Now that I look back on it, I had always had a terrible life. I spent most of my childhood in an opium induced haze, in a house with a mother who only tended to the poppy plants and her customers. I mostly stayed in my room, hiding from the strange men and women who came and went.
I must have been lucid. The only things I remember are a doll that spoke to me, and one of the men that came every week. He was the one that scared me the most, and shocked me out of the state the opium smoke put me in. he had a sharp smiling painted face, like a clown. It confused me. He clearly wasn't a clown, but why was his face painted so? He was tall and terribly skinny and his teeth and fingernails seemed to have been sharpened to a point. His eyes were cat-like and yellow, and his hair was a sea of black ink, pieces going every which way on his head. He was the only customer to have been nice to me, and not just pretend nice. He seemed to really believe that I was a little miracle and that the messiahs were watching over me.
He was also the only one of the people who came and went where the opium helped him. I had only seen him once when he was sober. He came in; not a smiling doped-out face, but an aware one, with a different smile with a perfect view of each row of sharp teeth. He had three long gashes over his left eye, which seemed fresh, and an array of blood splattered across every piece of torn clothing he had on. He had glasses with red lenses, which made his yellow eyes seem to be on fire, and a broken crossbow in one hand. His face paint was cracked and broken around his smile.
He had kicked open the door, thrown the man next to my mother across the room, then proceeded to beat her. When my mother was a broken, bloody mess, he let go of her and she slumped to the floor. He stepped over her with his long, gangly legs and swiped a glass pipe from the shocked hands of a high, horrified woman.
After about five minutes the goofy skinny clown was back.
But this was a long time ago. It has been almost 5 years since my mother was found and arrested for the opium and the child endangerment. My scared eight ear old self was uprooted and sent to foster care; from there I was sent to a strange house.
I was surprised to find that I liked the drug house better than the one I was sent to. At least there, no one paid attention to me. I was the little slave girl who fetched blankets for the burnt-out people who slept there. Here, I am thrown around, degraded, kicked and beaten and spat on. They tell me how worthless I am.
This all leads to where I am now, standing on the ledge of a bridge, hair flapping in the cold wind, the ocean sprays hitting my abused and broken face. I look down at the relentless waves. It brings a small smile to my face, I would be free, my soul scattered amongst the fish and coral.
"What are you doing all out on the side of the bridge? It's a bit late to go for a swim, little mofo. Not to mention cold as flipping party gowns." I whip around and stare.
"I'm not going swimming, and I don't care about my clothes because I hope to never come back up." I say.
He stares at me for a moment, then reaches into his raven hair to bring out a small cigarette looking thing and holds it out to me.
"Need some courage?" he asks. "Wicked éclair makes me all ballin calm and reasonable."
As soon as I take it from him, he sits down on the ledge, his long skinny legs swinging. He looks out onto the bay and rests his head in his hands. "Isn't the world beautiful?" he asks while making a noise that sounds suspiciously like a honk.
"What's your name?" I ask. "Gamzee Makara" he lifts his hand towards mine to shake it. "What's yours?" "Erina" he shakes his head and gives a small smile. "They have been watching you. Those messiahs. I was on the way to see my freaking boyfriend Tavros when I saw you all up and standing on this ledge here. Thought I could be of some mochiballin assistance."
I sat next to him, twirling the drug between my fingers, tearing off some of the paper. "Why were you going to jump and end a miracle called life?" he asked as His painted face looked to my downcast one.
"My life isn't any miracle, no one loves me. My only family is in jail, and the place I live now is just plain shitty. I'm never going to go anywhere in life. I just want to end the pain now, but it's just so hard to."
I look up to his face and I flinch a bit to find he is smiling widely, his juggelo paint stretching and forming cracks. "Well I guess you just need some freaking help, sis." His grinning face that has haunted me my whole life is the last thing I see before I feel the water under me, feel it draw near, and feeling the tendrils of whatever terrors lie under those waves reach for me, feel the freezing water rushing into my bones before I only feel darkness, a honking laugh filling my ears.