⋆⭒˚｡⋆ᴍʏᴛʜɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ✧˖°.

𓆩ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ𓆪

TW: physical abuse and blood

read at your own risk!

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔ 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　       ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖✶   ✦　　

I sat in my room, contemplating everything I thought I knew up to this point.

Why was the man from my dream real? Why was Damien real?

I didn't want to believe it, I must've made everything up in my head. Maybe I read his nametag wrong and maybe this was all just some really strange, fucked-up coincidence.

I was almost frightened by the idea of having to return to school and see his face the next day. Yet, something in me yearned for more. I was eager to know everything about him. Who was he outside of his job? Was he who he really said he was? I had to know.

I raced over to my laptop and yanked it open.

I quickly typed in 'Damien Nightrose' to the search bar on Google. To my prevail, nothing popped up. No Facebook, no Instagram, etc.

A man with no social media is not necessarily a red flag, yet in this case, he was far too suspicious in my eyes and something was definitely up. I tried typing in just 'Nightrose' instead and was met with interesting results.

There was a nightclub called Nightrose. It was a small venue located just a few miles from my town but still in the general area. I pondered on it, maybe this was his family's business? The club seemed to have great reviews on Yelp and had regulars almost nightly. Especially on the weekends. Instead of answering my questions, this just created more. If your family's business was so successful, why work a crappy janitor job?

"Arden, dinner's on. Get it before it gets cold." My dad commanded from downstairs.

"Coming!" I shouted back.

I came downstairs to see that he had prepared dinner and set it up at our lonely little dining table. He made asparagus, potatoes, and steak. He never usually made dinner, we spent most nights getting Chinese takeout or pizza.

"What's the occasion?" I asked him as I put my napkin on my lap.

"I went to the grocery store."

"Cool. Did you get Trix?"

"That's why I went." He replied.

I peered up at him. He was staring down at his plate, a mouth full of potatoes.

I smiled to myself. He was not the most affectionate guy, but I knew deep down he cared.

"You try out for track yet?"

"Tryouts aren't until next week."

"So, you're training?"

"Sort of. I don't know." I was annoyed. "I hurt my leg today, so."

He nodded as he cut into his steak.

"Well, I need to talk to you about something anyway." He looked up at me, a serious twinge in his brow.

"Okay."

He sighed, "I know you're not really the 'going out' type but if you ever were to, just know that the curfew in this house is 9 PM sharp."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm just saying. There's talk at the base of gang activity. It runs the most rampant at night. Now, I don't know what kind of gang activity to be exact. Not like you need to know, but what's important is that you be here safe and indoors at that time."