A match made in hell (SP//Dip)

Should've stayed buried

note: i know i said this would be a short story but it may end up being longer 😪

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Pip's POV
I woke up, alone. It had been 2 days since Damien had left, I started to worry.

Phillip, I am sorry

I kept rereading the message. Could you die once you were dead? Was he going to do something to himself, to someone else? The more I thought about it the more I worried. so I distracted myself.

I snooped around his house, raiding his things, learning about his life. I wanted to finda  diary or some letters, something that would tell me about him, but all I found were some old pictures of him and someone who's face had been burnt out. The two were younger in the picture, about 8 or 9. Damien wore an all black outfit, jumper, jeans, shoes. All black. His hair was scruffy, pointing up like horns almost. The person next to him was shorter, wearing something I couldn't distinguish because the picture was charred. I could make out some shoulder length hair, a yellowy colour. I flipped the photo over. There was a message.

Damien,
I love you dearly, and I shall wait as long as I must for you.

Yours,

The name had been scribbled over. Perhaps it was an ex lover, someone he just couldn't let go. Maybe an old friend, maybe a crush. Who knew. I put the picture back gently, returning everything to its place. I headed back out of his room, disappearing upstairs. There was the bathroom up here, but also another door. It was probably a storage room, or a spare guest room, so there wasn't much point in searching.

But I did anyway.

The door wasn't locked, but something behind it prevented it from opening easily. I stepped back and kicked it, hard. It scraped open, just enough for me to squeeze through. Behind the door was a pile of clothes, they looked like something I'd own. I looked around, admiring the aesthetic. Fake ivy, fairy lights, records, broken mirror shards all over the walls. It was all fairly normal, maybe an extravagant guest room designed for someone specifically. But then there was the cork board.

It was covered in pictures of someone. The pictures started as early as 8, and progressed up to about 17. There were little notes and drawings all over it, presumably drawn by the boy in the pictures. A neat stack of letters sat next to the board, alongside a single, note. I looked again at the clothes. They weren't something I could see Damien wearing, they were far too bright for his liking. So they were gifts.

I just stared for a second, trying to piece it together. A wave of nausea hit me, a nostalgic smack. I couldn't bear the room anymore, quickly slipping out and pulling the door shut. I walked back down the stairs and sat on the sofa, chewing my nails anxiously.

Perhaps those memories, that part of his past should've stayed buried.