Chapter Text
Damien sat there, his body a testament to the burden he carried. His face, usually a canvas of indifference, was etched with the weariness that had become a constant companion. The room around him was the epitome of despair, a reflection of the tumultuous existence he had found himself in since his arrival in Hell. The walls, if they could talk, would likely narrate tales of anguish and suffering that had unfolded within their confines.
The silence in Damien's chamber was oppressive, hanging in the air like a thick fog that had settled in his heart. Only occasionally, this eerie quietude was disrupted by haunting echoes of anguished screams, sounds that had become disturbingly familiar to him during his time in the depths of Hell. Those tortured souls, tormented by the weight of their sins and regrets, were his neighbours in this infernal neighbourhood.
"UGH! There's nothing to do around here!" Damien's voice was a discordant symphony of bitterness as he let out a cry of frustration. He couldn't bear the stillness any longer. His limbs flailed, his feet kicked, and his arms thrashed about, adding further chaos to his already dishevelled bed, much like the chaos that reigned within him.
BZZT! BZZT!
BZZT! BZZT!
'Death and destruction!'
Damien's gaze shifted to his bedside table, the obnoxious ringtone persisting with its haunting message, "death and destruction." He let out a weary sigh, pulled himself up from his lifeless slump, and assumed a defeated posture as he reached for his phone.
"What do you want," Damien groaned, his voice dripping with annoyance. He begrudged the interruption of his aimless contemplation of the grimy ceiling, and the nothingness it symbolized.
"Well, my little dark soul—"
"DAD. I TOLD YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT."
"Sorry, Damien, but that's beside the point," Satan grumbled. "I'm going to need you to stop by tomorrow. I have some exciting news for you, son."
"Why can't you just tell me that now? We're literally on the pho—"
Before Damien could finish his sentence, the call abruptly ended. "Wow. What a millennial," he remarked, his discontent etched across his face. He flopped backwards onto the bed, stretched his arms out, and drowned out his thoughts with his favourite heavy metal music, the haunting lyrics of 'Welcome To Hell' by Venom seeping into his restless mind.
The next morning, Damien woke from a restless slumber, his eyes struggling to adjust to the feeble light that crept through the curtains. He rubbed the sleep from his tear ducts and shook off the remnants of his dreams. With a groan, he climbed out of bed and reached for his long-neglected black sweater, worn and tattered like a relic of his past.
He trudged out of his front door, the world outside seeming as desolate as his inner landscape. The sky above was an eternal crimson, a constant reminder of the realm he now called home. The streets were lined with twisted trees, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers as if attempting to claw their way back into the world of the living.
"𝓕𝓐𝓡𝓔𝓦𝓔𝓛𝓛, 𝓢𝓘𝓡𝓔," a servant greeted him, offering a set of keys with a subdued demeanour.
Without a word, Damien accepted the keys, moving with a grace that was absent of enthusiasm. He descended the steps, then paused at the bottom to draw in a deep breath, hoping to find some purpose in the day. The journey to his father's palace was a quiet one, his thoughts consumed by the inescapable embrace of solitude. He watched imps darting across the sky, carrying satchels, their chaotic antics momentarily breaking his disinterested facade.
Upon arriving at his father's palace, Damien couldn't shake the feeling that Satan had yet another new companion. His impatient knock on the door resonated through the halls with a thunderous urgency. He heard a flurry of movement and the shattering of dishes, all of which only fuelled his growing frustration. Finally, the door creaked open, revealing Satan's beaming face.
"Hello, Damipoo— I mean, son."
Damien's eyes flickered, but he let the nickname slide, too weary to react. "What do you want, you poor excuse for a father?"
Satan invited him inside, his expression strained but trying to be welcoming. Damien entered and surveyed the place, noting the changes since his last visit. The chaos, though, remained a familiar sight, with broken dishes and toppled furniture scattered around. His gaze was drawn to a framed picture on the wall, and he quickly averted his eyes.
It was a photo of Damien and his mother.
He swallowed hard, forcing down the wave of emotions that threatened to break through. He had made a vow to himself after his mother's passing never to show weakness, and he intended to honour it. He shifted his attention to Satan.
"Take a seat, Damien," Satan offered, indicating a plush chair adorned with gilded accents.
"Why do we have to be so formal?" Damien mused, his voice a mask for the turmoil within. He slumped into the chair, crossing his arms and legs.
"Look, Damien," Satan began, skilfully avoiding the question. "I wanted to discuss the possibility of you attending—"
"Just spit it out already," Damien interjected, his obsidian, caterpillar-like eyebrows furrowing as his patience wore thin. (I made a real knee-slapper right there, praise me)