Damian hates his boss, his doctor has just told him he's got an inoperable brain tumour, and he's about to meet the Devil and the girl of his dreams, when all he really wanted was coffee and a sandwich. You might say it's not his day... or it could...
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I slept late through the morning. Waking only when the pain killers wore off. Erica was checking in on me every hour or so. I wasn't worried. Just angry. And La Morte was going to pay.
Opening my bag I found a series of paintings. Paintings I had carried with me for as long as I could remember. And today I was going to hang them. Even if it was against our "tenants agreement".
Erica found me about to strike the first hanging nail, between one of her visits to my bedside. She said she felt responsible. I had no idea why.
'Wait!' she cried out.
'Why?' I asked with all the innocence I could muster.
'Well... I....'
'Exactly,' I said, 'this house has attacked me and now it's time for a taste of my own medicine.'
'But Luke said...'
'Yes?'
'We're not supposed to modify the house.'
'Oh yes, and I know why too. I've been thinking about this since late yesterday, when I was talking to Rosalie. I've got to try something. I can't go six months without sleep and with ever increasing injuries!'
'Ok, well I know nothing about this then,' smiled Erica walking off. At least I knew she understood.
I turned back to the task at hand. Holding the nail against the wall. I'd chosen a nice big one. I'd had my tool kit brought over with my other things. You never knew when you might need something. I had the hammer in my right hand. Taking a deep breath, I drew my arm back, and gave the nail a good hearty blow. It drove straight into the wall with a soggy kind of thud. It was sickening. A moment later a trickle of blood slithered down the paint. I was right. If La Morte didn't play ball tonight I would hang a shit ton of paintings tomorrow. Smiling to myself I wiped the blood away with my finger and walked off. The rest of my belongings would be here on the weekend, including a wonderfully large collection of artworks. And now I had somewhere to hang them.
Walking back to my room, I caught site of my face in the hall mirror. I almost felt bad for a second. I looked like a madman. Sadism was not second nature to me. This was not a side of myself I wanted to nurture. A sharp pain in my belly brought me crashing back to my senses. Fuck La Morte! Look what she'd done to me! I would have these scars forever now. No. I was doing the right thing. This couldn't happen again. Taking some more pain meds I trundled myself back off to bed. I'd need a few days of bed rest at least to get over this one. Luckily I hadn't needed stitches. Getting into bed slowly so as not to re-open my wounds I drifted off to sleep almost immediately, sleeping though until the next morning. La Morte had left me alone. I think it got the message. Well, I hoped. Can a building rationalise? I didn't know. I thought I had better add a stern verbal threat for good measure. Looking up at the ceiling I was so busy writing my speech in my head that I didn't even notice I had fallen asleep again...
