Some Boys are Monsters

You Were a Saint (Pt 2)

Tweek's song of the day: Bedrooms by Deafhaven
Craig's song of the day: Understanding by Evanescence

He's pacing his room. His guitar case is dragging behind him as his feet shuffle across his messy carpet. He's been trying hard for the past two days to not think. Usually, that's an easy task for him. Lately, however; not so easy.

What had he done?

The springs of his mattress creak when he falls back onto it. His chest heaves. His mind swirls. The one thing he can't be free of are the looks his friends had on their faces. Token's unbridled rage and Clyde's horrified shock; they haunt him. Neither has linger quite as vividly, though, as Tweek's.

Tweek was in a haze the last time he saw his face. His cheek was stained a pinkish color where Craig's violent hand struck him. His green eyes were watery as they searched for him. Tweek was searching for Craig, even after he put his hands on him.

He can almost still hear that small voice crying his name as he ran. As Craig ran away like he runs from everything.

The thought makes his hands shake and an unbearable heaviness linger in the bottom of his lungs. His breath catches in his throat. Tears threaten to sting his eyes.

Something small distracts him from his sorrowed heaving. It lays out over his chest. It's scraped and old. Plastic, but precious.

It's a little star he's been keeping around his neck, held there with a crude piece of twine. His tiny treasure still faintly glows when he cups it in his big hands and peeks inside.

He can still remember the moment it was given to him. They were laying on the cold, hard floor of that playhouse. Tweek dropped it in his hand before his shaky little voice offered quiet words.

"Because that's what you do when you're in love with somebody."

Stop thinking about Tweek.

He sits up in bed with a jolt. Tweek's glow in the dark star falls back into his shirt in the process.

He fetches his red notebook off of his messy side table.

His guitar, too.

He hasn't touched either of them since he locked himself up in his room. Playing will ease his mind. It will make the idea of jumping off a roof a little less enticing. It always calmed him before, no matter how bad the situation seemed.

He will be okay.

He flips through the pages, looking for the right song to take the pain away. One that will take the memory away.

Each page he turns to, though, is only a dash of salt in his open wounds.

He wrote so many songs for both Tweek and Bebe. So many slow songs with happy words, and with sad. He keeps flipping, but none of them fit. None of them help. Every lyric and rhyme just reminds him of that sweet face, and the pain he sparked behind those eyes.

He keeps flipping, though, as if he can find the remedy tucked away under the time-beaten cover. There is something there, underneath the grungy red front of his lyric book. A remedy, though, isn't the right word for it.

He grips the edges of the wrinkled up notebook paper. His teeth grind together. His breath catches.

The handwriting is scratchy and scribbled; sloppy and lopsided. The letters are big and the words are sweet. It was a gift from the one person he's trying so hard to forget.

He wants to rip it up into a thousand pieces and grind it into the carpet. He doesn't deserve to have it. He never deserved anything of Tweek, but he can't. He can't get rid of it, and he can't play.