A match made in hell (SP//Dip)

Phillip, I'm sorry

Damien's POV
We didn't talk after that. We just sat there, enjoying each other's presence. As time passed, I felt him relax next to me, yawning and eventually falling asleep on my shoulder, curled into a ball. I smiled and settled him on the sofa, wrapping a blanket around him. I hesitated, then kissed his head softly, before leaving the house quietly.

I went along to my Father, hoping to talk to him.

"Damien." He greeted, his voice sincere and loud.

"Hello Father."

"To what do I owe the displeasure. I thought that giving you a new play thing would keep you away from me." He grumbled, sitting on the sofa he had kept from his break up with whatever his name was.

"I was just wondering if I could talk to you."

"About what?" He asked bluntly, not looking at me.

"About Phillip."

"What about him?"

"Why is he here? He seems angelic."

"That is none of your business, son. Is that all?"

"Why can't you just tell me? You told me everyone else's."

"For God's sake, if you are that desperate to know then ask him yourself. Now get lost, I have other things to do." He sighed, pointing towards the door, still not deeming me worth his time.

I sighed and left, trudging back to my home. But I walked past it, entering Phillip's house. Many people's homes were constructed to reflect their life, especially when they were good enough to be considered for heaven. I pushed the door open, looking around before sliding in, closing the door behind me.

The walls were a dull red, the floors a pale wood. There were no pictures on the walls, no decorations past some plants. Plastic plants. I wandered around the house, searching for a giveaway. There was nothing downstairs, although for some reason the drawer with cutlery had a lock. I crept upstairs, searching for a bedroom. I found it quickly, admiring his style for a second.

One wall was entirely decorated with records and albums, posters of artists he liked. Another wall had a cork board, covered in pictures of him and his friends, a few pictures of him alone. One wall was entirely a bookshelf, covered in books and plants and little trinkets. The final wall, the one where the door was, had a chest of drawers. A broken mirror sat on top, surrounded by fairy lights. Along the surface were patches and fabrics, pictures as well.

I gazed over the room for a few more seconds, before raiding the drawers. I grabbed a few clothes and outfits from the wardrobe and drawers, assuming he would stay with me a little longer. I stuffed them into a bag I found in the bottom of his wardrobe. While grabbing shirts, I uncovered a small journal. Curiously, I grabbed it, sitting on the bed and opening the pages.

It detailed his life, ordeals he had to go through, things people said, things he did to himself. His darkest secrets were scrawled in the pages, alongside a few cutout pictures. But one page in particular caught my eye, near the end of the book.

July 23rd
I miss Mother and Father. This foster home is such a laugh. The lady here is a fucking joke. She gives me one meal a day and beats me if I don't do something she wants. And she drinks. She drinks so much that sometimes I'm surprised she doesn't die. I can't wait to move out of this shit hole. I wonder how she hasn't noticed anything yet. Perhaps she has but she doesn't care, perhaps she just can't be asked. Either way, I am grateful that she hasn't, because if she did I feel I would get the beating of a lifetime.

I finished reading and slammed the book closed. I wanted to seek this woman out, to beat her senseless, but since she was probably still alive I had no chance. I threw the journal back into the drawer and slammed it shut, grabbing the bag of clothes I'd packed and dragging it to my house. Phillip was still asleep, blissfully unaware. I left his still at the end of the sofa, scribbling a quick note to him and sticking it to the bag.

And I grabbed my stuff and left.

Dear Phillip.

I am going on a trip, I will return in a few days. I have brought you some clothes, there is food in the cupboards.

Phillip, I am sorry.

Yours, Damien