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When Boy Meets Boy (Chapter One)

"The making of a killer."
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Published 5 years ago
...Reader discretion advised...

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Please note that the views and opinions expressed in this story are those of the fictional characters portrayed in the story and do not reflect the views and opinions of either the writer or the staff at Stories Space.

Damian: 4 Years Old.

Lightning flashed outside my bedroom window. The rain was coming down harder than I had ever seen before. It hit against the glass of my window, the tapping sound echoing throughout my room and slowly driving me insane. As the thunder made my small room shake, I could hear Father downstairs. He was laughing with a few friends of his that he had over often. I wasn't allowed out of my room most of the time, and I wasn't allowed to even make a noise, when Father's friends were over.

Father's voice interrupted my thoughts. His deep, mighty roar traveled its way upstairs and through the cracks of my door. Father never liked me, always locking me in my room for hours, even days at a time. No food, water or activity for days. I got used to entertaining myself. I didn't mind the solitude most of the time. I would always look out my window and daydream, thinking about all the people that passed. Just thinking that one day, I could change one of their lives. 

The other morning, I was looking outside the window, as the people passed my house. I have seen all types of people yet, there was one that stood out to me. She was a mother with a little daughter in a stroller. She reminded me a lot of my own mother...

Mother left when I was born. She was convinced I was Satan himself. She never held me, talked to me, or looked at me since the first time I was laid into her soft, gentle arms. I do not remember much of my Mother, but what I do remember never left a good memory inside my head. Father said as soon as she looked into my eyes she knew I was evil. Father said he agreed but kept me around for the money he gets which is quickly spent on drugs and liquor. I was nothing but money to him.

"Bastard!" my father's voice screamed. I heard the sound of a glass bottle hitting the wall. I didn't flinch anymore, I was used to the sound of them by now. After a few times, I found myself playing with the glass. I would put the tiny shards into a little pile and press my hand into them. It was a strange feeling, having all the tiny bits of glass dig into my skin and start to draw blood. I'd then take my hand up from the floor and just admire it. The blood running down my arm and pooling around on the floor. 

What excited me most was when I would use the sharp glass to slit open animal's throats. Birds were my favorite, I loved hearing their high-pitched cries as their warm blood oozed onto my fingers and soaked into the dirt below them. Seeing them struggle brought me happiness, and the more I did it, the happier I felt. It took me away from Father, it took me away from everything and when I did it I finally felt complete.

Father told me it was not what "normal" four year olds did, but he never understood the power and happiness I felt when I was causing pain to something living. I tried to explain it to him but it was useless in the end. Sometimes I would try to find the right words to say to him, but I could never come up with them. Even when I did try to explain it, he'd tell me to shut up and throw me in my room for more days without food or water.

I heard my Father's heavy footsteps coming up our wooden stairs and toward my room. I glared at the door, challenging him to come inside and torture me once more. He's done things to me that most people would see as sickening. Yet, I didn't mind them. They didn't hurt me anymore but the bruises of the past clung to my skin in the form of black, purple and blue marks. I watched as the doorknob slowly turned, sparkling against the moonlight coming through my window.

My father stood in the doorway. Like a giant shadow being the only thing that separates me from life or death. I saw the Jack Daniel's bottle in his hand as he brought it to his lips to gulp down a few swallows. That was his choice of drink, he was never without a bottle or two around the house. He wasn't so bad when he was sober, but when he gets drunk the real fun begins.

"Damian," my Father's dark voice called. It echoed through my empty room. The only thing in my room was my bed which was in the very far corner. I never had anything else in my room. I got off my bed and walked over to Father. His dark brown, heartless eyes glared down at me. The hate rolled out of them like waves crashed upon the beach in a hurricane. 

"Yes Father?" I asked. His hand was just a flash of tanned flesh and soon I felt a string on my cheek. I fell to the ground as I felt the trickle of blood on my chin. He had hit me hard enough to knock me to the ground. I smiled at the ground, as I eyed the drops of blood starting to fall from my chin.

"I did not say you could speak," he growled. I looked up at him as he took another large gulp from the bottle. He grabbed the collar of my shirt and jerked me up until I stood upon my feet. His hand tightened on my shirt collar, he pulled me close to him and then let go as he threw my body against the brick wall. I couldn't help but let out a cry as the pain began to set in. 

"Men don't cry," he plainly said. He took the last gulp of the liquor and gripped the neck of the glass bottle. I was about to get off the floor when I felt a sharp pain at the back of my head. I heard the sound of shattering glass. It is quite interesting how you become so used to certain sounds that hearing them is sort of relaxing, calming in ways. I looked down at the glass shards spread across the floor around me as I heard Father leave, locking the door behind him. 

I reached around to the back of my head and felt the warm feeling of blood. I brought my hand back to my eyes. My fingers were covered in scarlet as the blood ran down my finger and onto my palm. I slowly brought them to my lips, letting my blood cover my bottom lip. The taste was like a mouthful of pennies, but there was something about it that made me want more. Anger slowly began to consume me, as I sat down on the ground, just watching the stream of blood run down from my palm and to my arm. I don't think father knows what I am capable of.

I'm not really sure what I am capable of.

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