He's sitting in his room getting high again.
He doesn't think it's the best feeling.
He knows it is.
It's the only thing that washes away the horrors of life and how utterly terrible it is. It takes those terrible looks he gets from people on the streets into cartoon smiles. Wide eyes and grins that aren't physically possible but Gamzee doesn't much care about that.
He's slipping into bed. He rests his backside on the comforter and sinks in. The bed is eating him, opening up just wide enough for his body to fit within the mold that he's meticulously and effortlessly spent hours at a time perfecting. It's warm and cozy, just like a pie.
He wants a pie.
He'd get up to make one but the bed is swallowing him now. He slips into darkness.
It's black within the confines of his makeshift abyss. He feels like he's falling and he abruptly comes to the conclusion that the world is ending. He keeps sinking it seems, and suddenly it's too warm within the mouth. It's too hot―he starts sweating.
He needs another drag.
In a lazy, fluent, motion he finds himself absently reaching for the joint on his dresser. He accidentally grabs the burnt end. Instead of cursing in pain and flinging it down, he smiles and notes how funny the palm of his hand feels. If he presses too hard the pain could be mistaken for pleasure so that's what he does. He's holds the joint between his ring and middle finger. The world is spinning, his mind is spinning too. All his thoughts and everything he knows swirls into a mess of nonsensical ideas and fragments of what would be coherent pieces of information were he not high. They're open ended speculations and conclusions that don't make sense or he can't seem to make sense of them, one or maybe the other. These brand new thoughts pound in his skull, all these new ideas, he can't get them out of his attention; like what about clocks that shock you to wake you up? Or shoes with automatic shoelaces?
He takes a smoke and holds it in for a while longer than he should. The world beneath his eye lids is filled with swirling colors and flashes of light as he lets out the breath he was holding in. He opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is a clock on the wall.
The hands of the clock are moving back and forth, as if waving to him so he waves back. The numbers become snakes and worms and one becomes a lion; they roam the clock and fight for Gamzee's attention.
The lion wins.
He finds himself gripping the sheets on his bed and then his hands start moving around. He's looking for the joint. He can't find it. Frantically, he spreads his arms out on the bed and begins making snow angels but he still can't find the joint. His search rockets from him making snow angels to him screwing around with the sheets in hopes the joint will fall out one of the flaps. Less worried is he about burning up the comforter than not being able to get high.
It's his last one.
His heart is pounding out of fear; that looming doom kind of fear. He breaks into a cold sweat. He doesn't want this joy to end. He doesn't want to stop seeing colors and watching animals fight for dominance. It can't end. What's he going to do if he can't find it? His chest is burning; his heart is going to explode. The colors are giving him a headache now and he desperately needs another smoke, he needs the colors to keep swirling blissfully beneath his eyelids, for his chest to stop burning!
And then, like an alarm the burning sensation on his chest becomes too intense for him to ignore and he gives in to see what's going on.
It's the joint burning through the thin fabric over his torso.
He sighs in relief that he has his beloved escape from reality is back in his hands. He's glad the world isn't ending anymore. It was a false alarm.
He takes a smoke to return back to normal.
The colors are moving again; red is mixing with purple and the result is ugly. He watches as gray clouds his vision and the other colors fade behind the smoky mask.
He breathes out.
Smoke fills the room.
...
He's smoked the entire joint now. It's gone. Burnt away.
But he's not upset. He's still experiencing the aftermath.
He doesn't have to close his eyes anymore to see the kaleidoscope of colors now. They're dancing across the ceiling and the walls. Shapes are starting to be formed and once or twice, he thinks he hears someone calling his name.
Hearing someone call his name makes him feel better, normal, because he remembers reading somewhere once that hearing someone call your name when no one really did was the sign of a healthy mind.
This smoking session was a prize of sorts he bestowed upon himself for being healthy.
He deserved this.
He feels wonderful, like he can do anything. He feels like the entire world has opened up to him and that's just the fuzziest feeling ever. Coupled with how enthralling and captivating this drug induced laser show is, he's having the time of his life.
For a moment, life is beautiful and he's the god that created it.
He's beautiful.
The colors explode and stars begin soaring across the wall, onto the ceiling and he pretends to control their direction. He might actually be controlling them.
He is their god after all.
The stars and animals that he believes himself to be the creator of start to gain minds of their own, and they become too much for Gamzee to control.
He doesn't mind.
He likes watching them become something more.
He likes watching them thrive.
He describes this moment to no one.
"It's a fuckin― fuckin'― shit…it's beautiful."
He struggles to find the right words to convey how he really feels but beautiful is the beginning to a long list of words to describe this feeling― this goddamn wonderful sensation.
And it's not only what he's feeling, but what he's seeing.
Those colors aren't just free-form shapes and lines and curves anymore or celestial bodies even. They're faces he thinks.
He definitely sees a nose, a nose shaped like a hook but it's pale white, like unnaturally white so is it really a nose? It could be; who says it can't be?
Gamzee waits with bated breath as more facial features come into view. The eyes are the last to form, with eyelashes that stretch for miles and golden eyes with hints of blood red splashed in the irises. Gamzee thinks he's found a new color.
He's too inebriated to focus on that though as the face starts talking. It's telling him the secrets to life and the key to happiness and everything he's always wanted to hear. Then, the face fades away into millions of other little faces. Each one is a copy of someone, someone he's met before. Someone he knows.
They look like angels.
He's hearing noises again and he assumes he's hearing the angel copies speaking to him.
They're singing.
They're singing just for him.
He listens closely.
Their singing incapacitates him.
...
He has to tell someone about this. About this fantastic experience, this epiphany he's just gone through. It was-
He's got to tell someone.
Someone who'll know what to think. All he has to do is get up from the bed, and walk― no, wait, why walk? He can run, sprint even! He decides he'll run; sprinting sounds like more exertion. He'll run to this person, he'll explain in great detail all about what he saw and what he thinks it means and then ask them what they think, and it'll be great. He'll finally have advice; a second opinion; someone's highly regarded two-cents. Just thinking of all they'll come up with has his heart thumping out of excitement and his body tingling. This is going to be great, what if he's made a break through or a new discovery, or whatever good shit should be called? This is awesome. He's breathing harshly and his chest is about to explode. All because he could talk to someone.
But his legs never move so he never does.
He just remains in bed, star gazing and singing along to the voices of angels on his bedroom walls.