There are days you go without speaking, eating, moving.
Days during which you merely sit, wrapped up in the dark, and try to imagine: that she is laughing menacingly, poking one of her long blue nails at the ash-colored temple of your bro, just below his broad horns. He'd laugh, quiet and nervous, always smiling. Motherfucker always wanted to please everybody, even if it made him damn uncomfortable. You never would have wished the troll uncomfortable, everybody's gotta love what's goin' on with their own bodies, ya know? It's all just a matter of the point of view.
Point of view.
You try to reassure yourself that point of view is really all that the slime changed. That those pies that Karkles and Rezi tried to avert you from, all they did was open up some third eye or some
bullshit miracles like that. Simply made sure you saw good things. The good things that had a right to stay alive, regardless of blood color and personality and... they were good things. You did not need to think about why or what would make that any less true. Still don't. Everything is motherfuckin' peaches and grubsauce up in the rotten thinkpan of Gamzee Makara. It is all chill.
Except, it's not.
There are days you feel your body crumbling, your skin itches and your limbs ache from sitting.
Days that you can smell the blood coating the floors and walls
and the bodies of your friends.
There is a thick coating of – probably infected-- wounds crossing your fists. Indentations in the walls, and gashes in the pelts of the
objects laying at your feet.
“Can anybody hear me?” you mutter, “I'M GOING FUCKING CRAZY,” you scream.
But no, no one can hear you. You made sure of that. The urges shivering through your nerves when the human aliens landed on the space projectile the remaining few players had been doomed to, the thoughts and impulses involving that red-eyed douche... What little lucidity you had in company of
Karkat, and his rage-sucking fits... You knew had to go away. You had to save them, from yourself; save them from the memories of what you did.
So you tuned out your conscience, or whatever someone would call that voice echoing from hearing receptacle to hearing receptacle. Your hand, shaking and strong, wraps around the right ankle of a boy you once loved, another hand grasping at the limp form of a thief. Not much of a trail is left as you abandon the raspy shouts of an ornery mutant.
It might as well have been five of those Earth-years the girl human had explained. No effort has been made to keep track. You have no reason to know. You deserve to sit here with yourself.
Maybe they will forget, you consider the odds.
Your hands still shake, possibly even more than before. The dark is always enclosing on you, there is no light, no computer with it's low white light soothing against sore eyes.
You are Gamzee Makara, and you are alone.
You hope the others realize this.
You hope they do not bother remembering why.
You hold your palms together and pray, they forget,