The air was heavy with humidity and light sprinkles of rain, altogether unusual weather for Sacramento, California. The dampness was disgusting and the air pressure was overbearing and it made it hard to breath. Each inhalation was a struggle that almost didn't seem worth the effort it took. It had to be a motherfucking miracle, Gamzee thought, because wasn't the weather just matching his life perfectly.
His father's car was in the driveway when he stumbled home from school, the first time he had gone in nearly two weeks. He didn't see the man as he made his way up the steps to his room and shut the door behind him. The weather was horrible and so was his life and all he wanted to do was forget it all.
Nearly two hours later, his door opened. Gamzee's father walked in, his high-end politician's suit reeking of sex and booze. He felt the weight of a stare on his back as he laid face-down on his huge bed in his huge room in his huge house. Slowly, he sat up to face George Henry Makara, likely candidate for Vice President. He imagined what he must be seeing: his fourteen year old son, pupils blown from the cocaine he had snorted an hour ago, juggalo paint slopped on his face, looking like he hadn't bathed in days because he probably hadn't.
His father was a tall man with a stocky build. Gamzee, at five-foot-seven, was quickly nearing his height. However, where his father was large, he was almost painfully lanky. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a meal consisting of something other than Faygo and marijuana-laced brownies, or fries to placate the munchies.
"How was school, son?" his father asked. Gamzee knew the routine; his father would pretend he was a loving and responsible parent. He, in turn, would pretend like he wasn't irrevocably fucked up because of his only parent's continued absences.
"It was all kinds of motherfucking sweetness," he answered. He saw his father's mouth tighten slightly and wished that he didn't care. "How long you staying this time?"
"I'll be leaving the day after tomorrow. I'm not yet certain when I'll be able to return."
Gamzee nodded as he struggled to his feet and left his father to go to the bathroom. He wiped the make-up off and took a shower. It was the first time he'd washed his hair in days. He came out feeling naked and exposed, even as he dressed in the preppy clothes he only wore when his father was home.
His father was waiting impatiently by the door for him when he came downstairs. They drove in his father's car that cost more than thrice the average family's annual paycheck, going to a restaurant, a museum, a mall; anywhere that opportunists and paparazzi could snap pictures of the wholesome family to spread all over tomorrow's tabloids.
Gamzee kept a fake smile on and his mouth clean. This was a motherfucking joke, and he couldn't bring himself to laugh. He was sure that if he could, it would sound nearly as fake as he felt.
His head ached. After the third hour, he escaped to a bathroom. It was high class, with a separate room with full-length mirrors on two of the walls, a coat rack and, for some reason, designer mints. When he left, the bathroom smelled like weed. The next three hours were a lot easier to bear.
They returned home after midnight, although it was a Wednesday, and he technically had school the next day. Gamzee was dismissed back to his room. It took him far too long to settle enough to fall into a restless sleep.
The next morning, he presented himself in the kitchen at eight o'clock sharp, as was expected of him. There was breakfast on the table, and a scrap of paper sticking out from underneath the glass of orange juice. He didn't need to read it; he already knew what it would say, because George Makara never stayed as long as he promised. He ate the food slowly, watching the maids watching him pityingly.
It was delicious. It tasted like chalk.
After he finished his meal, his plate was whisked away and he returned upstairs. He changed out of his sweater vest and slacks into olive cargos and combats. He applied his face paint with a practiced hand and grabbed his book bag. He checked his watch as he left the house. School started in ten minutes and it was a twenty minute walk. It didn't really matter; he wasn't going for class anyway.
He spent his first two classes on the school's roof with a rolled joint in a self-medicated stupor. He was calm to the point of lethargy as he lied on his back to watch the sky. He smiled, because the sky was always bluer like this.
The minutes ticked by in hours. The sound of the bell was a shock; he felt like he'd been on the roof for days. Still, he went downstairs and towards class at his steady lope. The halls were crowded as usual, full of people at their lockers, couples pawing at each other and gossiping cliques of giggling girls. Even so, when the other students caught sight of Gamzee, they shied away, leaving an almost ostentatious path in the middle of the throng. Gamzee kept up his lazy smile, because there was still a fog in his mind.
When he arrived at class, the students stared and whispered openly. The teacher did a double-take at seeing him in class for the second day in a row. The girl sitting beside him and to his left tapped him. When Gamzee turned to her, she flinched, but steeled herself. "There's a test today," she said, "on triangular postulates. Ms. Haslov mentioned it yesterday, but I didn't think you heard."
"Didn't have not a motherfucking clue," Gamzee assured her. "Thanks, sister."
The girl offered a small smile and returned to her notebook for last-minute studying. He looked at his own notebook, useless because of how infrequently he went to class. He didn't really care anyway.
The teacher handed out the test papers. "See me after class," she muttered as she gave a sheet to Gamzee. He nodded languidly in reply and picked up his pencil. He hadn't been in class for the majority of the subject, but at least there had been a review yesterday. He wasn't as bad off as he could be. When the bell rang and signified the end of the test, he still had another two questions left, but he handed in the sheet without protest and went to wait for Ms. Haslov by her desk.
After she collected all of them, Gamzee watched her extract his own test as she sat. "Why have you been absent?" she asked and began marking it.
"Ain't been feeling too motherfucking well," he answered. He could tell she didn't believe him. It was the truth.
"And why are you here today?"
He shrugged. "Needed a hit and I don't have anything left at home."
Her eyes softened slightly as she handed him back his paper. Two slash marks went through the questions left unanswered. An eighty-seven was written and circled in red ink.
"You're a smart boy, Gamzee," she said imploringly. "You could do so well if you tried harder. I don't understand." He shrugged. There was no point in explaining; he'd never been the best at stringing words together into something comprehensible. Even if he could explain, she wouldn't believe him. No one ever did.
"You're such a fortunate child; you're intelligent and charming. Even though your mother has passed, Senator Makara is such a wonderful parent. I don't see what went wrong."
Abruptly, Gamzee straightened, shoving the test into his nearly empty bag haphazardly. "Can I be leaving now?" Ms. Haslov patted his hand before writing him a late pass to his next class. He went home instead.
When he opened the door, none of the housecleaners were surprised to see him; they had all long since grown used to his self-destructive habits. He pulled one of them aside. "Listen," he told her, "you can just all be taking the day off. In fact, have the whole motherfucking week."
She was obviously curious, but she didn't ask questions. Instead, she nodded respectfully and turned away. Gamzee watched her gather the cleaning staff and leave before he went upstairs. At the top of the staircase he paused. To the left were his room and the bathroom. In the other direction were his father's room and office. After a pause, he went to the right.
The bedroom door was locked, as always. The office, however, gave beneath his fingers. It was immaculate, whether due to the maids or to disuse was debatable. Still, this was the one part of the house where Gamzee could see that George Makara lived there. The hook beside the door had a jacket and tie hanging from it. There was a stack of papers on the desk, written in legalese and kept in place with a stapler. His father's migraine medication laid on its side, rolling gently in either direction.
He looked around briefly, rummaging through drawers and files. Despite knowing very little about politics, Gamzee knew that some of what he sees can ruin his father's status and career. There was enough corruption and extortion concealed among those unassuming papers to make lawyers and politicians, professional pathological liars and kleptomaniacs, weep with ill-begotten pride.
Disgusted, he stood. He considered putting everything away and decided against it. His father wouldn't care either way. He left the room, shoving his father's medication into his pocket as he went. He drew the door shut behind him with a gentle click and headed for the bathroom.
His bathroom was well-lit with hybridized light bulbs. Mirrors lined the wall above the sink, each one concealing a cupboard behind it. He rummaged through all of these. When he was done, he had several little bottles of pills, for flu and cold, for high blood pressure, for nausea, for migraines.
He emptied them all onto the floor and then kneeled to pick them up. Each tiny white pill he touched, he chewed and swallowed. Two, four, seven, eight, twelve – he lost track quickly. His sense of time was shot; he could have been there for minutes or hours or days. Sweat poured off of him in dripping rivulets. The world spun around him in dizzying waves. Colors blended into each other and he heard splintered strands of maniacal laughter and broken conversation. He felt nauseous. The world wouldn't stop turning, but he was staying still.
He heard laughter and conversation.
He was delirious.
get me the fuck out.
GET ME THE FUCK OUT.