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His body felt as though it wasn't his own. Voices in his pan screamed at him, telling him what he needed to do. He had seen the truth, the black mantle paved the way and he couldn't let go. Rather, it wouldn't let him go. It was a lie, what he once knew. Torn from under him, but funnily that was his breaking point.
He didn't know how to stomach anything other than slime. His acid track barked and growled at him, but the holes that burned through were only obstacles that the sopor could cross. Faygo pours down his throat, like blood running down a wound. Am I a fool for all these mindless transactions? Sickening sweet sugar coats his mouth, poisons the taste of any other drink.
The voices never stop, and he's run out of his medicine. The slimy goo isn't there to fog his mind, The cage door has swung open and the voices don't stop. He thinks he can control it, at least for long enough. He hides it all through a painted face, a mask that's ready to crack.
He picks up every piece along the way and glues it back together. He submits to his Messiahs, he loves them. But they tell him that he needs to earn their love. To paint the walls with mirthful desire, first the blue, then the green, and the brightest red soon to follow. He doesn't want to, doesn't want to harm his friends. But he's shown the truth. Nothing at all is true, and the world crashes. He can't bury himself deep in ignorance and innocence. What he has to do is clear, he knows.
His pan is quiet, for a long while. His vision is unfocused, body on autopilot. A beautiful array of colors, bright blue and olive green, splashes before his ganderbulbs. White hot flashes of pain through his face, but he endures it. Such a miracle, such the truth. He is his own Messiahs, and everyone needs the righteous paws of his to paint the walls.
He’ll spread the truth, and punish those non-believers. That's the truth. That's his purpose. What point to fight? This is all I'll ever be. Destined. His ears ring so violently. Vision starts to unblur.
A beautiful red flower, held between his claws. Dazzling, sparkling red. Brightest you'd ever seen. And when he leaned down, the thorns didn't prick him. Beautiful flower, miracle. It gives him life, he knows. But the more strength he gets, the more the flower withers.
He knows. But for now, he will love the palest feeling. Paler than the sand on a beach, sand that no matter how hard you try to keep in the sieve, will only end up pouring out.
His senses feel clearer, after a moment. And it feels like the world is ending, for a second time.
Like a lost kid, like a scared barkbeat, he clings onto his only hope. If he is not loved by himself, he is not loved by his messiah. Love for all things. How do you get that? It must be a miracle. How can one believe in those anymore? The truth is clear, but the path is so blurry. He is a monster for what he has done. There exists no more cage for his mind anymore, so he must make one for himself.
The clomping of his limbs against the tightness of the vents echoed out every entrance.
His claws pricked against his skin, sitting up in the heat exchange room of the ventilator systems. The wound on his face had scabbed over, and he had made a habit of picking it til it bleed. His clothes were soaked with blood and sweat, dampened and dried against his skin. There was blood caked into his dreadlocks and he smelt rancid, like a walking corpse.
The loud buzzing of the fans usually drowned out his pan. Extra cage. His body felt weakened, his acid tracks growled at him. His claws slipped deeper into the skin of his arms. A royal purple dripping down his skin, coating the floor. His acid track flipped and he doubled over, throwing up acid. Nothing more to throw up than the acid that coats his tracks. Flowed out like Fagyo down his mouth.
The voices screamed against him, cold sweating, tail and limbs wrapped close around himself. It was loud. Everything was noise. Too much of it. The music wouldn't stop, the dark carnival called him closer. The music seeped out from the depths. It got louder the closer he was to the ground, closer he was to the end. He was a corpse, he was already dead. His soul so ugly and monstrous that it got stuck inside the vessel. That must be it.
I'm dead, I’m dead. The maggots crawled through his skin, he could feel it. He could feel himself rotting, fleshing being torn and consumed. He needed to get them out, he needed the feeling to stop. He dug, he dug and dug a hole so deep. His own grave, maybe. But the dirt was royal purple and the maggots were nowhere to be found. And he cried. Ugly, he cried and cried. He whimpered and honked, covering his mouth to try and keep himself quiet. He didn't want his friends to hear. He made a fool out of himself, a jester to entertain the puppet that had him on strings. Ironic.
He didn't cry for long. He hasn't drank water in a while. He wiped at his face and licked his wounds clean. Far into the meteor, the flower sprouted. It gave him strength, it gave him love. Enough to carry on, even if he had to crawl. But he didn't return it. He wasn't enough. He loved the flower so much, he wanted to keep it. He wanted to pick it, to be able to hold it in his fronds, gently and so carefully run his claws over the petals.
But he couldn't. His love for the flower didn't die, but he didn't keep it alive. He didn't deserve to hold everything he loves. He gained and gained, but the miraculous flower got nothing in return. Not an ounce of water. He would never heal, not when he picked at his scabs so often. The flower couldn't heal him, only guide him through. And he left himself blind to the guidance given.
He needed the flower, but it didn't need him. He knows.
Gamzee loved the flower so much, he left it alone. It didn't need to be held by him. Unfortunately, love is most strong when leaving.