I don't know, really, how we got here.

Honestly, I don't. If someone had come up to me two years prior, and said I would soon be curled up in a corner with my best friend, tears streaming down both our faces, I would probably just flip them off.

Maybe that sentence tells you who I am, already. My name is Craig Tucker, and the best friend is Tweek Tweak.

This is what it comes to. Legs entwined, arms wrapped around eachother like it can keep us from falling apart. We're broken, and I don't know how to fix it. I can try, but it won't help. It's like breaking a mirror. You can try filling the dents, try covering it up, but there will always be that big, ugly crack, reminding you of how much you failed.

It's all my fault. I was the one who forced myself on Tweek so long ago, told him I loved him and didn't listen when he told me to stop. I raped him.

What happened then? He didn't tell anyone, of course. He's Tweek fucking Tweak. He would be too scared. We got into a schedule of fucking whenever I wanted to, all against his will. I craved his tiny little body, the feel of his pale skin against mine, the taste of his lips.

But I hated how he never reciprocated my kisses, how he began to look at me with pure, undisguised fear, how he avoided me at school. I got rougher with him, taking out my anger and frustration on him. I still remember the screams, and waking up the next day, kissing all his new bruises and cuts.

I was driven crazy by love, and I pulled him down with me.

And now here we are. Two years later, and he's still by my side. Reluctantly, but still there. I see the loss of spirit in his face, the black and blue marks lining his skin, the limp he has to walk with. I see the concerned looks he gets, the tears staining his friend's cheeks as they beg him to tell him who would to this to him, the domestic abuse leaflets he's handed. I see all, and probably will never stop seeing.

"Please s-stop."

"I can't."

I don't know, really, how we got here.

All I know is I can't leave.