He wished it had been an accident, like he'd told his uncle. He wished he had never done it at all. But as Gamzee Makara stared into the hole his uncle had dug, stared at the little tabby at the bottom, he knew. He had killed his beloved pet cat, the only friend he ever saw on his little island, and he didn't even know why he'd done it.

He had been petting her, and as she bared his throat to him with a purr to encourage he scratch there, too, the thought had come, suddenly and without reason. He had thought that even with his childishly small hands it would be so easy to wrap his fingers around that neck and just twist. How easy it would be take the life of this tiny creature, to kill it, to take away everything it will ever be, and make it nothing.

And before he knew what he was doing, his hands had clamped around that little furry neck and squeezed .

The cat jerked and clawed at his arms, but Gamzee didn't let go - he just squeezed harder and gave a jerking twist. There was a sickening snap, and the tabby went limp in his hands, and it was only then that he realized what he had done.

He stared at the dead cat, still in his lap, and at his hands, scratched open and leaking blood, and he began to cry. He had no idea what just happened. He didn't know why he had done that, or why when the cat started howling and clawing in desperation he didn't think to let go – he didn't have any thoughts, just instinctively moved and instinctively killed it.

His uncle looked back at Gamzee when he was done filling the hole and patting the earth flat. He looked like he had wanted to say something comforting, but instead he stared at Gamzee's bandaged hands and arms, and Gamzee knew there was a slight fear in his eyes.

He didn't blame his uncle. He was scared, too.

Gamzee Makara was seven years old when he first realized there was something very, very wrong with him.