"So, Tweek, how are you today?" My psychologist, Mr Tucker, sits on a chair in front of me, smiling widely, even though I've known since I was six that he's faking. That's what one of my only friends, Bradley, told me. He said that they fake being nice to gain your trust. I trust Bradley a lot, so I've hated my doctor ever since. I used to be pretty naive with adults, but now it's common sense.

"I-I'm f-f-fine." I struggle a lot to say the words, as always. I've had a stuttering problem ever since my mom died when I was four years old. Well, technically, since I was five. I wentmute when I was four. It was probably from the shock of my mom's death. I can say no one was expecting it, but I don't know the details. When I did start speaking again, I couldn't help but stutter.

My dad soon started to worry and took me to the doctor.

The doctor said I have severe anxiety, which was quite worrying then, because of my age. I don't really remember, but my dad told me that the doctor gave me some medication to help with it, but I always somehow refused to take it. I couldn't swallow pills. I hid them under my tongue and spat them out when my dad wasn't looking. With liquid medicine, I would purposely spill or smash the bottle so there was none left, or I would just spit it out. I struggled and shook so much that the doctor couldn't give me shots. One thing I do remember is that once, when I was about five and a half, my dad crushed up some tablets and put it in some cake mix. That was the one time I actually took medicine, though I did notice the cake tasted weird, and so I never fell for that kind of trick again.

These days, I'm mature enough to be given shots, which is the only way I can take the treatment, because I still spit out pills and liquid medicine, because of the taste.

I dread having those needles stuck into my arm, especially when there are other kids waiting for their turn, watching me. There's nothing worse (for me) than having other mentally disturbed kids observe you have something sharp inject stuff into you. Although none of the staff know, having other children in the hospital only makes my anxiety worse.

One thing that screwed up my life even more was when about a year ago, I was allowed home for one day by the hospital. They do that to almost every kid. I think it's so we don't forget our parents or something. I think it's ridiculous locking us up. I think being surrounded by glass walls and the looks of disapproving nurses makes us more insane than we were to begin with.

When I came home that one time, my dad seemed happy to see me, though now I'm not so sure if he was faking (like my doctor) or not. I mean, if he was really a loving father like he looked, then why did he allow me to be kept in a mental hospital for so long? I know he sure didn't try to get me out. I just know.

While I was gone, he'd turned part of our house into a coffee shop. It was weird seeing my strangers eating stuff and drinking random crapola in my own house. All I really remembered from my house at that time was my room and the kitchen.

Having never been introduced to drinks in the hospital other than water and sometimes milk, and being too young to remember what it was, I foolishly asked my father what coffee was. He immediately smiled and broke out into a range of metaphors, like the wierdo he was. I got the message that he liked coffee a lot. When he was finally done, I asked him again, but to say it in English. He sighed 'cause I didn't understand it the first time and told me it was special brown beans in hot water.

I then asked why anybody would want to drink that, then he handed me a cup of the steaming black stuff and told me to try it. Now that, was the worst mistake of my life.

Unfortunately, I liked it a lot. It was much more interesting than bland water and boring milk when it came to taste. I made another mistake, and told him I liked it.

He gave me about eight cups, if I recall, which was quite a lot for an eight year old to consume in one day. When I was returned to the hospital, the first thing I asked my doctor (not Mr Tucker, another one) is for some coffee. He looked quite surprised, and asked how I'd managed to drink some. I told him that my dad had given it to me earlier that day and that I liked it a lot. The nurses and doctors in the room all stared at me when I said that. I still don't know exactly what happened, but I know they definitely had some kind of talk with my father.

He never gave me coffee again, although, to this day, I still crave the stuff. So now, I'm addicted to fucking coffee as well as my other problems.

"That's good, Tweek. Have you had today's shot yet?" I shakily nod, cringing as I remember having that… that thing stuck into my arm by a nurse.

"Great. Now Tweek, I know you're frustrated because you've been staying here for so many years… how many was it again?" I couldn't help but roll my eyes at him. He's supposed to be helping me be normal, not forgetting things.

"A-Almost f-f-four y-years." Mr Tucker nods in understanding.

"Ah, that's right, you're almost ten. Almost the same age as my son." I twitch at my own doctor mentioning he has a son. Not to mention my age. I hate to say it, with how much I hate him, but it's hard to imagine Mr Tucker speaking with any child but me, though I know he's the psychologist to about a ¼ of the other kids in this hospital.

"…Y-You h-have a s-son?" I ask quietly, looking at the wall and trying not to sound too interested. Mr Tucker blinks at me.

"Yes. Didn't I tell you before?" I shake my head, even though he probably has. I don't even listen to half the things he says in our sessions. I know I should though, if I want any chance of getting out of this place.

"Well, I do have one. He's ten. His name's Craig. He's a… a lovely boy." I inhale and process the name in my mind. Craig Tucker. What a boring name. And yet...

I clutch the front of my shirt with my left hand.

"… Oh…" I watch Mr Tucker rummage around in his bag, which he always carries around with him. He smiles as he finds what he's looking for. He hands me a picture.

"That's him in a school photo from this year." I look closely at the picture. Like Mr Tucker said, Craig looks my age. He has a blue hat that I can tell he wears every day, just by guessing. He doesn't look that happy… in fact, he's giving the camera the bird. The way he's looking at the camera... fascinates me. I give the picture a small smile, as if Craig's actually looking back.

"D-Does h-h-he like t-to f-flip p-people o-o-off or s-something?" Mr Tucker blushes.

"Sorry about that. He's not the happiest child in the world."

"Oh … Hey look!" I watch my doctor look at the ceiling in alarm. I can't believe he fell for the oldest, and I mean the oldest, trick in the book. I hide the picture behind my back, and then stuff it into my pocket. I don't know why, but my instincts just told me to keep that photo. I'm trusting myself for once. Let's call it a test.

We spend the next hour having a steady conversation with each other, Mr Tucker failing miserably to talk to me about personal matters. Even though he's a doctor, a psychologist for that matter, I just don't feel comfortable talking about that kind of stuff to him. It's like an invasion of privacy. He might as well let me go home and break into my room and steal all my stuff a week later. Whenever he starts asking questions that go past my limit, I give him the silent treatment for about two minutes, which is time he can't afford to lose, what with his tight schedule.

I sigh in relief when Mr Tucker says it's finally time for him to leave. He turns to me as he's about to walk out the door.

"Oh, Tweek, I forgot something. Tomorrow's 'Bring Your Kid to Work Day', so Craig's coming. You might be able to meet him." I nod politely; though I'm pretty sure I never want to meet someone like Craig, judging by the photo in my pocket.

"I'll see you tomorrow then." Mr Tucker nods in good bye and walks out of the room. I sit in the chair I've been in for about an hour already, thinking about what it would be like to meet Craig. I think I sit there for a while, daydreaming, because a nurse has to come in and 'escort' (drag) me to my room.

Once she gets me to my room (or in my words, my prison cell), she starts to scold me.

"Tweek, you know when you're done with Mr Tucker you're to come straight back to your room. If this happens again, you'll have to be punished." I nod, tuning her out. I know she wants the best for me, but I also know she still thinks I'm as crazy as a serial killer.

That sometimes pisses me off.

"Look, young man, you're here because your mind isn't fit to handle the outside worl-

"Why don't you just say it? I'm crazy." I say quietly, going into the mode where I'm able to stop stuttering. It's a mode that appears only very occasionally, maybe once a year, at the most. The nurse freezes, staring at me wide eyed. I know why. It's partly because of my 'new' voice, and partly because she can't deny it. She can't say 'No, you're not crazy, you're here because…' then make up some kind of random reason.

I know that better than anyone. Even Bradley.

"Look Tweek, we don't like to describe kids like you as crazy, nuts, or insane. We say you're mentally unstable. You're here because you're mentally unstable. It's not your fault you're like this, okay?" I nod out of duty, glaring at her because I know it's every little bit my fault.

"One day, you'll be able to leave here. But that's not going to happen unless you abide by the rules. I'll see you in an hour for dinner." She walks out and quickly locks the door to my room, thinking I'm gonna attack her and try to escape. The door's glass for visitors. I hate the fact that it's glass because it makes me feel like I'm in a nut house. Well… I basicallyam.

The walls are made from glass too, making privacy here impossible. It feels like there's always someone watching you. There most likely is. One good thing about this though, is that Bradley's in the room/cell next to me, so I can see and talk to him whenever I want.

I look into his cell, ready to speak to him, but it's empty. He's probably still with his doctor, or in the bathroom. If you want to go to the bathroom, you have to press a little button on the back wall (which is the only one that isn't glass), and a nurse will come unlock your door, hand cuff you if you're specifically insane, and escort you there.

I sometimes have to be handcuffed when I'm moody or really anxious, but I'm normally not. Bradley is handcuffed everywhere he goes, except for eating because he's suicidal.

Once, about two years ago, Bradley snuck a hair clip into his sleeve that his little sister had given to him as a gift, and tried to slit his wrists with it. Some kid saw and screamed, pointing at him. The other patients saw and screamed as well. I was the only one that didn't make any noise. That was one of the few other times where my 'dark mode' appeared. I just stood there and stared at Bradley with narrowed eyes. Maybe I was so distressed from the sight that my mind automatially locked my emotions away for a few minutes. Maybe I secretly wanted Bradley to die. Maybe I simply respected Bradley's decision to take his life, and decided I had no right to stop him. Well, whatever the reason was, it resulted in me standing there watching bloodshed without even blinking, like some heartless demon from hell. The nurses heard the screams and came running. They saw Bradley, opened the door, snatched the clip away, and took him to the hospital. The physical one.

The police had to come and interview Thomas and I, who are Bradley's 'cell neighbors'; me on the left, Thomas on the right. We both said he'd tried to kill himself with a hair clip, but they didn't believe us. The nurses and staff were convinced he had a knife and wanted to press charges for trying to harm other patients, but I was allowed to rummage around in Bradley's cell and finally found the clip, which was in a corner where some nurse threw it. Bradley came back about a week later. He still has scars on his wrists. I feel sorry for him, because it'll always remind him of the incident.

I sigh and turn to my other neighboring cell on my left, where the new kid is. He'd arrived a few days ago, swearing like there was no tomorrow. I actually learned some new curse words that day. I think his name's Eric Cartman or something.

Sure enough, he's there, reading some Terrance and Phillip comic, still looking pissed off. I might as well say hi. He could be here a while.

"H-Hey." His head snaps up, turning to stare at me. He grimaces, which sort of offends me. I hunch up, suddenly feeling nervous.

"What d'ya want, nut?" Nut? What the hell's that?

"N-Nut?"

"Yeah you're a nut. You're crazy." I look at the floor, not knowing what to say to that. I've always known that, even before I arrived here, but... well if I'm coming down, he's coming down with me.

"Y-You must b-be a n-n-nut t-too t-then, s-since y-you're here." He laughs, making me feel stupid.

"I've always known that I'm crazy, and I'm proud of it. Someone like you should bow to me." I flinch. This guy... really is crazy. He smirks at me and continues. "You have no idea how many countless times I've abandoned my friends in life-threatening situations just for something as small as a toy. I don't love anyone nor does anyone love me." I gasp. Not because of what he just said, but at the similarity between us. He's known all along too. He's been alone his whole life (I can tell by the emptiness in his eyes). He's even let his friends almost die. Just like me.

I can feel him stare at me for gasping. When I look up and make eye-contact with him again, the strangest thing happens.

We both scream. Short ones, but still, screams. We both clamp our hands over our mouth and watch each other with wide eyes. What the fuck just happened? Perhaps... we both realised how screwed up we are. Eric looks traumatised. He flushes, takes his hands from his mouth and resumes speaking, as if nothing happened.

"A-Anyway, I'm not here 'caus I'm crazy. I'm here 'caus I killed my worst enemy's parents, then fed them to him." That sounds pretty crazy to me.

"I-I think t-that m-m-makes y-you a l-little crazy, E-Eric."

"Well, whatever. I'll be out of here soon anyway. I'm only here for two weeks."

Unbelievable. He murdered two people and made someone a cannibal, and he's here for two weeks, while I'm anxious and like coffee a lot, and at this rate, I'm here for life. I can't help but envy him.

"T-That's lucky."

"Yeah, I guess. What are you here for?" I wonder, should I tell him? Yeah, what the hell. I can understand this dude.

"S-severe a-a-anxiety and a-addiction to c-coffee. P-Plus a s-stuttering p-problem." Eric stares at me.

"Not what I expected. I thought you were suicidal or an emo or something."

"H-He is." I point to Bradley's cell on my right. Cartman glances at it and nods.

"I thought so, by looking at him." I nod in agreement. We sit in silence for a while, staring at the walls. I can tell this guy wants to speak to me now. I just can.

"You have the time?" He finally says. I shake my head, then look at the dude in the room across the hall from me. I point at my wrist and he nods.

"Quarter to six." He says. After I nod in thanks, he goes back to cutting stars out of paper. I think he's here because of depression or something. I wonder why they allow him to have scissors. It's ridiculous.

"Y-You h-heard h-him." I tell Cartman, lying down and getting a book out, since I'm bored.

"Aw, fuck." I shoot up.

"W-What's w-w-wrong?"

"My friends are coming to visit me any minute. They said they'd come around six, and knowing them, they'll be early."

"O-Oh." I lie back down and open the book. The nurses only allow us to read classics, so now I'm stuck with 'To Kill a Mocking Bird'. I'm not the best reader in the world, so this'll probably take me a month to read, if I try hard. Might as well start and get it over with. I won't be getting any other books until I finish this one.

"Hey Fatass!" God, what now? I look up and see three boys walking over to Eric's cell. One has a blue hat; one has a green hat, and the last one… I can't even see his face, 'cause it's covered by an orange hood. This is what our society is becoming...

"Don't call me that, Jew!" Ok, so Green Hat's Jewish. Blue Hat speaks.

"How's it in the nut house?" I twitch at the word. I prefer where I live to be called a 'Mental Institution for Kids' or 'Children's Mental Hospital' as opposed to 'Nut House'.

"Shut up Stan! I'm not crazy; I just lost my temper with Scott, that's all." Blue Hat's name's Stan.

"Right. I thought they had padded cells in nut houses…" Green Hat says, looking around.

"Don't be dumb, Kahl. Not all mental hospitals are like that." So Green Hat's Kyle.

"Yeah, but most of them are." Orange Hood says something I can't understand.

"Up yours Kenny." Kenny huh? What an unusual bunch of friends. Kyle catches me staring. I quickly look away, embarrassed. Kyle leans closer to Eric's cell.

"Is he…?" Kyle does the 'cuckoo' gesture.

"Of course he is! We're in a fucking nut house!" Kyle glares at him, which makes me slightly happy.

"Is he okay to..." Eric nods.

"He's nuts alright, but he's okay to talk to." Kyle nods and immediately smiles at me. I don't think I've ever had someone my age smile at me.

"Hey, what's your name?"

"Kahl, don't ask too many questions, he's got a stuttering problem. His name's Tweek." I stare in surprise. How did he know my name?

"Shut up, fatso! I can talk to him all I want."

"I'm not fat, I'm big bo-

"Oh not this crap again!" Stan face palms. Kyle rolls his eyes at his friends and walks over to the front of my cell.

"You look interesting, Tweek. Why're you here?"

"A-Ask E-E-Eric."

"I will later. I'm sorry if calling this hell hole a nut house is offending you."

"It's f-fine." It actually isn't, but I don't want to argue. Kyle seems like a nice enough guy.

"How long have you been here?"

"A-almost f-four years." Kyle stares.

"You've been in this glass cell for four years!?"

"U-Uh huh."

"Wow, that's sucks dude!" A nurse comes running to the boys.

"Sorry boys, but you have to leave. It's almost time for dinner, and the children need to be relaxed before they eat."

"Hey! We're not animals!" The boy next to the guy with the watch yells.

"Be quiet young man! Or no dinner!" He shuts up immediately. I'm not surprised. Though we do get served three meals a day, everyone knows hospital food is crappy. And our servings aren't that big either. You miss one meal; you'll be hungry for a week. Happened to me personally.

"Ok we'll go." Stan says, glaring at her. Kyle urgently gestures for me come forward, which I do.

"Look, Tweek, we're gonna get you out of this hell hole. Gotta go." He whispers and quickly walks away, after receiving a frown from the nurse. I watch them all leave.

"You're lucky… to have them…" I tell Cartman, without stuttering for once, outside my dark mode.

"… I know. And yet I'm still..." Cartman shakes his head and picks up his comic. I take out the picture of Craig from my pocket. Part of me hopes to meet him now, since now I know; maybe people from the outside aren't so bad after all.

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