Just a creative little thing with Gamzee, I've liked his character's enigmatic characteristics. He's a real mystery sometimes.
Enjoy! I own nothing.
You woke to a typical white painted ceiling. A familiar image in the morning, it is the ceiling of your bedroom. Its all there is that greets you in the morning. You live by yourself, after all. Your brother got sick of you rather quickly, so you've been solitary since that last living arrangement which ended a year or so ago, you've lost track of the exact time. He still lives the next town over, but to hell if he would actually motherfuckin' visit you.
You suppose its understandable; you are a bit of a nut case. He's a prime witness to that.
Sitting up you scratch the back of your head. Your forever messy jumble of midnight black hair is as it tends to be in the morning: sticking up at odd angles, slightly wavy, and hanging in your line of vision for the most part, like a tangled and uneven fringe.
You should probably fix that, but you always forget. The calamities going on in your head are usually too overwhelming for you to remember most things. You always find it odd how they make you forget some things yet make others painstakingly vivid. It strains your consciousness.
But you promise yourself not to forget to fix yourself up a bit as you shuffle your way into the bathroom.
Its slightly askew, what with the toothpaste and brush haphazardly tossed onto the counter, the faucet knobs slightly dirtied, and dried liquids at the bottom of the silver raised drain plug of your sink, but it is a familiar mess that you work well in. After relieving yourself as you usually do in the morning(or was it the afternoon? You didn't check the clock), you grab your toothbrush and get to brushing your dull-white chompers. As you brush you can't help but look in the mirror. Your attentiveness for detail this morning is something you aren't very thrilled about, but nevertheless you find yourself studying your reflection, the beats and spikes of noise beginning to scramble in the back of your hollow and empty skull.
Your face is all angles and lines, save the soft-ish curves of your eyes, nose, and portions of your jaw. You are a skinny fellow, and far from tan. Your fair complexion used to be well covered in porcelain white face paint, but as of late you find yourself detached from your religion, or "cult" as your best friend would constantly call it. You suppose it was a cult, but in some aspect all organized religions were cults, it was just some did less damage to society than others. Some were actually good; taught "appropriate" things. Yours wasn't necessarily one of those, but its not like you had the capacity to care about it much anymore.
With your face clearer than usual, it was much easier to see the scars that dragged down the side of your forehead, nearly reaching your right eye. The story behind that is a difficult one you don't wish to dwell on. Your head is merciful and lets you creep away from it.
When you are done brushing you exit the bathroom, forgetting to fix your hair or run a comb through it like you were determined to do just minutes ago.
You can't say that you care.
Your day has just begun, and you can already feel the noises echoing throughout every centimeter of your think pan.
You like to call it your think pan. Its a much more accurate term.
You bake it constantly so as to keep the internal peace, so calling it a brain is a bit...silly.
But this morning you are nearly sober, and the white noise and frequency scratches in your head are a large indication that you are well below the legal limit of drugs in your system.
Well shit.
Time to go to the kitchen.
Scuffling down the wooden and cramped staircase you make your way to the kitchen, surprisingly without tripping on the frayed ends of your gray pants. You found it odd you were even wearing pants right now, what made you fall asleep in your pants? You'd be lying if you said you could remember.
You scour the white chipping cabinets for the pancake mix, set on making yourself some breakfast. Its rather hot today, despite it not even being spring yet. You wonder if cooking is even a good idea in your condition, you need some drugs in your system stat. You hated being sober for too long, it always gave you a horrible feeling of awareness and clarity; a recognition of reality.
You hated reality. Reality was painful. The bane of your happy existence.
Turning on the stove and beginning to shake and pour the mix onto the pan, you start to zone. Cooking and baking simple things like pancakes and eggs were easy for you, so it is easy for your thoughts to get away. You wish you could get away all the time, completely, but getting away is a difficult thing in your current state. The noise is suffocating at times, theres no where to go away to in your head. Kind of like how it is getting right now. The sounds in your head will begin to manifest soon, you know it. You need a joint, you need those special brownies, why the motherfuck aren't you out to making those wonderful concoctions right now anyway? Why the fuck are you making shit pancakes instead of your FUCKING BROWNIES?
...Those brownies are bad for you, you know it. You know being high is bad for you too, the drugs rot you from the inside out until nothing is left, but perhaps all that is left when you're corroded away by the drugs, is what people want of you? The crust after burning the actual person you are live in an acidic showering. That's what they witness in a daily basis, the crust from the pie. They never taste the apples baked inside, the rotting, fermenting shit stuffing that could choke a motherfucking monkey in one bite.
You flip the first pancake, and go to get out some eggs.
Perhaps you should keep away from those crust-bringing drugs; close up the metaphorical hole in your head. Let the voices dictate, they've dictated before, was it really so bad? No, yes, it was that bad. Each time you let them dictate and overwhelm you you lost someone, one way or another. You're practically a recluse now due to all of your internal chaos. You're surprised the few people who stuck around have done so.
They must be gluttons for punishment and pain if they insisted on being your friend for this long.
You started to crack the eggs on the side of the pan once you finished making the pancakes.
Perhaps it was easier just to let go. You wouldn't have to try so hard then. Fighting off the screams and threats, the howling, the suggestions, the commands. The gruff voices might just get you somewhere in life, even if that path is coated in blood and hate. You were sick of this fucking dump you were living in.
Crack.
You wonder...
Crack.
You could easily crack a few heads open on the pavement, right?
Crack!
Its not that hard, Gamzee.
If you won't split someone else's head.
Why not crack your own on the pavement?
The apartment complex is high enough.
Its kill or be killed, Gamz.
Get rid of others, or just get rid of yourself.
You've wasted our time long enough.
What are you waiting for?
SPLIT SOME MOTHERFUCKING HEADS ALREADY.
CRACK.
Ttssss.
You let them get some control of your head again. Look at that, you've burned your hand and wasted the entire carton of eggs.
Way to go.
At least the burning sensation in your left hand brought you back to your senses. You were smashing the eggs too hard on the side of the pan, causing it to flip and you smacked your hand right down onto the hot metal of the stove.
You turn off the stove, not even bothering to clean up your mess of misconstrued yokes, egg shells, and burned pancakes.
Your hands wont stop shaking, and before you know it, the shouting and static comes back full force. Its deafening enough to possibly make your ears bleed. The flurry of screams and inhuman distorted screeches shouting at you to do this, that, and all of the above is overwhelming at this point.
You can split all their skulls, Gamzee!
Don't think it hasn't crossed your mind, we know it has.
You need to let yourself free! Why live in restraint this way?
It torments all of us that you have not given in to your true nature, Gamz.
Realize your potential.
You grip your raven locks, digging your nails into your scalp just to get some leverage, to know you are still solid, still standing, still alive, to know you are still yourself. You could easily melt into the recesses of your dark and murky mind. It is a place of inky black about to swallow you whole into eternity of wayward wandering through your black imagination. Its like a cave filled with the beings in Picasso's Guernica painting. Suffocating and dark beyond belief.
You were made to be feared! You should be on top of the world.
Why do you insist on being the befuddled scum that you should be crushing beneath your feet?
Let us help Gamzee.
Let us.
...
Your name is Gamzee Makara.
And you are founded on sand.
Review if you liked it, and want more, maybe? I can't guarantee anything, but I could try to make this into something if I got enough encouragement.
-K