Here's a little piece for you all. Enjoy. All rights belong to whoever owns them. I do not own "Dexter,", but I do own Damon. He's not a very good character, so I guess if you want an OC called Damon, you may use Damon
Ain't I the nicest?
He wanted to scream.
That's what people did in these situations, they screamed. They screamed and screamed and screamed, until their throats ached and their voice grew horse. Every time he screamed, his cry of horror at the realisation of his situation was muffled by something in his mouth. Something soft, something soaked by his saliva. He tries to move his tongue. He can, but barely. It doesn't taste of anything, but a part of it detaches, and he cannot spit it out. He begins to cry, and he feels his bladder weaken.
He wanted to run.
He should run. Run far, far away. Run away screaming and crying with his heart pounding against his ribs and blood rushing through the veins of his terrified body. But he couldn't run. Just as he couldn't scream or cry out, he couldn't run. The sheeting that encased his body like some nightmarish cocoon couldn't be broken. He couldn't rip it. He couldn't burst out of it in a flail of limbs and panic and he certainly couldn't bite it.
The light came on. He cannot shield his eyes, so he squints, waiting for them to adjust to uncomfortable and sudden brightness. He looks around. Big wooden crates, a dirty floor, smashed windows. It looks like a rundown warehouse. But as he sees more of his surroundings, the more the icy dread within creeps through him. He knew this place. He knew it so well. It was is his playground. He knew what was in the crates. Remains and bits. Little tiny pieces of those who'd wronged him or those he didn't like the look of. He looks over to another section of flaw, and see's something written in something red.
The words were still there, dried, but still just about legible. A desperate plea. Written by somebody wishing to appeal to the humanity of a man who had none, whose heart and soul were cold, uncaring and dark.
Please stop.
A plea that was answered by a snapped neck, and a limp body. It felt good. Not many people could snap a neck, but he could do it, flawlessly.
But he could have been the biggest and strongest boy in the world and the sheeting over him would wouldn't have budged. It was good sheeting. The perfect blanket for the afterlife. He struggle again, out of sheer survival instinct rather than any sense of hope. Hope died in his life a long time ago. Redemption too. Forgiveness joined them soon after.
He counted the crates. Six. Six. One more. One more than the number he killed. He checked this place each night and there was always a maximum of five crates. But now there was a sixth one. Somebody must have put it there, while the drugs were still potent in his system.
Which meant…
He heard footsteps, and a man stepped into view.
He wasn't alone.
He was with somebody, somebody whose eyes showed the same bleak emptiness his did. Yet his demon seemed different. It had a keener edge to it, a demon honed to near perfection. A demon far bleaker and horrific than his own. The perfect predator of the night.
He remembered the noose, and his throat begins to ache.
The man looked to be in his mid-thirties, a good looking demon by all accounts. Well-toned too, with a handsome face, and neat red hair. If you took away the darkness behind his eyes, he looked like a friendly, Miami citizen. Who certainly wouldn't cut you up into little pieces and let the sharks feast on you.
He walked over to the sixth crate, never speaking. Apart from footsteps, silence had coated the room like an eerie smog. A crowbar was held in his hand, and he went over to the sixth crate, with To Damon, with "Our deepest love", Dexter, written on it. With the crowbar in hand, and his foot placed at the base of the crate, he yanked it open. He bent over its mouth and scooped up what's inside.
A dead dog. A canine whose death had done nothing to endear it, who was an ugly mongrel before the knife slipped between its shoulder blades and after.
That was his dog. A vicious thing, something that should have been put down long ago, with explosives, but still his. Ripper. Ripper and Snapper. They were a team. Two outcasts, working together to cut through the cattle of this world.
The man stepped back into view that hated man. If Damon were free, that man, that smug, stupid man, would be little more than a crying mess of spilt blood and broken bones.
The man took something from his pocket, a hammer. He leant over Damon's body, a body flowing with fear and hatred. The man twisted the hammer around, until the claw was scant inches away from his forehead.
"We bid you goodnight," His voice sounded inhuman, demonic, cursed.
He raised his arm, then brought the hammer back down onto Damon's soft skull, a big skull for such an empty man.
Splat.