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【Gamzee’s Confession】
If there truly is a god—
Out there, beyond the vast and silent void,
Beyond the black veil where even the stars fall quiet—
Then surely, that god must be the one I created with my own hands.
My only true god.
One I etched out in strokes of madness and blood.
I once poured my everything into loving, into believing,
Using faith to seal every crack splitting my body.
Until those godly images crumbled,
The laws turned to ash,
And every shell I once worshipped died, abandoned me, denied me.
I had already lost my way.
I couldn’t even recognize my own face anymore.
I no longer knew who I was kneeling to,
Nor whether the phrase “Glory be to…” still had any place left to belong.
But still—I wanted to believe in something.
Even if it wasn’t the original god.
Even if it was just hope and faith molded from my own hands.
Even if I knew—deep down—that it wasn’t real.
Still, I believed He was there,
Waiting for me.
Loving me.
Even if only for a second.
Even if He had never existed.
As long as I still held Him in my heart,
Then I had not yet been completely forgotten by the world.
God lives within everyone’s heart.
That’s what he believed.
No longer torn apart by others’ words, no longer wounded by confusion or insult.
Worshiping the clown—was only surface-level.
His truth lay in his words, his body, his will.
In his heart lived a god—not taught by others, not instilled by the world.
That was his god, his faith, his light.
Living was hard.
Empty, yet unavoidable.
All he could do—was keep walking.
To speak his truth, to act his truth,
To write his own scripture and gospel.
Then suddenly, he burst out screaming, like ripping his heart open and throwing it into the air—
“Fk fate! Fk rage, slaughter, and those fking lapdogs! I’m sick of all this sh*t!
What the hell am I even chasing?!
Nobody gives a damn! Whether this world lives or dies—I don’t fking care anymore!
All I care about is whether I get my goddamn soda, eat my grape gummies, and pass out in a puddle of sopor slime—like nothing f**king matters!!”
And then he laughed.
Laughed at how dumb, annoying, and stupid he was.
He had killed friends,
For reasons far too foolish.
He missed them too,
Because he so desperately needed love.
He had fallen in love with a few people—because he was troll.
He had revived friends for missions, twisted the narrative, upturned everything.
Who was he, really? What had he even said?
Being a creature of extremes—was the only part of him that never wavered.
He was tired.
Living like a ghost, drifting and rootless.
Where was he?
Where—was his home?
He let out a long sigh—
Like falling asleep, slow and quiet, a breath of smoke drifting out.
“Maybe… no one loves me,” he murmured. “But that’s alright.”
“I’ll leave.”
“I’ll find a place that belongs to me.”
He sat up, lit a cigarette.
The taste was bitter—not liberation—
Just the demon that lived inside nicotine. A curse he couldn’t shake.
He didn’t understand his mission.
Didn’t know where he belonged in the world.
Didn’t know how to live in a way that made him “real,” how to be seen again.
He had always been this way: wild, polar, unrestrained.
But this time—he felt something new.
Fear.
Not repression, not anger—not any of the fake emotions he used to mask himself.
Real, bone-deep fear.
Fear that no one had ever truly accepted him.
Fear that he could never be someone with emotions, with thoughts, with choice.
Fear that he was born only to be a puppet in someone else’s play—a character without destiny.
A few tears fell.
Burning, stinging.
The salt blurred into the smoke.
He lifted his hand, flicked the ash gently.
It hurt.
A kind of pain that cut through the heart but left the body unscathed.
Wounds that wouldn’t bleed, pasts that wouldn’t heal, scars that would never fade.
Chains of fate flickered in his mind—unshakable.
But he was still him.
Gamzee Makara.
Devotee of the clown.
Child left behind by god.
A being of extremes.