Chapter 2: Do Not Grieve in the Suffering

Garrett James Makara. According to his mother, one of his great-grandfathers moved to India to get his Zen on and changed his name in order to fit in better. His grandmother moved back to the States when she was 12 and became a hippy, smoking weed like a cannabis-fueled train while pregnant at 17 with his mother. After she was born, his grandmother showed signs of schizophrenia, signs his own mother displayed once she hit 16. To combat the voices, they turned to drugs: first heroin, then cocaine, then a mixture of the two with whatever weed they had on hand and any alcohol the two had managed to procure. The deadly cocktail proved too much for his grandmother: she passed away at 36 when Gamzee's mother was five months pregnant.

The loss prompted his mother to experiment with everything she could find, with no regard towards the life she carried in her womb. It was a tumor to her, a growth she planned to snuff out as quickly as possible with drugs and alcohol. The baby's father abandoned her soon after, leaving a few dollars and a case of beer behind as a twisted form of compensation. Four months later, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, whom she named after the man she hated so. Eventually she grew too high to say his full name, so it was shortened to Gamzee. He never missed his old name; she had only called him Garrett James for exactly a year before changing it.

At three years old, Gamzee became cruel. The combination of his mother's substance abuse while he was in utero and a horrible upbringing turned him into a sadist at a younger age than he should have. He became known as a bully as soon as he started kindergarten, maliciously harming anyone who dared to say anything to him in the wrong tone of voice. Gamzee's reputation did not improve much as the years went on; if anything, it grew worse. His teachers would repeatedly write home about his behavior, voicing their concerns and recommending counselors, false words about how worried they were when in reality they just wanted him the fuck out of their classroom. His mother would receive the letters, read them with angry eyes, then beat him senseless with fists and belts. Afterwards, she would retreat to her room in tears and a bag of cocaine in her hand. An hour later she would stumble down the stairs, white powder smudged under her nose and around her mouth, a manic smile on her face as she grabbed the nearest thing and hurled it at Gamzee's face in an attempt to shatter his skull.

Eventually, she grew tired of dealing with her son and instead ignored him, referring to him as "it" and often forgetting to leave something out for him to eat at night. Gamzee grew fed up and learned how to cook on his own, emerging from his trial with burn marks all over his hands and face from the burning oil, but also with a passable meal that tasted much better than the canned food his mom would give him. Slowly but surely, out of pure determination and rage, Gamzee became pretty much self-sufficient, able to make his own food, buy whatever he needed with money stolen from his mother's purse, and get himself to and from events with his feet, a skateboard he took from the side of the road and repaired himself, and a rusty bike he found in the garage. All by the age of ten.

It was in fourth grade where Gamzee met one of the people who would change his life. He was sulking in a book-filled corner of the classroom, exiled there after trying to shove colored pencils into the ears of a kid who told him to pass the pencils in a rude voice. Arms crossed, he glared at everyone who came near, including a shy, Mohawk-haired Hispanic boy trying to get to the bookshelf near him. On a whim, he decided to stick his foot out, tripping the boy and sending him face-first into the shelf.

"Oops," Gamzee said, looking at him through bored half-lidded eyes, waiting for a response. His teacher made a move from the front of the room to assist the fallen student, but a hiss from Gamzee stopped her cold. She decided to watch the two, wringing her hand and waiting for a chance to intervene.

The boy never answered him, opting to stand up and hold his lip instead. Gamzee could see blood leaking out from between his fingers, the sight making his heart quicken with sadistic glee. With trembling fingers, the boy reached out to pull a book from the shelf, trying to ignore the one beside him.

"Yo," Gamzee growled, irritated. "I said something to you, idiot."

The boy shivered, but held firm. He stood up and walked back to his seat, setting his book down carefully and daring a quick glance over his shoulder at the wild haired boy glaring angrily in his direction.

"Um," he began haltingly, voice muffled by his hand. "What y-you d-d-id, over there… uh, wasn't th-that nice. At all."

"So. I can pretty much do what the hell I want in this class." Both Mohawk Kid and the teacher cringed involuntarily at his swear, but made no move to correct him.

"Tavros," the teacher said kindly, walking over and crouching down in front of him, blocking Gamzee's view. "Do you want to go to the nurse? It looks as if you have a nasty little scrape on your lip there."

"Um, I guess… I could," Tavros answered uncertainly, eyes darting around for assistance from anyone. Every student avoided his desperate gaze, everyone except for Gamzee, who stared at the boy like a dog would when confronted with a bone. A very large, very tasty bone.

"I can be all offerin' to take him, teach." Gamzee raised a hand and smiled as sweetly as he could while he talked. The teacher seemed surprised.

"Is this your way of accepting responsibility for your actions, Gamzee?"

The boy hung his head in mock shame while Tavros looked on in horror. "Yeah, I feel really kinda bad for what all happened earlier. Sorry, bro."

His teacher beamed. "Then you may escort him to the nurse's office, but you are to take him there and leave as soon as the nurse comes to check on him. Am I clear, Mr. Makara?"

"Yup."

She pushed Tavros gently towards the front of the room while Gamzee stood up from his corner and stretched his arms above his head, bending backwards at a severe angle. Even at a young age, he possessed nothing but limbs and flexibility. Yawning, he loped over to Tavros and headed out the door, smirking as he passed.

Once the two were in the hallway, Gamzee grabbed the other by the shirt and slammed him against a wall. Tavros easily outweighed Gamzee, but he was shorter and still terrified of what the boy was possibly capable of.

"Yo…" Gamzee's face split into a shark like grin. "Whatcha all motherfuckin' scared for? Gamzee ain't gonna fuckin' be throwin' punches or nothin'. He's just gonna take you to Ms. Nurse so your lip can be all fixed and shit. Why you tremblin' like a little bitch?"

"I… I don't know all of th-the words that you, um, said… But I c-can, uh, maybe, tell they were not good. And b-by g-good, I mean you p-probably shouldn't say them. Uh, you know."

"Man, who even cares, bro?" Gamzee let go of Tavros and surveyed him closely. "What be your motherfuckin' last name, huh? I know your first name is Tavros."

"N-Nitram. I'm Tavros Nitram."

"That's pretty weird, yo."

"I guess it can be. To people who, um, aren't me. I never really questioned it until… uh, until people told me it was weird."

"Why do you stutter so much? Talk like a normal motherfucker."

Tavros blushed and turned away to walk down the hallway, ignoring the other's command. Gamzee grabbed ahold of his shirt again, but this time Tavros refused to stop and stubbornly pushed forward. Gamzee gave up trying to pull the shorter boy back when the two were halfway to their destination and merely hung onto the fabric, allowing himself to be pulled along. Once the two reached the nurse's office, Tavros turned around to face Gamzee.

Without meaning to, Gamzee took in every aspect of his appearance. His irises were a light brown flecked with dark brown spots, set into a round, golden brown face with chubby cheeks. His brown-black hair was shaved close to his head aside from a strip of fluffy hair running down the middle of his scalp, some of it falling in wavy strands onto his forehead. A small mole peeked out from behind the pudgy fingers holding his injured mouth. Gamzee offhandedly recalled his bottom lip being bigger than his top lip and poking out further, turning his expression into a perpetual worried frown. He noticed no new blood blossomed from behind his fingers and was secretly glad, hoping no lasting damage was done. His teacher would have his head if the boy's lip were messed up forever.

"I'm here, so, uh, if you'll leave now…" Tavros looked at Gamzee warily while holding his lip.

"Your mouth stopped bleeding," Gamzee answered, caught by surprise but regaining his composure quickly enough. The smaller child took his hand away in surprise and touched his wound with his other hand. Brown eyes widening, he looked at Gamzee.

"Uh…"

"Hey, you can stay the fuck here if you want. Get a little Band-Aid from Ms. Nurse and be all taken care of and shit. I'm probably gonna walk around school so I don't have to see Mrs. Bitch Teacher for the rest of the day."

"But… she said…"

"Man, fuck what she says. Gamzee does what Gamzee wants to do, and that's that."

Tavros opened his mouth to say something, but Gamzee had already turned around, fingers curled into a peace sign and held aloft for the other kid to see.

Throughout the rest of the year, Gamzee would gradually open up to Tavros, first by allowing him to pass without trying to trip him, then with other small things, such as sharing supplies or moving his desk closer. Tavros, in return, warmed up to Gamzee, and would tell him stories about fairies and magical flying boys in green tights. At recess, Gamzee would try his best to act out the stories as Tavros told it to him; imagination running wild with how well Tavros told stories. His grades slowly began improving along with his mood, for his friend had gently pointed out that whoever had the highest grade by the end of the year got a special prize from their teachers. Gamzee knew his efforts were futile; he had maintained a solid F for the first three quarters of school and was firmly located on his teacher's bad side, but the happy smile on Tavros's face when he got a good grade made it worth the extra work.

Things changed once Gamzee and Tavros were in eighth grade. Gamzee had come home one day after a fun-filled day in English with Tavros, fingers wrapped around a poem that had won the two a poetry contest and cupcakes from their teacher. He hummed as he jumped off the bus and walked up to his house, the smallest and most run-down of all the dwellings on their street. Normally, it would bother him to walk up to that dump, but he was high from the happiness and the congratulations his best friend had showered upon him. His good mood ended suddenly when he found his mother passed out on the ground next to a bag filled with her ever-present cocaine and a bottle of pills. A closer inspection revealed his mother barely hanging on to consciousness, choking on what he assumed were the capsules lying next to her. He reached out with his right hand to touch her face, causing her gray eyes to fly open wide at the sensation and fix upon her son.

Please, Gamzee, they seemed to beg desperately. Help me. Help your mother.

Gamzee was faced with a decision: would he do the right thing and call 911, or would he let her die? His mouth twisted into a smile; it was an easy choice to make. To get help meant his mother getting taken away and locked up while Gamzee was put into a foster home. Her death would at least keep him safe until the body started smelling, but he could deal with that. Perhaps he would feed her carefully to the starving dogs that sometimes hung out near their house. Meat was meat, right?

His decision made, he let his right hand drop to her neck and made the other hand join it. Impossibly, her eyes grew wider and small noises began escaping from her mouth while she tried to shake her head from side to side, limbs twitching sporadically.

"What the mother fuck is wrong, huh?" Gamzee outlined the curve of her throat with a thumb. "Why can't you move, huh? What did you fuck up this time, huh?"

He squeezed her neck with more force than he probably intended. No noise came from his mother this time; the only sign she was in pain came from the increased twitching and her eyes rolling into her skull. Gamzee waited a while and let go, watching interestedly as the woman in front of him continued to choke, her windpipe crushed beyond repair. After what seemed like an eternity, she fell still, eyes still fixed on an unknown point in space and tongue lolling out of her mouth.

Gamzee felt no pity for her.

Calmly, he stood up and grabbed the cocaine and pills. His good mood was ruined, and if his deceased mother and past experiments were to be any clue, this miracle dust and these miracle pills would make him feel better. He walked over to their, or rather, his kitchen and fetched a straw. Emptying the bag onto the countertop, he used a spatula to line the drug up and cut it into several lines. Taking a few deep breaths, he quickly inhaled all of it, coughing a little once he had finished. He felt his heart and his breathing speed up, the room spinning and the floor tilting as he uncapped the bottle and dumped some of its contents out. Gamzee tried to grab a few of the bright white pills, but his vision filled with spots and he slumped to the ground, passing out just as his mother must have before he killed her.

He woke up hours into the night in front of their- No, damn it, it's mine now, HIS dingy house to a man in a suit surveying his yard. Gamzee swung himself up to a standing position and backed up the porch to the door, the creaking stairs betraying him. The man turned quickly at the noise, a frown crossing his face.

"So you're finally up, huh?"

Gamzee said nothing. He just stared at the stranger warily.

"ANSWER ME WHEN I SPEAK TO YOU, BOY."

His voice rang out and echoed through his neighborhood, like the man was determined to let the entire city hear his voice. Gamzee flinched away and ended up stumbling sideways.

"Yeah… I'm… fuckin' awake now…"

"Good," the other grunted. He motioned with a large hand towards the sleek black car parked in front of the two, a Ferrari, by the look of it. Gamzee cursed his blurred vision for not noticing the car that probably five times the rent on their house. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the dark purple designs running along the sides, twisting and undulating in an abstract design that sometimes resembled the clown smiley faces Gamzee liked to draw on Tavros's arms.

It was the sweetest fucking thing the boy had ever seen, and he couldn't wait to ride in it.

"Get the mother fuck in. We have some talking to do."

"What about my shit," the boy mumbled, eyes remaining fixed on the Ferrari, imagining himself driving it with the windows rolled down and Beastie Boys blasting out of the speakers.

"We'll worry about it later. I've got stuff at my place. NOW COME THE FUCK ON," he added impatiently when Gamzee made no move to walk over.

Despite his excitement, Gamzee reluctantly pulled away from the door and made his way to the car. The man held the door open for him to climb into the back, slamming it shut and getting into the driver's side once Gamzee had buckled himself in. After a few murmured curses and some fumbling with his keys, the engine purred to life, the bright headlights illuminating the cracked and patched street Gamzee lived on for his entire life. He couldn't help but stare longingly at the wreck he was so used to living in, memories of the place drifting through his mind.

"Now how the hell does my blood end up staying here," the man softly interrupted Gamzee's thoughts with his strangely powerful voice. "That good-for-nothing bitch…"

Gamzee's ears pricked up at the older man's words. His blood? Oh, what the hell.

"Excuse me," Gamzee said, waiting until the older grunted in acknowledgement before continuing. "What's this noise about me being 'your blood'?"

"You're my goddamn kid, what else would I mean." His voice was a mixture of annoyance, surprise, and amusement as he turned his head to face his son. Gamzee gasped as a light flicked on.

The resemblance was astounding. They had the same angular face with the same sleepy eyes and curving, joker-like lips. Their eyes carried the same blue-black circles underneath that framed his father's intense violet eyes and provided the same sharp contrast with their pale skin. Even their hair was the same: wild, unruly, jet black, and by no means tamable. Gamzee's elder allowed his hair to grow out to his shoulder blades and twist wildly wherever it wished to go, barely restrained by the rubber band keeping most of the locks out of his face.

However, their resemblance ended there. Where Gamzee was skinny with thin ropes of muscle running through his arms and legs from where he ran track, his father was immense with bulges of solid muscle threatening to split the seams of the tailored suit he wore. The boy's long, slender fingers were replaced with equally long fingers with large knuckles and veins standing out against the backs of his hands. But despite this, the man possessed an unearthly and slightly disturbing grace underneath his power and subtle sense of unpredictability. He commanded respect, and Gamzee was enthralled.

His father chuckled and turned around. "It fuckin' looks like I spit you out, boy. Shit, I'm guessing she didn't like you much."

Gamzee clenched the black leather seat while he responded. "Nah, man. She didn't like me at all. I be thinkin' that's kinda why she decided to all overdose on her pills and crack and shit."

"She was also messed up in the head, which is why I left her sorry ass. Too bad I couldn't take you with me. My job wouldn't have let me take care of a high maintenance baby while I was running around doing shit."

"Where do you work," Gamzee asked curiously.

"For a huge bitch that needs me to take care of shit for her." His dad laughed, the sound bouncing off the interior of the car and rumbling inside of Gamzee's head. The younger joined in nervously after a while, not quite getting the joke but not wanting to disappoint someone who had saved him from dealing with his mother's corpse.

Speaking of her body… "Yo, what're we gonna do about her?" Gamzee watched the back of his father's head carefully; wary of what expression was hiding behind the mass of black waves.

In a perfectly neutral voice that almost sounded robotic, he answered, "Dispose of it, of course. Send it to a morgue and pay them off not to speak. At least you didn't cut her up or something; now that shit would have gotten messy."

He laughed a little at Gamzee's petrified face in the rear view mirror. "Look, I know what you're going to ask next, and I'm here to tell you it's not important. What is important, and really fuckin' funny at the same time, is how you haven't asked me why I'm taking you away."

Gamzee squirmed a little in his seat, his baggy, painted-on sweatpants rustling a little. "'Cause… my mom's dead?"

"No, stupid. I didn't know your mom was dead until I went inside the house after making sure your high ass was alive. Try again."

"Because… well, I don't motherfuckin' know, man."

His father sighed. "How old are you, boy?"

"Fourteen, sir. My birthday was last week."

"So you're a Capricorn too, huh? Interesting. Anyways, you're fourteen years old. That's fourteen years underneath a shitty parent and an even shittier upbringing."

Gamzee could see his fingers clenching the wheel. "How long have you been using, boy? I don't want any bullshit about how that was your first time, because there's no way a motherfuckin' boy can take that much shit without dying if that was their first time. Hell, a full-grown adult can't take that much without dying. Now," his head swung around to look straight into Gamzee's face. "How long has it been?"

The boy closed his eyes and mentally counted how long it had been since he first picked up his mother's bong and tried to copy how she inhaled the smoke. He cringed at the number.

"Since I was nine," he answered meekly.

His father stared in amazement, then leaned his head against the seat and exhaled slowly. "Mother fuck, she messed you up…" After a while, he curled a hand into a fist and held it back for Gamzee.

"Look, I'm takin' you to my place. It's a nice little condo in the city, so we can get you straightened out in much more comfortable quarters than that shack you lived in. Sound good, boy?"

Gamzee looked at the fist in front of him, pounding it with a grin.

"Hey, old man," he said.

"What is it," his dad answered, retracting his hand and replacing it on the steering wheel.

"My name's Gamzee."

He didn't have to see the grin that spread across his father's face; he could feel the amusement rolling off him in waves.

"Nice to fuckin' meet you Gamzee. It's been long enough."

A/N: Title taken from the song "This is Absolution" by Killswitch Engage.