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Hi, my name is Damien
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 | [Four] Black Ice |
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 5 with 6 vote(s)
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| Created: 2009-06-25 20:02:36 |
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Chapter four: The driving force
I know I keep repeating myself. I have done it on many occasions about many things. I loose track, oftentimes, of what I do and do not say. It was an ailment I had suffered in life also. It came to the point that Damien, who I would often speak to as much as it may have irritated him, would come to guess what I had to say, and walk out before the conversation was through, before he had to sit through a lecture twice or more in one sitting. Yet this courtesy of actually listening was a privilege only I had. No one else was worth that much of his time unless he was getting something out of it like sex or entertainment. I cannot be certain, but I like to think that we were close despite his perpetual habit to drive people away from him with excessive cruelty.
And I think that was why he was in my room that evening, the evening after his fateful meeting with Gabriel. He had hovered outside my door. He had paused, hesitated for mere moments before he moved on towards his room many a time before since my death, but this was the first time he lingered for a long time and the first time he actually went in. Jacob and our mother had left for the evening, Damien didn’t know where nor did he care. It was only because they were out of the house that he even considered venturing into the previously off-limits terrain of my bedroom.
He stood there for passing moments, his eyes on the door, almost as if he were uncertain. His fingers brushed the doorknob before closing around it and twisting. And yet he hesitated in pushing open the door, but this was only for a few scant seconds before he shook off whatever was bother in him and stepped into the coolness of my room. He closed the door behind him with a decisive snap, his back pressed against the cool wood as his eyes skimmed the area. He had been in my room many times before, but this must have felt different.
My room hadn’t changed. In fact it still remains the same to this day: an honouring memorial to my twenty one year-old-self.
Damien pushed away from the door to the centre of the room. His eyes quietly followed the walls, pausing to take in a photo from a few years back, when Damien had been twelve and I had been around eighteen. Even then Damien had been cold, but a friend had been able to capture an image of Damien smiling his true, amused smile, an expression so rarely seen. It was summer, and we had been out with friends. Damien had always been mature for his age, and, my friends liked him. I know that at least one of them (Ian, I believe) had even slept with him, before they realised just how young he was (I punched him afterwards, despite his insistent, pleading apologises). His twisted and dark humour intrigued them. So I had invited him along to our picnic.
I don’t quite remember what had happened to make him laugh, but someone, Janice perhaps, had captured the moment perfectly. He is sitting on a bench, looking away from the camera and chuckling. And I am sitting beside him, smiling at the camera. It became one of my favourite pictures.
And Damien moved towards it, his snowy hand outstretched and he plucked the picture from its place on Amy bedside table. The wooden frame was smooth in his palm. And he sneered dismissively, a sneer that didn’t quite meet his eyes, which were stormy and unreadable.
“Fxcking idiot,” he smirked, his eyes still troubled and not corresponding with his dark, mocking smile, and he threw the picture frame onto the bed, his jaw clenching. Then he sighed, his eyes closing for a moment before he moved to sit on the bed, avoiding the picture frame. His elbows rested on his knees. He ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes once again roving around the room. I can’t tell you what was going through his mind, but what I can say is that he looked distinctly vulnerable. He appeared smaller then usual, his skin a slightly paler then was normal. His eyes were turbulent, angry and yet there seemed to be a little sadness amongst the ice as well, lingering with a strange sort of pain.
The picture was once again in his hand, but this time not for searching appreciation. His eyes were hard as he glared at it. This time his smirk was nowhere to be seen.
“Fxcking idiot!” he growled, hurling the picture away from him. It collided heavily with the door, the glass shattered and crackled within the frame, and the wood splintered with the force of the impact. He gazed down at the broken picture frame from where he stood, chest heaving a little more then usual at the outburst of anger. His eyes looked distinctly calmer. He rolled his wrist, listening to the satisfying crack with indifference.
He then marched towards it, shifting through the glass with long fingers and grasping the corner of the picture and tugging it from the fractured frame, barely wincing at the painful dig of glass into his index finger as he withdrew his hand. Blood blossomed on his finger, but he didn’t take notice, instead, he stepped over the empty frame and was out the door in moments, retreating to his own room.
Photo still in hand, he approached his desk where his lighter, along with his wallet and keys, sat indiscriminately. He grabbed the lighter and, yanking the swivel office chair from under the desk, he sat down. In his right hand, the photo dangled, photographic evidence of something Damien now wanted to forget. In his left was the intricately designed lighter I had gotten for him. Ironic really, for something I brought for him to destroy one of my most prized possessions. I think he thought it too, as he flicked back the cap and smiled at the orange dancing flame. He then brought the corner of the photo towards that flame and dipped it in, watching as the flame hungrily devoured it the picture smelting and curling in the sudden heat. His own face was the one to burn first, to be reduced to ash. He watched as his own image disintegrated in the fire, the flame slowly eating across to devour my own face, effectively severing our relationship and connection in Damien’s eyes. To him, I would no longer exist, except, perhaps in the very back of his mind.
“Goodbye brother,” he said, dropping the last shred of the picture before the flame bit his flesh. And he watched the very last vestige of the photo curl into nothingness as he sucked on his wound, a faint smile colouring his lips.
-
“You’ve been in Jackson’s room.” Damien didn’t look up at the accusatory tone; he just adjusted his glasses a little and continued to read the text in front of him as he lazed idly on the sofa. “Hey, Damien, look at me when I speak to you.” heated fingers were then wrapped around his chin, jerking his head upwards. Cool eyes fell on our mothers’ wretched face. She had only gotten worse since the funeral, all of Jacobs’ hopes that it would help her come to terms with the loss dashed in the wake of her worsening mentality and grip on reality.
“Jackson wouldn’t want such a boy rooting through his things. And you even had the cheek to break something. How dare you?”
“Actually Theresa,” Damien replied coolly, “if he were alive and could be anything, he would be more irritated that you were going through his things. I was given free reign in his room.” The dirty brown eyes widened, before narrowing.
“Such lies!” she hissed, roughly releasing Damien’s chin, so that his head was thrown to the right. He moved his jaw experimentally. “How did I raise such a liar? Jackson would never be associated with the likes of you. Half-brother,” she spat. “You couldn’t hold a candle to him. You, my mistake. You are nothing.”
Damien rose then, sensing sport. “Really, you think you know your son so well. But, I hate to break it too you darling, but Jackson? You knew nothing,” he tilted his head. “Nothing. I, on the other hand, know everything. Had he had to choose one, he would pick me. Remember all those argument we have had? Whose side did he go to first?”
“Lies, lies… all lies,” she mumbled, the alcohol evident in her useless mumbling.
“No, look at me and tell me whose side he went to first,” Damien demanded, his eyes lightened. “Come on, or can’t you face the fact that your perfect son preferred your mistake to you?”
“No,” she screeched, “These are all lies. He loved me. Me, not you. Don’t lie. You little bxstard mistake, don’t lie!” Then a palm slammed into Damien’s cheek. And Damien was laughing. Really laughing.
“Look at you,” he sneered. “Just look at you. You’re pathetic. Drinking yourself senseless. And you say I make you sick? Jackson would turn in his grave.” His smile didn’t leave his face. “Jackson, your beloved son. You know nothing about him and I do. It was my side he would go to first, always mine. Face it, love, you were nothing to him, nothing compared to me.”
“No!” And she was launching herself at him, but Damien smartly sidestepped the drunken attack. “He loathed you. He hated you. He wished you had never been born.”
“No mother dearest, that’s just you,” Damien retorted calmly. Our mother glared up at him, her eyes unfocused.
“Die. Why can’t you die and Jackson come back? You are nothing! You are a mistake! You die. Die now!” Theresa was on her feet again, arm raised to once again strike Damien, his once pale cheek already rouged from the previous assault. But Damien was taller, and unaffected by alcohol. He moved quickly, hand reaching out to grasp our mothers’ wrist before it could collide with his face again.
“Don’t think I will let you get away with hitting me again, Theresa,” he warned darkly, before shoving the woman away from him with an expression of disgust. She stumbled over her own feet and barrelled into the floor, a sobbing, angrily mumbling mess. Her weary smudged eyes glared up at him with little power. And Damien returned the gaze, smirking superiorly. “You’re pitiful.”
He then exited the room just as his father burst into the hallway, having heard the hysterical yelling from outside. He glared at his son.
“What the hell happened?”
Damien shrugged, pulling his glasses from his face. “The broad is just loosing her marbles. Hurry Jacob, run along and maybe you can pick them up before they completely disappear.” Damien went to brush past but Jacob grabbed his arm. Damien gazed down at it.
“Let go, Jacob.”
But Jacob’s gaze was beyond furious. “You won’t get away with it this time boy. You will sit and you will stay and you will pay for this and all the havoc you have caused.”
“Will I now?”
“Yes. Now sit the fxck down.” Damien weighed his chances, but decided perhaps it would be better to wait a little longer. His eyes dropped to the strong hand around his upper arm once again.
“Let go of me then.” The fingers released him, but his father stepped back, making sure Damien stepped through into the living room first and followed after him. Damien dropped onto the sofa, taking up his discarded book once more and sliding his glasses onto his nose once more.
Jacob watched his son descend onto the cushions before coming to wife’s aid, where she had curled up and was crying in a drunken mess. He knelt beside her, his hands, which had been so rough with Damien, worked now to soothe her, to calm her. Gently he pulled her to her knees and embraced her, whispering thing sin her ear and stroking her hair like she was a child. She looked like one, small and weak, dwarfed further by his bulky build. Damien rolled his eyes behind the pages of his book. He had grown ever more tired of our mothers’ increasing hysteria.
“She’s a grown woman for Christ’s sakes,” Damien snapped, irritated by the embrace he had to sit through and watch. It sickened him. “She needs to get a grip.” The glare his father threw his way could only be described as pure evil. Deathly. Damien smiled in return, innocent before returning back to his book. Jacob gritted his teeth. His son was beyond grinding on his last nerve. Such a horror that boy was, heartless and cruel. He gently lifted his sobbing wife, wailing too loudly and drunkenly to fully register Damien’s words anymore. Of that, Jacob couldn’t help but be glad. In her state, Theresa might try to seriously hurt the boy; Jacob had already noticed the fading redness of his sons’ cheek. Don’t get him wrong, he wasn’t doing this for Damien’s sake, but for his wife’s. If anything got out about supposed abused, Theresa probably wouldn’t live through the allegations.
As Jacob left, Damien kicked his legs over the side of the sofa, dropping the book to the cushions and rubbing his arm with a slight wince. Despite having fair skin, he wasn’t quick to bruise, but even he knew there would be at least a faint purple ring around. He grimaced. He didn’t like that thought or the implications it would carry. He didn’t like it one bit. He would get revenge; use the shock tactic to get out of the house. Damien smirked as he heard the heavy, purposeful footsteps on the stair. He knew exactly what would get his fathers’ back up.
Damien glanced up genially as his father entered the room, sitting back in the sofa, all traces of the previous vague pain that laced his upper arm. He wouldn’t let that excuse of a man know he had hurt him physically.
The silence rolled over them like a dark storm cloud, awaiting the tear to release the chaos upon them. Striking lighting, roaring thunder; it was all about to hit off here. And it would all end badly.
“Your mother is sick, mourning. She took the death of Jackson hard and I expected you to be mature about this.” Jacob started in dark deadly tones of venom. “I don’t care if you care that Jackson is dead, but I refuse to allow you to push your mother further and further away. Do you understand me?”
“I understand yes, but that does not mean I am going to listen,” Damien said airily, standing. He was shorter than his father, but that didn’t stop him meeting him in the eyes, defiance glittering like malice. “It’s too much fun.”
Jacob glared down at the younger boy, clearing trying to resist the urge to smack him around a bit. “Too much fun?” he echoed.
Damien smirked. “Yes. I’m a sadistic bxstard father dearest, and seeing that idiot bxtch like that is the ultimate kick. What did you see in her?” his head was tilted. His speech was more that of an adult of twisted morals then a fifteen year old boy.
“Don’t speak of you mother in such a degrading way, boy and you sit the hell down.” Rough hands shoved against Damien’s slim shoulders, forcing him back into the cushions. His father was trying to cement their positions in this argument, with Damien as the lower down prisoner and his father the just persecutor. Damien glowered at the motion and the intention, but the expression vanished as soon as it was born. His father was moving then, caging Damien in and for the first time Damien felt a flicker of fear as his father’s face loomed into his own. It looked contorted like that, misshapen and deformed. But those eyes smouldered and flamed with unquenchable anger.
“You cannot say anything that will deter me anymore, Damien. Punishment will no longer be evaded. You will pay, and you will pay dearly for what you are doing to this family. You will pay for destroying this family.”
Damien raised an eyebrow. “You seriously think anything more I could say would no longer shock you?” He moved forward, refusing to be intimidated by Jacob, despite the small smoulder of fear and the small whisper of a voice of sense telling him to back down. “How about that I fxck men? In fact I pretty much prefer men to woman. I couldn’t even tell you I done the ‘manly’ a scrxwed a girl to get rid of that troublesome thing called vxrginity. No, I even lost that to a guy as well.” He paused for a moment. “Tell me does that shock you?”
His father was stone-faced but his eyes were disgusted. Damien had to press harder; he had to keep ramming these buttons so he could escape. Something deep inside of him was getting slightly panicky. He hated being closed in, hated this feeling that he was loosing control of this situation. He had to regain power, he just had to else everything would unravel; everything he was would fall apart. So continue he did.
“It was Jackson’s fault really,” Damien said. “He introduced me to his friend, Ian. If I hadn’t have met Ian, who knows what might’ve happened. Your perfect little step-son made a quxer out of your own flesh and blood. How does that feel, Jacob? Are you shocked now?” Something in Damien’s eyes was nearing desperate he needed to feel in control. And his father picked up on this, and honed in on Damien’s vulnerability.
“No,” he forced himself to bite out. “I am not shocked by your behaviour. Not at all.” Jacob’s smile was one of success. He smelled a victory, an occasion that had never once been celebrated before. Is eyes gleamed as he grinned. Damien felt trapped, he felt hot. He couldn’t loose this, he couldn’t loose control. If he did, he was weak, he was weak and pathetic. He was everything he hated if he could not regain the dominating role in this argument.
He could not lose, at any cost.
Make him lose control, Damien thought, mind whirling, spinning with thoughts and ideas. Infuriate him. Agitate him. Make him hit you if you must, but you. Can. Not. Lose.
His eyes were hard and cold. He froze everything, words spilled form his mouth. Calm, collected insults and comments degrading abuse about his dead step-son, about his wife. At the mention of Theresa, Jacob had jerked, reacted and that gave Damien leeway He began to regain his footing and confidence. He could win this, he could win it easily. His father was backing off slightly, giving Damien leverage to be the one caging him in.
God he had to get out of his tight space. Just keep the comments going, everything little hating thought you have had abou that bxtch, let him have it. He needs it. Make him lose his control to regain your own.
An explosion of pain once again, Damien’s body jerked instinctively, falling to the cushions as there was no arm to collide into anymore. Shock registered, he hadn’t even seen it coming. Then he smiled. His father had lost control. His father had lost his footing and tumbled into Damien’s hastily thought up plan to make him. He was breathless but he barely even realised as he began to laugh for the second time. He won. Control was his once more.
“Feel better do you? Hitting your own son, a fifteen year old. Feel like a man because you can floor me?” Damien stood. He felt better, more composed. He was collected, no longer suffocating under the strain of struggling to ba back in power and out into free space. Everything was back on his terms once again and he felt so much better. There was blood in his mouth. He could taste it; it was coppery against his tongue. It made him feel better, actualized his triumph. He could breathe again at that bitter taste of his own blood.
“You’re weak, beaten by a fifteen year old.” Damien shrugged and grinned. “How shameful…” He stood, pushing his father away.
“Damien you get right back here. I am not finished with you yet.”
“No,” Damien called, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder as he spoke, so he was in fact speaking to the doorway. “But I’m done with you.” The door slammed behind him before his father could comment. He resisted the urge to get away from the house as fast as possible and forced him to saunter away, the gate clanking shut behind him. He near collapsed by the wall, rubbing his head with the heel of his palm, irritated by himself.
He staggered up the path hand cradling his chin. His bad luck that he got smacked twice in the face. He dropped to the cool pavement when he was far enough away from the house he used to call home. His back collided with the wall of a neighbour’s house as he sat there, eyes closed. He couldn’t believe how close he had come to losing. Claustrophobic and staggering over the precipice into the abyss of weakness and submission without his initiating, he would never allow himself to get into such state again. That’s what he promised himself.
It was a promise to be broken.
It was a cloudless evening; the breeze was chilly, stroking his skin in dark kisses of ice. He shivered a little, his hand digging through his pocket to bring forth his phone. He slide it up, flicking through his address book, searching for someone to summon, someone who he could find some release with, although he wasn’t quite sure himself what that would entail.
Names and numbers flew by on the small highlighted screen of his phone. He paused; his thumb hesitated on the down button. His eyes traced the name thoughtfully, wonderingly. Should he call him? It would serve to pass the time with something a little more exciting, and, when Damien thought about it, he could provide a perfect distraction.
He clicked the green button, holding the phone to his ear, listening to the faithful, continuous ringing sound. “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Damien, how nice of you to call.” Gabriel’s smile was clear in his voice. It was suggestive, even Damien could detect that and he knew the other man had guessed pretty much what he was going to ask.
“Come and get me.”
“Where are you?” Gabriel was more than willing to pick the younger boy up. Damien rattled off the address of the house he was currently sitting in front of before cutting off the line without a thank you or a farewell. He twirled his phone in his fingers as he waited, his breath coming out in white puffs. His hand went to his other jean pocket, patted it down before growling in irritation. His cigarettes weren’t there, in fact, he now remembered they were up stairs. They were sitting on his window ledge after his previous hanging-out-the-bedroom-window smoking session earlier. He felt annoyed with himself for forgetting them.
What was worse was that he couldn’t even take one from Gabriel as the older man didn’t smoke. His craving would have to wait for now, the monsters banished to the back of his mind as he tapped his fingers against his thigh.
Car headlights illuminated his face, and Damien squinted as he looked up to inspect the passing vehicle. But it was a Ford, battered and blue. It was nothing like Gabriel’s sleek Mercedes, brought for him by his rich father, Damien recalled. Damien let his head lean back against the wall as the car passed with a loud, rattling engine that didn’t sound at all healthy to Damien’s ears.
He chewed then on his thumb nail, his phone returned to his pocket. It was the third set of lights that actually belonged to Gabriel. It drew up alongside the curb, the engine purring like a peaceful cat before being shut off. The door opened and Gabriel was smiling at him from the opposite side of the car, leaning on his door and the roof of his car.
Damien gazed at him for a moment before he stood, brushing down his trousers.
“Evening,” Gabriel smiled; his voice was low and enticing. Damien ignored the feeling of anticipation in his stomach and wandered towards the car and pulled open the door.
“Evening,” was his reply, a little curt but as equally as enticing as Gabriel’s. His answering grin was approving as he too climbed into the car. Damien glanced at Gabriel, who turned in his seat to regard Damien curiously. Damien’s earlier presumption that Gabriel knew basically what he wanted was no lie, but I doubt even Gabriel was expecting the order Damien was to deliver.
“What do you want, Damien?”
The teenager hesitated before answering. His thought flicking back to the brief flicker of pain when in my room, his expulsion of mourning and regret and his later composure loss in the argument with his father. These were unforgivable, such displays of weakness. He would not allow it. His eyes drifted from the window where they had come to gaze and locked on Gabriel’s with certainty. There was a reason he had thought Gabriel would be most suitable. He could and would provide was Damien thought he needed.
“Well?”
Damien held his gaze before saying plainly and soberly: “hurt me.” |
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x infinity.