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Hi, my name is Damien
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 | [One] Black Ice |
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 5 with 6 vote(s)
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| Created: 2009-06-02 16:16:11 |
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A/N: There is an intro, for any new readers (:
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Chapter one; The Descent
Even in those younger years he was attractive. His hair was longer back then; coming to the nape of his neck, the ends having an annoying tendency to flick a little. His face wasn’t as defined yet, it still hinted at the boyish softness of his sweeter baby face of yesteryears. His eyes, however, were wise beyond his years and colder then most. They were locked onto the rectangular space in front of him, on the mahogany coffin that was being lowered into the ground, readying it’s occupant for eternal rest. His expression was impassive. He had long since mastered the art of self control and refused to show what he was thinking through such unreliable means and to such unworthy people as those surrounding him.
Beside him our mother and his father stood. Jacob, Damien’s father, stood tall and silent. He was a tall man, imposing, with broad, sloping shoulders hunched into the suit he had been forced into that morning. His eyes were a shade cooler then Damien’s but held none of his hostility. They didn’t much look alike, except for those eyes. He watched with a hard expression, tears threatening to spill but never crossing that threshold. His skin was white, pale with regret for reasons unbeknownst to both Damien and I. Damien didn’t spare him a glance.
Our mother, one the other hand, possessed no control. Clutching onto Jacobs’ arm with white knuckled hands, she sobbed heavily into a vaguely stained handkerchief. Her brown eyes were rimmed in red and bloodshot, haloes of purple bruising the grey sagging skin. Her dark hair, usually so neat, was wild about her head, wild and unclean. She had managed, somehow, to relocate a dress I favoured on her from years ago, squeezing her rather voluptuous figure into the fabric, the seams yawning to accommodate the extra weight she had gained after having Damien. She had been pretty once, our mother, but the years had not been kind and had stolen the subtle beauty away from her. I often wonder if the same will happen to my brother, but he has yet to loose his allure. Damien didn’t spare her a glance either. He rarely did.
Damien himself was expressionless. Wearing a formal suit of black that mother had thrust at him in the early hours of the morning, he appeared more like the angel of death watching over his newest ward then the mourning younger brother of a crash victim. His eyes were curious as he watched my coffin descend amongst the dirt. His head was tilted ever so slightly, chewing his lip faintly in a contemplative manner. To anyone watching, he looked a little bored of the whole procedure, but I have come to realise that that is how Damien deals with things. Locks them all up inside to deal with later, when he has a means to act out on another to alleviate his own turmoil and gain some degree of satisfaction in return at the others’ wincing in pain inflicted from his hand.
He spared no looks for the mourning friends and family although many were thrown in his direction. They ranged from distraught to pity to a doleful annoyance that he wasn’t showing more emotion at having lost his brother. Not that he particularly cared. He just continued to watch in silence, ignoring the looks and the words of the vicar, ignoring the sobs and pained moans from our mother close to him, ignoring everything other then the lowering coffin.
When he did move, it was graceful and fluid but it also seemed oddly practised, robotic. He stepped forward with ease, hand extended. A rose was caught between lithe fingers only to be released and allowed to tumble through the warm May air to collide with the wood of my final bed. And fall it did, the blooming head bouncing only once as it hit the wood with little noise. It crossed the deep green stem of our mothers’ previously thrown rose, a more elegant and prettier bloom then Damien’s, with a fuller, more vibrant colouring then the slightly pasty red of his own.
He drew back with that same orchestrated yet refined movement, only now looking up to study the crowd. He looked first to our mother, who was continuing to weep noisily. His expression was one of faint dislike, a small sneer colouring his snowy features, but missed by the weeping woman. His eyes trailed to his father next, his rather largely muscled arm wrapped around our mothers’ slim waist in a show of affectionate comfort. Not that it helped. The woman barely seemed to notice. He then swept the crowd of friends and other, more distant relatives, his eyes lingering on only a select few faces before moving swiftly on to the next.
The slight figure of an ex-girlfriend, her rounded cheeks broken with webs of tear stains. The hefty bulk of a best friend standing with his legs far apart and chin up, refusing to cry or appear weak. The awkward-looking expression of a cousin as he chewed his lip and looked distinctly uncomfortable, his stance was gauche. There was no one of any real interest, but they provided enough distraction for the rest of the service to pass without Damien having to pay too much attention.
“Damien…” He looked up at the low, disgusted hiss. His eyes fell upon the face of his mother, her expression contorted with a venomous spite fuelled by sorrow at loosing her eldest child. “You could at least appear a little more upset at loosing your bother.” Damien simply stared and blinked coolly. A few attendants to the funeral slipped past, their eyes flowing over the three family members with ill-hidden curiosity. Damien remained silent.
“He was a better son then you could ever be,” his mother continued maliciously, her eyes hard and narrowed as she glared upon the face of her remaining child, her tears still warm on her gaunt cheeks.
Damien smirked. “I don’t doubt it mother,” he said quietly, his tone bored and words lazy. His blue eyes fixed on her, the iciness of his gaze frosting her soul with a shiver of horror. She couldn’t believe a child could be so heartless in the face of his own brothers’ death. And yet, as her eyes widened horrifically and her mouth gaped open in shock, his expression didn’t change from his unblinking expression of chilly scorn.
“Damien!” The harsh, low bark of his father wasn’t enough to draw his gaze from his grimacing mother, but it was enough to cause him to smirk once more. “A little respect.” Damien blinked slowly, idly.
“Whatever,” he said quietly with a disinterested shrug, his voice still bored and unwelcoming. He turned then, as he often did, without leave or apology and ventured towards the squat, slightly lopsided church. He wove between the crowds, disregarding the soft whispers of condolences that followed him. They were so insincere, faked and phoney. Damien could see through them. Very few truly meant the words that slipped past their lips like velvet, and yet Damien cared even less for the earnestness then he did the lies.
The heavy large doors were made of oak, one propped open and the other kept closed. He stepped up the stone steps and into the inner chamber. It was a simple building. Pews lined each side, with a few traditional candlesticks with melted wax candles and worn wicks lining the far walls. He moved through the church, past the many rows of uncomfortable wooden pews, up towards the simplistic altar, sitting in the light streaming in from the stain glass window above. The coloured light swathed the altar and the front of the church, the dust particles dancing, swiftly spinning from Damien as he disturbed their movement. His eyes focused on the crucifix nailed to the wall, high above the altar.
He glanced around himself, checking he was on his own before he sighed. It was a faint whoosh of air past pale lips, a quick subtle sound that none would have caught unless they were standing close. His eyes fell to the dusty stone floor, allowing himself a rare moment of relapse in his usual façade.
My brother, you see, when he was young was not as anti-emotion as he is now. Back then, he would show compassion only when he was alone, only when there were no other witnesses, so unlike the Damien of today who shows no emotion no matter where he is, even at home. He had never been as controlling of himself or others in those days, he didn’t thirst for it like he does now. He was more human back then. I know, I keep mentioning his humanity or lack thereof, but it is one of the most important differences between the past Damien and the present Damien. So please, bear with me on this.
He stayed there for but a few minutes before he left the quiet sanctuary, back out into the soft warming sunlight of the May mid-morning. The twelve o’clock sun was high in the sky, heating his body more so then usual due to the nature of his suit and its dark colour. He dropped to sit on the stone steps, relishing the little shade the church provided. His legs and pointed shoes of soft leather were the only things left out in the searing sun. He squinted in the light, silently watching the few remaining attendants disappear through the spindly iron wrought gates towards their cars that clogged up the parking area of the small, local church. He didn’t bother to search for our mother, knowing that she would most likely still be wailing at my grave, clutching the cold stone, with Jacob standing by, unsure on how to comfort his wife.
It sounds harsh, but I often wonder that if it had been Damien who had died, would mother have reacted so dramatically? At the risk of sounding big-headed, her opinions on the both of us weren’t exactly secret. I was the favourite, and when I was young I would exploit such favouritism for my own selfish reasons. Damien was too reclusive, too sarcastic and cold to hold any real, true place in mothers’ heart for long. And, besides, it had been my father she always loved, even when Jacob had come onto the scene. It was another reason for her blatant favouritism. She saw me and she saw the dark eyes and dark hair of her previous husband and she fell in love all over again. She felt that deep, giddy joy all over again. Then she looked at Damien and she saw… well, I’m not sure what she saw, but she didn’t much like it. And now that I was dead, for the week that had past she had been leaning heavily on Damien, pushing him to become a replacement and Damien had knocked her aside rather bluntly. And now that I was buried, truly gone from her grasp, and Damien was all that was left, mother was far from pleasant.
A part of me often wonders that if, in her heart of hearts, did she maybe wish that Damien had died in my place instead. She never had and never would maintain a good relationship with her youngest son. In fact, soon after leaving Gabriel, Damien was to abandon everyone he once knew and move into the suburbs of London to seek his wealth and fame in the art world without the shackles of his past imprisoning him.
So there Damien sat, watching silently as the mourners slowly filtered out the gates towards their cars and disappeared from view. The wind ruffled his hair but a little as his hand rose to take a box of half empty Marlboro cigarettes from his inner pocket. He also withdrew his favourite lighter. Well, I call it his favourite but it could just possibly be the only one he didn’t misplace or the one easiest to carry around. It had been one I had gotten for him when I discovered his habit two years back, when he was thirteen. Unable to chastise him for such an action, to be a hypocritical ar'se, I instead brought him it as a piece offering. It was a silver plated affair, the glinting metal inscribed with a design of a skull with roses and vines creeping and blooming from the empty eye sockets. Its spooky grin had been a little disconcerting when you studied it properly, but Damien’s nod of acknowledgement and thanks were enough to tell me he liked it.
He pressed the cigarette between his lips, cupping a pale hand around the small flame as he flicked back the lid and it ignited. He dipped his head, the end of the cigarette burning in the flame as he inhaled with a sense of satisfaction. The lighter snapped closed, and he hid it once again within the confines of his inner pocket. He leant forward, blowing out a plume of blue-grey smoke, his elbows resting on his knees and his wrists limp. Only his fingers on his right hand were flexed, crooked around the small, smoking cylinder.
His gaze was fixed ahead, on the horizon fractured by various mossy headstones and chipped statues. He wasn’t paying attention to the distant figures of unnamed visitors or the birds that swooped down over head to perch in the sturdy branches of the trees, but it gave him the time for his thoughts to wander to whatever strange and obscure depths his thoughts would hasten to. He didn’t look up at the sound of approaching footfalls, he simply waiting for them to stop. And they did moments later, the shiny newness of his father patent leather loafers and his mothers’ enclosed black heels creeping into his peripheral vision. He didn’t look up from the distant spot he was gazing at. He just continued to smoke lazily, ignoring the attention.
“Car. Now,” his mother commanded stiffly with a few tense moments had passed in an overwrought silence.
“I’ll walk,” he replied, his blue eyes blinking slowly as his hand once again dropped with his still smoking cigarette clasped between his fingers.
“No,” our mother snapped, her manic eyes hinting at malicious violence. “You will get in the car with us. You will do as I say, as you mother ––” her voice was nearing hysterical pitches of highness, cracked and broken by the trapped sobs clogging her throat. Jacob clutched her frail body close to his as if afraid she might shatter and glared at his son.
“Damien,” he said warningly. This drew Damien’s attention, his eyes glinting with challenge as he regarded his father with an amused smile.
“Jacob,” he replied placidly. Damien had never been one to call Jacob or our shared mother by the generic terms of 'mum' and 'dad'. He had once, I believe, when he was young and untainted, but this changed in his younger years when he began to detach himself from the family. He flicked the gathering ash from the end of his cigarette to the floor, where it quickly broke apart in the light breeze and rolled away. A competitive silence crackled between father and son, each expecting the other to break first. Damien lazily released another plume of smoke.
“Theresa,” Jacob said softly a moment later, breaking the staring contest to glance caringly at his wife. Her livid, fuming gaze tore away from her youngest son and up to her husband, the heat not quietening on his face. “I think it best you went to the car,” he suggested quietly, his hand on the small of her back and lightly guiding her away. Her eyes hardened as she flicked between father and son before the handkerchief once again came to her mouth to silence a wretched sob as she thought once again of the son she had lost. She scurried away rather hastily, her heels tapping repetitively against the concrete floor as she ducked towards the battered silver Mondeo Estate.
Damien was repeating the movement of flicking ash of the end of his shrinking cigarette when his father turned back him, face enraged.
“Are you purposefully trying to make this harder than it already is?”
Damien watched his father darkly. “Don’t think so highly of yourself,” he stated flatly and yet somehow with a certain amount of scorn, “As if the likes of you deserves that much effort.”
“You insolent little bas ––.”
“Tut, tut Jacob, we are by a house of God,” Damien reprimanded, uncaring, it seemed, of any consequences. Probably because he knew there would be none, not really. His father would be too furious to actually speak, let alone anything else. All Damien had to do now was sit back and enjoy the show. His infuriating smirk never left his pale lips.
And indeed, Jacobs face twisted and contorted unpleasantly. He seemed quite unable to form a sentence, to form a word even. And Damien simply watched with that cursed amusement, flicking the butt of his now finished cigarette to the gravel not far from his foot. Jacob’s face was shifting dramatically in colour, melding from a greying white to a rosy red and finally to an interesting shade of mauve.
“Yo-you…” he spluttered over his words, once again taken by surprise. I find it hard that Damien’s audacity was that much of a shock anymore, but Jacob’s reaction’s never failed to alleviate Damien’s boredom.
“Hmmm,” Damien said with a cool smile. “What’s that, father?” He stood then, still smirking darkly. “I’ll walk,” he clarified finally, and turned his back on his beetroot father, knowing Jacob would be too infuriated to actually do anything except thump back to the car and bxtch and rant to our mother, Theresa a more then willing listener. The stones crunched beneath his lightweight footsteps as he moved across to the secondary exit the other side of the church. It was a lesser known entrance, a little overgrown and forgotten by most. Lush green grass grew wildly, the branches of the full trees hanging dangerously low. Damien ducked beneath the whispering leaves, down into the slight dip of the short, narrow trail towards a similar iron wrought gate. It was a small passage that was rarely used, and bled out into the street.
The gate opened with protest, a long, low groan of aching metal and slammed shut behind him with a strident clang that would’ve made anyone else jump. He glanced up and down the street. It was quiet, a few mothers and their buggies and a scattering of elderly people. All the kids between the ages of five and sixteen were lingering in the sweltering classroom of their schools. He would’ve been just the same; sitting at the back with a frostily lazy gaze had the funeral not taken place. Well, all students were locked within the confines of school except his select group of friends, who had banded together and bunked the day so that Damien had a place to go when the service ended, a place that wasn’t home. I think that they agreed under the false face of providing Damien a chance to forget about the whole instance, but maybe really wanted to see Damien a little less composed then normal. It was a hope that was in vain.
He loosened his tie as he paced up the street, the thin slide of fabric hanging loose either side of his neck. His top and second from top button was the next thing to shift from the more formal wear. Freed from the holes, the white cotton gaped open to reveal the milky whiteness of his throat and collarbone. The silver of his chain was just noticeable now above the fabric, glinting a little when the light caught it.
As he moved up the sparse pavements, barely glancing into the shops that lined such a pathway, he was thrown many mistrustful looks from suspicious elders. He slid a hand into his pocket, walking with an ease that surpassed that at my service. This was natural, not the automatic gait he had preformed earlier. This was more like a panther on the prowl for its prey, his hips swinging a little more then was perhaps normal for a fifteen year old boy and with an air of sophisticated awareness that was beyond his young years. In short, he appeared older then he really was. It was a trait that often attracted approving looks and attention from passing females of college age.
It didn’t take long for him to navigate the familiar streets to the Headling Park. The gravel cracked and crunched beneath his expensive shoes as he wandered up the stony path towards the propped open gate. Even from there his friends were visible, crowded around a picnic bench in the blissful shade of the opening of the small scale forest that fed around the eastern edge of the large park. Five figures there were, and they alone could say they were friends with Damien. It was a statement that was met with a feared awe or a nervous dismissal of interest in school.
When he approached, he found three were sprawled over the bench and the other two huddled close on the grass, soaking up the warm rays. Caitlyn was the first to notice him, glancing up from her nails and throwing a slightly hesitant smile in his direction. She had always been a pretty lass in my eyes. She was a little too young for me, but attractive none-the-less. She was a little short, curvy in a pleasant way. She had a good amount of weight on her, perhaps a size twelve, maybe touching a size fourteen. Her eyes were dark navy and glittered with a kindness Damien could and would never be physically able to repay. Her smile, too, was charming and friendly, faint traces of concern lingering within the hesitation to show such a pretty expression. Her brunette hair had been pulled back into a low ponytail, wisps of chocolate floating around her rounded face. Her clothes weren’t as revealing as the other females, a simple white strap top that accentuated her rather large breásts perhaps a little too much and highlighted her honey tan and a pair of darker blue skinny jeans.
The other female was the one on the floor: Lucinda. She was a slxt, for lack of a better word to describe her behaviour towards the opposite sex. She was pretty yes, but it was artificial, formulated by too much make up. Rather dull eyes stared out into the world, surrounded by heavy lashes. Her skin was flawless due to her foundation and a nice light colour. Her face was elfin; her lips a little thin but could split into a pleasant smile when she wasn’t trying to smirk seductively. Her clothes were the clothes more fitting to a model in an Anne Summers magazine. She wore a tiny denim skirt revealed long smooth legs and a loose fitting white shirt that she had unbuttoned as much as decency would allow and tied the bottom up to expose a flat stomach and fancy, glitzy piercing. Lucinda was often at the receiving end of scornful sneers from Damien, his distaste for girls who acted and dressed like whxres born a little while before.
And Lucinda lay on the floor with Ben, a player to the core. He was a dark skinned boy. His hair had been braided to his head, his dark eyes playful and flirty. He was the tallest out of all six of them and probably the most muscular. He could often be seen paired off with Lucinda, much like they were now. He was a good looking boy, easy to talk to and to get along with. Again, he was another that Damien didn’t really hold in the best of lights, but he could tolerate Ben more then he could Lucinda.
It was really only Caitlyn and the two that had joined her on the bench that Damien could admit to actually liking, in his strange little way. The first was Martyn. He was a quiet boy, and alike Damien in the sense that he was fair skinned with darker hair, with an affinity for the darker side of life. He was a contemplative soul, selective with his words and observant to a point that could challenge Damien. He was the kind of boy who enjoyed seclusion as much as he did company. He wore long short, black, with a black top with a dragon embroidered on the front. Hair that rivalled the length of the girls was tied back in a loose ponytail, but unlike Caitlyn, whose hair was styles, there were no loose strands threatening to escape. He was smoking lazily and simply nodded in Damien’s direction when he came close.
The last person Damien would regard as a friend was a large boy, stocky of build like a rugby player. His name was Callum, who, despite his size, was quite shy. He was also a quieter person, yet insightful and fun to be around when he eventually crept from his shell. He was the kind who was laid back and friendly, non-judgemental and genuinely kind. He would listen to anyone’s problems and was the only one who truly understood that Damien’s behaviour was imbedded in his nature and that he couldn’t change and never would attempt to change. And he was kind enough to accept Damien as he was, a decision that I suspect was fuelled by both general kindness and a kind of innocent curiosity.
And I also suspect the only reason Damien preferred this three to Ben and Lucinda were that they were easier to control and more neutral in all aspects of life, so unlike the others’ irritating over-friendliness and exaggerated sex drives.
“Morning,” Damien drawled as he stepped towards the bench. Ben and Lucinda barely looked up, lost in their own egos and, unfortunately, each others’. Caitlyn slipped from the seat almost immediately, stepping forward to do something, but Damien waved her away.
“Don’t,” he growled, a quiet command forbidding condolences and comfort. “I don’t need it,” he said with certainty, before tapping out another cigarette from the box he just produced from his pocket. Ignoring Caitlyn’s unimpressed rise of the eyebrow at such an action, he lit it and inhaled like it were oxygen and he were air deprived. Martyn and Callum watched silently, exchanging knowing looks and making a wordless deal to leave the subject of the funeral in the churchyard. Instead, Callum sat up and offered Damien a can of beer from his rucksack that was slumped at the far right leg of the bench.
Damien grinned and accepted, moving to step onto the hard seat and sit instead on the tabletop, opening the beer with a satisfying crack. He said nought as he done this, but, as I were to discover much, much later when Damien was in a vulnerable state of both emotional and physical pain that for the merest of moments, in the dark recesses of his mind, he said a very quiet toast to my memory.
And I was touched by the gesture. |
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