Your name is Karkat Vantas, and the world around you was just violently painted violet. A minute ago, your former morail had been intent on killing you. Seconds ago, he had been chainsawed in two. Now you stand splattered like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Whoever the fuck that is or whatever it means.
Kanaya is saying something to you; she looks quite upset, but you cannot hear her. You just stare. Stare at the pool of purple blood. Stare at the clothes you will never be able to wear again.
Karkat: Look at his face.
You don't want to, but you do anyways. A startled grin is on his lips, blood dribbling out between sharp teeth. His face paint was a mess; three scabbed scratches marred his forehead and cheeks. Your blood pusher clenches, thinking about the olive blood who made those scars, and her body, still inside. More because you hadn't stopped him than at the loss of her. That was incredibly selfish and morbid, you realize, and stow the thought in a corner of your mind that you don't touch.
It's his eyes that startle you the most. You were so used to the supor-stoned swirl of black and deep purple. Intoxicated and so intoxicating sometimes they'd made you forget what it was you were raging about and you'd just stare. When he'd been sober, the little you had seen him sober (when he had decided your mutant blood would make a brilliant paint), they'd been sharp, black cuts on a purple backdrop. Now, they were mist, grey, in a yellow sky.
Karkat: Feel sick.
This whole day made you want to vomit, but there was nothing on your stomach to give. Even being drenched in your best friend's blood couldn't call anything forth.
Karkat: Feel remorse.
For what? For a shitty excuse for a morail, who'd just murder and/or mutilated the corpses of your companions? Who, until he'd ran out of pie, only survived because of you reminding him to eat, reminding him to bathe, to be a living fucking being besides a juggalo douchebag? Or maybe because inside yourself, in that corner you don't touch, you know you should have laid in that damn horn pile with him more, papped and shooshed him, sought him out when he vanished like your gut had said to, learned how to make those damn pies so none of this shit would have happened, been a better morail. No, you don't want that.
Karkat: Feel sorrow.
Oh, there's been plenty of that, but why more? Why over this clown motherfucker? Who cares if you never read that obnoxious text again, never heard that honk again, brush that wild curly hair, feels those large hands ruffle your own hair, touch you, smell that sickly sweet smell that was just so him, so right, hear that baritone voice like smooth jazz wrapping you up in warmth, security, sanity, calm, for once in your damnable existence.
Maybe because for a minute, in the middle of his rage, for just a second, you had seen him. Your morail, your Gamzee, come back and hesitate, sorrow and something else swirling those eyes again, making him stop long enough for Kanaya to take him down.
Maybe because you'd never be able to wear this sweater again, these pants or shoes, because no matter how much you wash them you will always see it, always see his blood on them.
Or maybe it's that little black book, in the very corner of that part of your mind you never touch, that book that has every thought and feeling and dream- and boy, did you have a bangin' imagination- about that fool. That your relationship had never been as cut and dry as quadrants. Because sometimes that pale glow went black, and other times- oh gog, those times, like when his hands were on your face and those eyes bored right into the core of you- it went red as your blood. Maybe because you never got the bulge stones to say anything, and now that he's dead, now that he's gone, NOW, you're looking in that corner, touching that book, reading every line, NOW you have the courage.
Karkat: Cry.
But everything was already a blur of red violet.