Flesh and Blood

Chapter 19 - Don't Forget to Check Under Your Beds

You are a monster.

Last night was a dream. A dream that was far too perfect to be real.

Luke was perfect. Absolutely perfect. And yet Damien, being the selfish, greedy bastard that he was, he wanted more, so much more. He wanted to see Luke cry and beg and scream. He wanted to see Luke clawing at his arms to make him stop. He wanted to see him squirm and kick and writhe. He wanted to see him desperately gasp for his final breaths of air. He wanted to see him dead.

No, no, no, he didn't want Luke dead.

Monster.

Damien closed the bathroom door so he wouldn't have to see Luke sleeping in bed. He couldn't look at the blood-stained sheets and scar-covered arms. It was too much for him, the blood, the scars, the pain, the gasps. It reminded him too much of a murder. He couldn't be around Luke now because everything he would do would remind him of their perfect night, of the almost perfect murder.

Damien pressed his hands against his face because, no, he couldn't think of it like that. He couldn't think of Luke as his perfect victim. He couldn't let the best sex of his life coincide with the best murder of his life.

He shoved his face into the sink and yanked the faucet on, waiting for the scalding water to burn off his skin. His hands were still gripped around his face, waiting and waiting, because maybe, just maybe, he could peel it off this time. Maybe he could finally tear off whatever terrible mask he wore this time.

When he stood up again, he stared at the mirror and frowned at his reflection. It was a miserable thing. Its face was still covered with the dried blood from the victim it failed to kill. Its lips were still red and swollen, still cut up and bruised, from the biting and the gnawing. And its eyes, its eyes, they were bright and wide and excited, but somewhere lurking behind those eyes was a vast, dark emptiness.

It was the first time he looked at the mirror and saw more than blood and flesh and bone.

He saw a monster.

***

When Damien returned to the bedroom, Luke was awake. He tried to revert back to his usual smug attitude, but he knew that Luke could see right through his act, so instead of hiding behind an obvious mask, he tasked himself to clean up the room before Luke could say anything besides, "Good morning, asshole."

Damien couldn't tell if the sarcasm was meant for the "good morning" or the "asshole." Because there were the cuts, the bites, the blood, the pain, so of course he fucking meant the sarcasm to be for the "good morning." But then there was No, never.

You need to respond to him, asshole.

Damien smirked, at least, he thought he smirked, and continued picking up clothes.

"You can't patch me up, can you?" Luke asked.

Damien paused and then dropped the clothes into a hamper. "What do you think?"

"I think you can do it."

Damien could barely look at him. What made him think he could touch him again?

"That's fucking stupid."

Luke rolled his eyes, or at least, Damien assumed he rolled his eyes.

"Why? I'm not dead!"

You wanted to see him dead.

"Stop."

He didn't mean to say that out loud, but it was still applicable.