You are Gamzee Makara, and you’ve been here for a few months. You’re pretty chill and laid back, but you can fly off the handle at times. You really like your new roommate and have a feeling you two are going to be best buddies in no time.
"Suuuuup, motherfucker. Honk." :o)
They say time heals all wounds. That’s how the old saying went, didn’t it? Eventually the wounds would fade and one would be mostly healed, correct?
Certainly not the case, at least, not at Claymoore. It look longer than time. There was never enough time. You could be kept locked up in here forever and ever and never get better, only get worse. Who the fuck do doctors think they are? They can’t heal anyone, they just help us cope, we’re never completely better, never. Even on our death beds we’ll still be thinking about how much of a shitty person we are, how we could never do anything right, how much better it is to just get away from it all, swallow a pill, drown everything out with music until you swear your ears are bleeding, get your illegals from behind your bed, cut a little deeper, go a little further, but it’s never enough, is it?
"What’s never motherfuckin’ enough, bro?"
That calm, wavy tone of voice jerks you from your thoughts. You look up from the journal your nurse was kind enough to give you, copper, bloodshot, and completely exhausted eyes narrowing to slits. You didn’t even notice you had spoken aloud. Only a day had passed in this place and you were already exhausted. Going through tours and introductions and standard pills was not fun (though your idiot of a roommate did say the nurses would be giving out sleeping pills soon, maybe they’d actually work so you could sleep for the first time in ten years).
"Shut your fucking mouth, asshole. I wasn’t speaking to you." You hiss, shoving the journal under your pillow. You notice your roommate has one too, tossed haphazardly on his nightstand. It’s indigo or something. You suppose writing is a good method of healing, in a way. Getting your feelings out on paper was always easier than verbalizing them (you were terrible at expressing your feelings anyway, it was just anger, anger, anger with you).
He puts his hands up in surrender, a lazy smile on his face, as usual. “Calm yo’ tits, bro. I was just askin’. So. How was your first day at Claymoore?” That’s something about this you don’t understand. He was always so easygoing and calm. You wondered if he was smuggling drugs in or something, he was so chill. Then again, you knew nothing about him save for his name. Gamzee Makara. Gamzee motherfuckin’ recovering highass Makara. You couldn’t stand him, but at the same time, you could? It was weird. But you weren’t planning on making any friends here (you’ve never even had friends outside of here, so what was the point in start now?) so it didn’t matter.
"Oh, it was so fucking great, I’d love to repeat the process over and over again until I end up a laughing, grinning lunatic in high security.” You get an airy (almost calming) laugh in return. The older of the two lays back on his bed, indigo eyes looking up at the ceiling. You merely watch him, fiddling with the pen in your hands.
"It’ll get better, my little motherfucker. Don’t you worry."
Secretly, you hope he’s right.
[ Wow, I wasn’t expecting to get any followers, to be honest… ovo well then. Thank you. <3 ]
You are Karkat Vantas, the newest patient at Claymoore. You’re angry, you hate it here, and your roommate is an idiot (well, in your opinion. You happen to think most people are idiots, but this guy takes the cake).
But you guess it’s better being here than at home.
"What? What?! Don’t even fucking look at me, assface!”
You’re sitting in the back of the sleek, black car, bandaged hands in your lap, black hair covering your bloodshot eyes. The road is bumpy. The road is bumpy and the sky is pouring rain. The windshield wipers swish back and forth furiously, and you wonder if the driver might crash, he seems to be squinting at the road. You wouldn’t mind. Not at all.
But soon enough, before your mind can wander off to more morbid thoughts of the car swerving off the road, the car pulls to a stop. A nurse makes her way to the side of the car, pulling open the door, and helping you out. You’re instantly soaked, which only makes you more pissed off.
Oh, that’s right. You were already seething before you were forcibly shoved into the back of this taxi and driven to—
"Karkat Vantas, welcome to Claymoore."
A mental hospital.
You’re not ready for this. You were never ready for this. You flinch - slightly, but it’s there - when the nurse gets too close (as if you’re diseased or something, she pinches the edge of your sleeve between her forefinger and thumb. But then again, you are diseased. Diseased of the mind, not even you can deny that) and leads you to the intimidating looking hospital a little ways up the hill. The wind blows through you, making you shiver. The nurse doesn’t even seem fazed.
You look up a little, copper eyes narrowed, filled with anger and displeasure and something else. Something else beneath the surface that you would never explain. Your business is your own. Your therapist would be in for a tough time.
As the quaint little nurse leads you inside (she’s smiling wide like it’s a beautiful day, as if the wind and rain weren’t soaking the both of you to the bone), you resist the urge to hightail it out of here. It’s not like she’s even securely holding you or anything. You could push her to the ground and hightail the living fuck out of here.
But you don’t. Because soon you’re escorted inside your fabulous new home for the foreseeable future, the door closing shut behind you. There’s no running now. You’ve already been signed in by the doctors back at the ER.
Lightning strikes, thunder roars overhead. An Asian woman offers you a small smile as the nurse pulls you towards the reception desk. Her redish-brown hair flows in soft curls past her shoulders. She seems almost happy to work here, just like the irritating little nurse that still had her little grip on your sleeve, and your hands ball into fists. You can’t understand how anyone can be so happy to be working at such a place, a place where the broken and mentally unstable people are sent and locked away for who knows how long, possibly forever.
"Hello, Karkat. My name is Aradia, the nurse beside you is Jade. I hope you find your stay here comfortable." And with that (what even was that? How could you ever be comfortable in a place like this? All you wanted was to be left alone), the nurse, Jade, pulls you down the hall, through some automatic double doors.
And once those doors close behind you, you know there’s no turning back from here.