"Gamzee," Terezi said softly as she tapped at the door to the bathroom with her cane. Her head swam and she dropped her forehead into her hands, groaning as her eyes seemed to throb within their sockets. "Are you almost done in there?"
Gamzee, meanwhile, had his face pressed against the foot of the toilet, his eyes wide and dull, pupils dilated, staring directly forward. A vision flashed through his mind. A car, speeding towards a helpless boy in a wheel chair. His body, crushed and wound around the metal frame of his wheelchair, inhumanly. The feeling of his head in Gamzee's arms, heavy but lifeless, warm but cold at the same time. He felt his tears and blood falling down his face. He heard his own screaming.
He wretched again, but laid there, clutching his body. He had nothing left in his stomach, and he knew that. Dry heaves strangled and choked him, making him convulse. Yes, he knew this routine. He had done the same thing, every single day, for almost an entire year.
He dropped out of university without caring enough about it to inform anyone. He simply stopped going. He packed most of his things into his suitcase, some of Tavros's things as well, and left the dorm. Terezi had joined him, but many of his friends turned their backs when things seemed the worst.
He purchased a small apartment downtown, in the middle of the city, with Terezi. From there, he went out, every single night, to any club he could find. Terezi managed to find herself a job in a fairly menial establishment, but places seemed to open up to her, considering her disability. She filled the quota most of them had, for disabled employees. Contrary to how she expected it, plenty of doors opened for her, and she was more than happy to carefully step through, behind her cane. But it was because of this job, that she couldn't venture off with Gamzee on his countless escapade through the city. Sometimes, she would, but she rarely participated fully.
Gamzee, meanwhile, had been introduced, by people who had lived his life, to harder drugs. At first, they were harmless, hallucinatory drugs. Salvia turned into ecstasy, which turned into LSD. Soon enough, he found himself in a filthy bathroom, surrounded by a crowd of odd people he had never met, placing a straw into his nose, and inhaling a line of white powder. Next thing he knew, he was in an alley way with a few other people, tying a rope around his bicep and bringing the end of a needle closer to a bulging vein in his arm. Eventually, he found himself in an unfamiliar bedroom, beside a naked man eyeing him hungrily, and taking a hit off of a meth pipe.
Nothing else numbed the pain. Nothing else took away the feeling of Tavros in his arms, the warmth and sticky texture of his blood. Nothing else eased the thoughts of being in the shower afterwards, body aching and shuddering from sobbing, and watching Tavros's blood wash down the drain at his feet, the ice cold water feeling like lava.
When he was high on hard drugs, he could return to his life raft and drift along the ocean, not passing anyone, not bothering with anything, simply floating above the ocean he had previously chosen to swim, neglecting to dunk himself in the cool water, and face the challenges of having to hold one's breath. However, the life raft was made of razor blades, constantly slicing his skin, drawing his blood. But the pain felt good, because it drowned out the reminder of the endless ocean below, even though the ocean could easily wash away the blood and treat his wounds. He didn't want that. He wanted the pain. He wanted the 5am, stumbling-into-the-apartment, launching-himself-at-the-toilet, wrapping-up-in-a-burrito-of-blankets, and sweating-the-toxins-away nights. The my-head-feels-detached-from-my-body nights. The I-can't-feel-my-own-skin to I'm-far-too-aware-of-my-own-skin nights. The nights were he couldn't remember his name.
Terezi's position in all of this was just as toxic, as she felt as though she could not speak up. Many a night, Gamzee would stumble home, with or without Terezi, and they would proceed to have cold, unfeeling, too-rough sex, after which Gamzee would slunk into his own bed, and forget that the event transpired at all, while Terezi would be left, shaking and cold, hurting. She felt like she needed arms around her, holding her, comforting her. Gamzee wasn't anywhere near the correct state of mind for such events. Despite the pain he seemed to put her through, she felt the unending need to help him. There was love for him within her. She noticed the troubles he had been going through, and one night, while they both indulged in long, white lines of coke, she offered him assistance.
"I'm afraid it's ruining your life," she had said, sincerely. "I'm worried about you."
"Bitch ain't no need to all up and worry about this motherfucker," Gamzee grinned broadly, his upper lip dusted with white. His expression was warm, but his voice was cold and empty. "Got everything under control."
"But I don't believe you," she said, her eyes narrowing slightly as her head swam pleasantly. "I don't want you to get caught up in this life, just because-"
Before she was able to finish her sentence, Gamzee lunged himself at her, his long fingers at her neck, slamming her and pinning her against the shelf unit behind her. She whimpered in pain and flopped against the shelf as he held her there, not strangling her, simply keeping her tight to the spot, looking at her from almost every angle, as though he was unable to stop moving.
"I'm fine," he seethed, his teeth pressed firmly together, his eyes wild behind lowered lids. "I don't be needing you motherfuckers to tell me how I been. And don't you dare… don't you fucking dare mention him around me. Ever."
With that, he moved away from her, dropping her to the floor. She curled around herself and clutched herself tightly. Gamzee refused to look at her, but the guilt of his action hung heavily in his heart, and he felt sick to his stomach. The coke wasn't doing enough. He required a harder fix. He sighed heavily, mumbling the word "pathetic" under his breath, snatched his jacket, announced that he was going out, and slammed the door behind him.
The mumbled word felt like poison in Terezi's mind, and she sobbed as she held herself. Little did she know, Gamzee hadn't meant the word for her. He knew he was pathetic, inside and out. He wasn't facing his problems, he was simply running from them, terrified, like a thin dog with his tail between his legs, yelping away from any sign of pain.
He held himself as he walked down the dark alley way, towards a dingy apartment entrance, deep in the worst end of town. At the end of the alley way, stood a tall, narrow door, that looked as though it had been made from drift wood plucked directly from the sea itself. It was dark and rotting, hardly able to hold on to the rusted handle that hung lifelessly from the rotting wood. He gently brought his fist to the door, and knocked at it.
After a few moments, a short, stalky man with an angered expression, bright red hair, and a green t-shirt opened the door, and eyed Gamzee, who was much taller than him, for a long moment. He was remarkably thin, with sunken cheeks and prominent cheekbones and jaw line. His head was almost skeletal and his eyes were piercing and full of greed and malevolence.
"Gamzee," he sneered, before opening the door fully, and allowing room for the other man to walk through. "It's been a while."
"Sorry I didn't all up and call before coming," Gamzee said, his voice quivering as much as his hands. "The ache sorta been hitting me real sudden like."
"It's fine, I understand," the small man said, disappearing into another room.
The apartment was dark, lit only by candles. Furniture, its flesh wide open with claw marks and cigarette burns, look wounded from a battle it hadn't fought. Clothing, food wrappers, bottles, plates and other miscellaneous garbage hung from all over the room, piling in corners, covering the wounded furniture. The dark room seemed somewhat foreboding, not to mention its distinct lack of doors – instead, beads hung from each doorway, or curtains, to separate off sections of the small, crappy apartment. It smelt like sex and drugs and booze, and the deep throb of trip hop played in the background. Gamzee's mind already felt at ease.
"Are you hungry?" the small man asked from the room which had clearly been meant as a kitchen.
"Cal, I been real sincere and mean no offense in this shit, but I ain't in the mood for no motherfucking small talk," he said, his voice shuddering as he tried to elevate its volume.
From the other room, Caliborn laughed. It was a sinister sound, like the cackling of an evil doll. "I understand, Gamzee. I understand perfectly."
Caliborn returned to the room, holding a small vial of lime green slime. It had a bioluminescence to it, and seemed to glow in the darkness, illuminating Caliborn's cunning visage. Gamzee recalled the first time he had ever seen the stuff. He had met Caliborn at a rave downtown, and went home with him with the promise of a "good night". At that point in Gamzee's life, he truly couldn't care less what the implications were of those two words. He simply wanted a night to be good. Calliborn had presented him with a vial much smaller than the one he held now, and Gamzee's eyes lit up.
"They call it Sopor," Caliborn had told him. "It's a strange kind of chemical slime. Completely rots your fucking mind, but it'll give you the best trip you have ever experienced."
Gamzee grinned when he watched as Caliborn brought the vial towards Gamzee, whose fingers twitched as they longed to touch the glowing substance, feel it inside of himself, fall in love with it all over again. Caliborn gestured at a sofa, on which Gamzee practically threw himself, anxious to melt into the fabric, enter the sofa's wounds, become part of the world around him, feel the sickness of the city mixing with his own.
Caliborn unscrewed the lid, and slowly handed the substance to Gamzee, whose shaking hands gripped it tightly, and brought it to his lips. He extended his long tongue, and gently placed the open mouth of the bottle to his tongue, tilting the thing upside down until he tasted the high, the acidity, the ache of the substance to be inside of him as desperately as he wanted it. He then brought his tongue into his mouth, and sucked, feeling the slime run down his throat, entering him, slicing him open so it could go directly into his blood stream, find his brain, and eat away at his emotions. Suddenly, his attack on Terezi, his self-loathing, even thoughts of Tavros bled into each other and faded away, until he was nothing but a shell filled with fluff. A stuffed toy. There was only one word he could use to equate this feeling, and the emptiness it gave him, the things he saw, the way he felt.
"Miracles," he mumbled, and Caliborn laughed as he sucked his own tongue.
A single trip was expensive. A dose was about $60, simply for what he had taken. But Gamzee, so far in this life, in his high, in the serenity, couldn't possibly care less. He forked over the money happily, and melted into the sofa. Caliborn took the cash, thanked him, and left the room, stumbling slightly as he did so. Gamzee watched a candle flicker, and wondered how long it would take him to feel the heat of the candle's flame.
A single bead of wax dripped down the side of the candle's surface, and he felt the constant smile that was upon his visage, fade completely. The candle's tear fell slowly down, only to mix with each other tear, and add to the pile which coalesced at the bottom of the holder. It's in pain, he thought to himself. The candle is crying because of its pain. He felt the need to reach over and stop the assaulting fire. Just as he did so, another being entered the room.
She was short, slender, and beautiful. Her skin was thin and pale and tight upon her tiny frame, and her hair was long, emerald green flushed into snow white. Her visage was a lot like her twin brothers, though far more serene, delicate, comfortable, kind. She didn't seem assaulting when she entered a room. She simply moved like breathing: one could hardly notice her when she silently entered, but one would feel empty when she left. She smiled and blushed gently when she noticed Gamzee staring at her.
"Hey," she pushed a chunk of her hair behind her ear. Her eyes were squinted and red from smoking pot, but her smile was simply perfect. "Gamzee."
"Calliope," he said softly, before moving his legs onto the floor. Through his eyes, flowers blossomed out of her hair, broke free from her pale skin. Butterflies swam through her and luminescent orbs seemed to dance about her, growing wings, then flying away. He blinked slowly in an attempt to clear his mind, but no such thing was possible at this point. Instead, he stared.
She moved slowly towards him, like a breeze floating through the leaves in trees, but never touching him. Instead, she stepped onto the other side of the sofa, and lowered herself onto her legs, watching him from between her knees. She was like the princess of waste and drugs, a single, white, crystal snowflake sitting on a pile of decay. She didn't do the same level of stuff that her twin brother did, and dealt, but she knew enough about the life, and had experienced enough, to watch Gamzee with understanding in her eyes.
The Cherub twins were much younger than him, and Calliope looked up to Gamzee as a sort of older brother, gently holding her hand and gesturing towards the darkness of life ahead of them, and marching into it together, while Caliborn regarded him as another pawn that he plays on the chessboard. Another trophy in his game of suckers. On the other end of the spectrum, Gamzee regarded Caliborn as a supplier to fill his desperate need, while also being the occasional confidant. Calliope, however, was something special to him. Something he wanted to hold dear, and love endlessly. Not romantically, just as though she was something precious that he wanted to preserve.
According to Calliope, they had been abandoned by their parents when they were very young, their mother wanting nothing to do with them, and their father not being able to do anything even if he wanted to. They were found in an alley way, naked and cold, by a couple of meth cookers from out of town, who introduced them to the family business. Caliborn embraced it, while Calliope remained at the edge of the system, looking down on it with indifference. Caliborn treated Calliope as though she was a plague, a hindrance, while Calliope only wanted what was best for both of them. The Life seemed to be the best, easiest way to achieve personal satisfaction in every facet.
It wasn't until far later, that Gamzee embarked home. He stumbled through the door and moved to turn on the light, when the sudden memory of those several hours before came flashing back to him, he hesitated, and lowered his arm. He eyed Terezi, laying in her bed, the moonlight streaming in from the window, highlighting her figure in silver light. He eyed her for a long moment, before practically tearing off his clothes, and flopping onto the bed, to pass out in Sopor Stupor.
Yes, he knew this was routine. It was this way, the same way, every day. It all climaxed into a dreadful plateau. Or what they both hoped had been a plateau. Deep down, Gamzee knew that this was wrong, although it was something that he could not escape. He still hated it. He just wished, as did Terezi, that the climax wouldn't continue – it wouldn't get worse.
Unfortunately, despite that amount of wishing and praying, it did get worse. It got much worse. But it was all in disguise. Because as worse as it got in reality, the better it got for Gamzee.
He began to spend once a week with the Cherub twins. He and Caliborn would indulge in Sopor, gradually charging Gamzee less and less due to how often he went, until Caliborn would get bored and leave, at which point, Calliope, already stoned, would come out into the living room, and sit with Gamzee, smoking bowl after bowl of pure, clean weed.
Calliope often said that weed was the detox drug. It was never as good as anything else, but it eased the pain of the embers that still burn from other drugs inside your system, begging to be fed. Sopor and weed, Sopor and weed, one after the other, a few times a week, to every second day, to every night, to a few times a day. Terezi hardly saw him anymore, and although she maintained her routine of going to work, coming home, maybe indulging in a few drugs by herself, before passing out, alone, she still missed him, desperately.
While Gamzee saw it as detoxing from hard drugs, and lowering the intake to just a little bit of one really bad drug, and a lot of a good one, and Calliope saw it as spending time with Gamzee, which made her feel better and, in turn, made Gamzee feel substantially better, Terezi, meanwhile, suffered, at home, alone, wondering (and worse, not even sure) if Gamzee was even still alive.