Strangers in the Storm ✔

Chapter 12: Torn Ideals

DAMIEN

As the dawn broke around him, colouring the entire world a pastel shade of pink and blue, Damien switched to whiskey. Not the best coping mechanism in the world, but also the only thing he could do to shush his raging mind in these early morning hours.

For forty minutes he sat on the boat anchored to the dock while he drank the whiskey straight from the bottle like a common drunk. He pretended he wanted to finish the bottle before he went home, but he was actually waiting for the girl to return.

Bitterness gathered in his throat, due to either whiskey or frustration, but the effect was all the same. He knew he did nothing wrong. Sure, he might have been counting on her to stay, but he ascribed that to his overblown ego.

He couldn't give her what she wanted. What the hell did she want anyway?

Love? A soulmate? The one?

Damien believed in neither of those things. He also thought Roxanne became a slave to those ideas and if she continued searching for a soulmate, she would never find what she was looking for.

God knew he wasn't capable of being anyone's soulmate. Hell, he was drinking whiskey alone on his boat at 6AM like an absolute failure of a man. How could he possibly give someone love they craved or deserved?

He couldn't even convince his mother to continue living.

Roxanne told him he was a coward. It's been a while since someone called him out this roughly. She said he was afraid of getting hurt and maybe she was right.

Prompted by the desire to prove her wrong, Damien finally grabbed his keys and left the dock. Some restless spirit led him to the cab and all the way across the city. Fortunately, he was smart enough to leave his car behind because once he exited the cab in front of his father's Mediterranean villa, he barely stood on his two feet.

By the time Damien managed to push the luxurious gates open and stumble across the marble pathway to the front door, the sun has already risen. The asphalt on the streets began to heat up and the night's blur slowly disappeared, leaving behind bitter disappointment and regret.

But Damien was determined and drunk enough to bang on his father's front door with little to no regard to neighbours pulling out of their driveways and going to work.

"Open up." Damien kept his voice low enough, knowing very well someone might call the police simply because he was here. Rich people rarely tolerated intruders.

The ebony front door cracked open and an grey-haired, but well groomed, man opened, "Damien?"

Drew Douglas was in his early sixties, but would pass as forty-something if it weren't for the lump of completely white hair on the top of his head. His sharp dark eyes still shone as brightly as ever and his skin had just enough wrinkles to add wisdom, but not age. As always, he wore a grey suit, with a tie and everything.

Standing in front of his father at 7AM drunk off his ass, Damien felt foolish.

"Mom is dying." He said, wondering what he came here to say exactly.

His father exhaled and offered a sympathetic gaze, which he would sometimes give his clients when he simply could not lower the price.

"I know, Damien." He said. "I'm sorry."

For some reason, Damien immediately felt the bile rise to his throat. Perhaps he shouldn't have finished the bottle of whiskey, or he shouldn't have come here.

"You could change that." Damien spoke, suddenly unstable on his two feet. "You could- she would listen to-"

Crap, his tongue began to twist.