@multiparked 〢 cont from here .
Tweek could relate to a night of not remembering, albeit for different reasons. There were at least three years of his life that only came to him in odd, dim patches, where he gave himself over to the oblivion foretold by the radio man because it was more comfortable than whatever his father had to say. Even then, some of that slipped through on occasion, about how the current situation was all Tweek’s fault, or maybe he imagined that. It sounded so much like something his father would have said that it might as well have been true, though.
People shouldn’t be too much blamed for actions they couldn’t remember taking. My kitchen! What did you do? Tweek hadn’t had a good answer, all specific recollections of how what ended up where null and void. There was broken glass and a knife and blood on the stove behind him and whatever pressure he had blown off building back up inside him and his mother calling an ambulance for Craig but probably not for him because that didn’t seem like something she would do. They never liked to draw too much of that kind of attention to him, and for years, he had been grateful for it until he figured out why.
He went through that often, fed a lot of contextless information, piecing it together much slower than he ought to. So, he related to that part of Stan’s problem, waking up only to get smacked with a laundry list of shit—empty bottle, vomit smell, migraine—and having to quickly put two and two together to hopefully make four—must have acted like a jackass.
But even though Tweek believed people couldn’t be fully blamed for crimes they didn’t remember committing, he still understood the desire for accountability for them. He wanted to know if he hurt somebody, after all, and felt terrible if it turned out to be the case, even if he didn’t remember doing it.
“Well, you did get on some bullshit,” Tweek teased with a merriment in his eyes that suggested everything had already been forgiven. “You know, some sort of… ‘If you leave me, I’ll track you down,’ and other edgy shit. And I tucked you in and said, ‘Oh, is that all?’ ” He buried his face in Stan’s shoulder and laughed at the memory of the other’s anguished pout. “You didn’t like that one! I said, ‘Brother, the government’s already tracking me. Get in line. Take a number.’ ” That hadn’t been the exact line—Tweek thought of it just now and evidently found it hilarious, dissolving into cackles again and kicking his feet as well as his proximity to Stan would allow.
“It was kind of cute, actually. But I’m a bigger threat to you than you are to me.” He tapped a forefinger against Stan’s nose. “Now, do you want some coffee? You’ll have to let me go first.”
