❝fallen angels are destined for little else but raising hell.❞
[dark angel!5sos au]
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cw: this book contains strong language, descriptions of blood/gore, supernatural occurrences, mild sexual content, talk of various religions, drug/substance abuse...
*trigger warning for self harm, alcohol abuse, and death*
✞ Don't you know I'm too young? Can't you hear me calling you? Nothing hurts me now.
Mum; Luke Hemmings
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October 3rd, 1972
Luke had always been, and always would be, familiar with the cold.
That dark empty cold that starts at your feet, rising up until it reaches the very curves and crevices inside your mind. The cold began when his dad left back in '60. The dark, emptiness was fulfilled by his mother in the weeks, months, and years following.
He was an only child, a people pleasure, a sensitive soul. He always tried to make his mom feel better, even before his father left. He was always an entertainer, a builder. Before, he would build homes out of LEGO bricks. During, he would build forts out of pillows, blankets, and tears. In the future, he would build walls made of metal to shut others out.
His mother, Ruth Hemmings, blamed him. Even before his father left her, she blamed him.
Luke was the cause of her post-partum hysteria. Luke was the reason she never wanted any additional children. Luke was the reason she drank herself into a coma every goddamn night. Luke was the reason her husband left her. Nothing was ever her fault; it was always Luke.
She told him these things. She told him these things often. She told him these things often and he believed every single word.
His blue eyes, once so bright and full of promise, mimicking the skies above, quickly dulled, hardened like the deepest oceans below. His curly blonde hair grew longer and more tangled as he learned that it was easier to hide his tears and bruises that way. Plus, there was no way he would let his mother near him with scissors or spend his hard-earned money on a haircut. He would chop it when it became cumbersome and only then.
He believed every single word his mother ever spat at him to the point that he made it his life's mission to make her proud of something, desperate to replace her hatred with something that even resembled love.
Luke excelled in middle school. He excelled in high school. Academics. Sports. Extra-curriculars. Hell, he even tried his hand at theater and choir. He went to several churches, searching for love and warmth elsewhere and only emerged more confused and unsure. He begged for her attention. He tried, and he tried, and he tried.
