bring me down to my weakest point to exploit me." His face turned angry, those meadow eyes sharpening dangerously as he leveled the gun once more.
"Well not anymore, you fucking creep. You fucking stupid nutcase. I get it. I've seen into your little game, and I'm not going to play anymore. But guess what, Tweekaroo? You were my everything. The reason I breathed. The reason I lived. You, alone, could do this to me. You, alone, make me want to do awful things to you, because of you." by now, a silent stream of angry tears had begun to flow down pale freckled cheeks.
"Don't do this. P-please, don't do this, p-p-please," Tweek whispered, begged, the realization that there was no escape setting in.
"I'm only doing what you deserve. You are everything to me, Tweek, you sonuvabitch. Everything. And no one, no one, gets to have the only reason I live."
"Craig, please, Craig, stop-"
The words stopped dead as gunpowder exploded, once, twice, three times into the silence of the tiny mountain town.
...
Craig was found, to the horror of the citizens of the tiny town, wandering down main street splattered with thick gellous blobs of blood, his eyes glazed over to the reality of what he had done, the gun hanging loosely at his side, his fingers slick with the blood of the one person he had loved more than life itself. When the town's police department had been dispatched to the area, the boy had no fight in him, instead he ducked easily into the police car, that twisted smile still warping his face. He had said nothing as they questioned what he had done, who's blood he was decorated in, had barely made eye contact as the sirens buzzed whitenoise in his head.
And in his head he was trapped, having ripped through the very tatters of his Self at the final plunge, the final chapter in his life with Tweek. Because Tweek had been his very sanity, and once he blonde had been dispatched of, he could no longer toe the edge of Awareness, and instead fell into the sickening descent of Madness.
The storm that had threatened the town crashed down in a wave of horror as screams echoed through the gale that blew through the town, screams of heartbreak and anger, screams elicited in a guttural language unlike anything else as the Batking stared at the lifeless body of his love.
Tweek's body was found by his mother, laying lifelessly in the entry alcove in a pool of blood, he spray of the back of his skull splattered across the family pictures on the wall, splattered across the freshly cleaned carpets, splattered into the incredible image of death in those lifeless, staring, brown eyes. Curson's terrible screams were only outmatched by the terrified, heartbroken wails of Eavan as she shook her baby boy, hoping that the scene before her was false.
But there was nothing false about the untimely death of Tweek Tweak, about the homicide at the hands of Craig Nommel. Word spreads quick in such a close-knit little town, and by supper time, everyone knew of the boy's illicit end.
Craig's room had been searched, finding a spiral bound notebook filled with intangible scrawling of a crazy, delusional boy, drawings of vicious looking bat creatures ripping the heart's out of young boys, poems and notes that began intelligible and confused, lost to the wickedness of society, to hateful and sadistic words of someone lost in their mind. It told of a boy ashamed of his feelings for another boy, the story of a conflicted boy wanting nothing more than to be able to love his best friend without the prejudice of social pressures; it told of a boy unwilling to look passed his own shame to be happy, a boy so distressed about his own emotional turmoil he couldn't stand to live with himself after what he had done.
In the coming days after the incident, the dark lives of Craig and Tweek came to light with hushed whispers of the town's people. Craig, a boy that loved so deeply, so fully, he was lost to the underground world of chemical addiction that ran rampant through the dark streets of South Park. A child that struggled with self-harm, that had carved the name of his adoration into his arm in one final plea to the fates. A young boy that had manipulated a young girl into abortion for his own personal gain. Tweek, the fulfilled boy that talked to demons, that talked to himself, that found friendship outside of the crazed lunacies of Craig, that was the poster child of Dr. Ethan Rizzo's neuroscience and psychiatric practices.
Red held her head high against the accusations and the rumors that circulated about her hospitalization, against her forced condition, against a pregnancy terminated by a crazed boy. Despite the looks, and the whispers, and the bitter way the adults talked, the children stuck together and protected their own against the atrocities their little town had weaved into their warped lives.
The funeral was held the following Saturday, under the cold grey skies of winter that parted, shimmering down upon the cathedra bright rays from above on such a solemn day. Not a single resident of South Park was missing from the child's funeral, accept he who had dealt the deadly blow. Everyone filed in, shock and regret evident on their faces, eyes diverted to the ground rather than the pale face that had been reconstructed, surrounded by a bed of yellow lillies and white silk of the oaken casket. Eavan sat at the front, frizzy hair framing the face of a lost woman that seeped mascara down pale, sickly cheeks, her gaze intent on the son that would never return to the living realm. Richard stood vigil at her side, the silent knight against the questions and sorrow that surrounded the people they had known all of their lives.
In the back corner, Christophe sat alone, tears streaming down his ruddy face as he stared straight ahead and mumbled harsh, French curses under his breath. How could a God so great take a boy so special a boy with so much to offer the world? the Mole's intense hatred of a God so great burned with fury as the priest gave a solemn speech, and he lost his composure, breaking into furious sobs as the truth hit him; the one friend he knew was true was gone, forever and always.
Everyone shuddered against an internal chill, looking around and finding no reason for the icy wind that blew down the aisle. And no one would.
Craig Nommel was admitted to Denver's most obscure, renown insane asylum for the youth, having no competency to stand trial for his alleged crimes. He barely functioned after the incident, barely did more than survive as he muddled through the days as the one things he could never accept - being crazy. He never spoke, never acknowledged his care givers, and was considered the most heinous of residents at the asylum. To be twelve and a murderer, to have to easily taken the life of the one he proclaimed to love, boggled the minds of child psychologist and the nation itself. Ethan Rizzo had seen the boy in one session, shook his head, and resigned from practice, with one final word of the case: they were born to crash and burn, there was nothing anyone could do to stave off what had happened.
The Nommel family packed up and moved after the incident, unwilling to stay in a town with the family their son had destroyed so. Neither Lydia or Thomas could stand to see the Tweak's around town, tore their own hearts out to try to apologize and sympathize with a family they had grown to love. No body could blame them, and no one was really surprised when their house turned up empty overnight with a for sale sign casually hung at the end of the road by the mailbox.
The Tweak's merely survived day to day after their son was taken from them in such a hateful way. Richard poured himself into the shoppe, and Eavan slept at the shoppe most nights to avoid the entrance of her home that haunted her sleep. Eventually, the Tweak's moved into a smaller house , and were forced to deal with the loss of their son all over again when they were confronted with the challenge of packing up and donating the things in his room.
Immediately following the funeral, Eavan had latched onto Christophe, seeing a despair in the boy that she couldn't bear. But try as she might, three weeks following the boy was found dead, ruled a suicide, in Terryall Creek. He left a simple letter scrawled in French. I could not protect him, save him, despite what I did. I cannot live with myself knowing I failed Tweek when he needed me the most.
Tweak Tweek was born August 17th, and perished January 26th at the tender age of twelve. His final resting place was under a large oak tree at the edge of the cemetery that blossomed beautifully in the spring and rained glorious orange-fire leaves during the autumn. It was here Curson sat, perched precariously on a stone under the tree as he stared at the marble headstone carved into the image of a peaceful angel standing erect over the grave of the fallen. A small smile played on his lips as he realized his part of the strange story that had played out in the dusty little mountain town.
"Death is merely a step toward a twisted conclusion," the Bat king voiced, words laced lovely on the sweet caress of the wind, as he looked over the site of Tweek's final resting place. "So ends this chapter in an ill-fated town, plagued by the cruel Fate's; so ends this Expo of affliction in this small mountain town. Or perhaps, this is just another beginning."
A/N:
Oh my godddddd. After ten years, Expo is done. Or...is it? There is an epilogue left, and then, and THEN, we will be fini! Also...don't hate me for this ending. Because, sometimes the end is not quite the end...now is it?