Disclaimer: Would i have this crappy computer and be stealing my interweb from the neighbors if i owned South Park? No. And my man porn would be much much more realer too!

Warning: Death and neglect and self pity.

Summarized: Damien Thorn is the son of Satan. And he lives in a world of Abusers and users. If you can't beat them what's left?

Moi: So Damien doesn't get enough publicity and he seems like a greatish guy. You know once you get past the desperate for attention, spoiled, evil, i-set-that-kid-on-fire-for-the-hell-of-it bad boy exterior.

Seriously, he's a marshmellow inside.

Promise.

Read, Rate, Don't regret it!

Abuse is a convenient and easily reachable form of control. It's a way to be the master in an unstable world.

Some abusers are older men, with wives, girlfriends and boyfriends who are their focus. Some are mothers, taking inadequacies and poor choices out on the children they bore. Some are unhappy children with home lives that aren't perfect.

Regardless of reasons and outlets, these are the bad people. These are the people who give birth to fears, phobias and suicide attempts. These people are homewreckers and world shatterers, these are the people responsible for pain.

These are the people who populate my world.

In school you find the teachers who are cruel to me because of my beliefs. The children that litter the classrooms and play yards find fault with my clothing style, my hair cut, my face. At home, well, at home my father is too busy with his latest tryst to take notice of my actions one way or another. When my father isn't with his lover, he is running his domain and looking after his citizens.

The man still refuses to tell me the name of my mother.

I used to be subject to the physical abuse of my peers. Before I got older, before I understood power. Violence was a way to solve problems, and I had many problems. So I became the image I needed to survive.

I smoked cigarettes as long as it was cool, then I switched to harder stuff. At the parties I provided and decimated the alcohol stashes. When we hit high school I fucked anyone and everyone that would have me, I drove a badass convertible, I hung out with the other 'off-limits' kids like DeLorne, Tucker and Marsh.

We were the one's no one wanted to be on the wrong side of. No one fucked with us, from teachers to students. We were safe from their abuse.

And best of all I became what I most hated.

I talked with my fists and harsh words. Bullies like Eric Goddamned Cartman went down under my arms and were smart enough not to bother me twice. I degraded and disregarded anyone's feelings but my own.

It took years but I gradually came to realize I was no longer a person under this shell.

The whole of me was a shell with no soul. I'd done such a good job at protecting myself, I no longer had anything to protect. So many time's I had beaten up a younger child to prove my strength, so many times I had made someone cry, that I'd lost myself in it.

I became the anger.

I became an abuser.

That gruesome revelation is what brought me up short. I was just out of high school, no more rules no more living with my dad, no one to be protected from. I had been ready to release the real me. Only to find nothing left.

They had won.

While those who abused me hadn't been the direct cause of the demise of my soul, but my own actions, they were the ones who had pushed me so far into the dark I saw only their warped light as salvation.

This tragic conclusion led me down a road that was a dissonance of destruction.

It led me here.

I stand with no shirt, my pale, pale white chest bared to the bleach white moon. A pair of black jeans hanging loose off my hip bones, my feet also bare. My arms are spread wide and my head thrown back. My eyes are free of the dark contacts for the first time in so many years. Their crimson piercing straight into the heavens, my white teeth flashing in the feral grin I give up. My face is stretched with maniacal glee, dark hair whipping around me.

And then I feel the burning. My flesh is heating and the smell of burning hair is thick in the night air. Even with my eyes trained upwards, waiting, looking; I can see from the corners of my vision the inky black patterns spreading. I know what they are meant to look like. Just as I know what will happen when the tattoos are fully formed.

The day I realized I had nothing left in this world was the beginning of the end, for everyone.

I thought back to one of the most important lessons I had ever had as a child.

My father and his advisor, Zazul were both in attendance that day. As rare as the occurrence was, it was even more unnerving to find the two sitting calmly across the table from me, waiting for me to arrive and not speaking of anything, gossip or otherwise.

With a grave face, which is incredibly hard to manage with the over large teeth forked tongue and horns, my father began speaking.

"Damien…." He seemed at a loss for what to continue with. Zazul simply looked uncomfortable.

"Damien you know, you know who you are right?" His voice held more question than I thought understandable at the age of seven, of course I knew who I was.

"My name is Damien Thorn." I said with the affirmation and certainty of any child when asked their name.

Father closed his yellow eyes briefly, in obvious annoyance, and I became even more nervous in anticipation of punishment. My father didn't hurt me, per say, he just didn't understand how sometimes his punishments were extreme. Sending a child into the desert of Hell's second circle, alone, at night, for not eating his peas was extreme, right?

"And uh… I'm the son of Satan!" I added in a hurried voice, smiling attentively.

Father looked at me again a faint smile, another hard expression to convey with his over-large-canines and one that might be hard to interpret for someone that hadn't lived with the man all his life. His yellow eyes, an eye color common among demons and something I always envied, softening farther. He reached out a huge hand, covered in thick brown hair, oily red skin underneath, and covered my own.

I did not wince or pull away. Though the stench of brimstone burnt my more delicate human-esq nasal passage and his hand was so heavy and hot my sensitive skin was blistering under it. I only managed that because affection, attention of any kind, was so rarely given from him that I treasured every second.

At this moment, even, I do not doubt if he came in a shower of fire and sparks to speak calmly to me I would cease, and let myself stop.

"Damien." He continued, speaking my name for the third time as if it were a talisman for patients. "You are Thorn, you are my son. You are right about all that. But you are also… more"

The way he said it left me distinctly ill-at-ease, but before I could question him Zazul had begun speaking.

With my attention shifted my father removed his hand from mine, and out of the corner of my eye I caught the grimace he made as he brought the limb back to himself. It pained me, a feeling of bareness taking over my soul, when I recognized the action for disgust, but I pushed it away.

"Did you never wonder what the Thorn of your last name stood for? What it means to be Son of Satan? Why you turn into the Beast on the nights of full moons?" Zazul spoke the questions of my soul so casually.

I had wondered. Though at that age and that point of the journey of my life it was more vague anger at not understanding the answers already. Deep inside me I knew these questions would give me a purpose, a philosophy.

Not having formed the opinion of the Abuser cycle and my cynical world view yet, I found my life without meaning and thought these answers might give me that.

More the fool I.

"You were named Damien of the Thorn upon your birth because it is what you are. Damien Is easy enough to understand, being 'one of the damned'. At birth you were one of the few beings given a life without the choice of an afterlife, you were born to die only one death and are thus damned to never know of Heaven, or be sentenced to Hell.

You were given the last name Thorn because of the religious meanings behind it. When the Christ was nailed to a cross and martyred he was also crowned with a ring of thorns. You were named with that crown in mind. You are to be an everlasting reminder to the God who sentenced his son to die, that even though Christ was the way he opened Heaven, he also opened the way to the end of times.

You are the Anti-Christ.

You were created to be the opposite of the humble carpenter who gave the world hope.

You are the destroyer.

When the time is deemed right you will destroy earth and bring the final battle about. It is because of you that Hell and Satan's army of the fallen will finally wage a final war against the filth of Heaven. We will finally be able to finish what we began.

With the apocalypse you yourself will cease to exist, for you must truly die to bring the end and you cannot live on in an after life with no soul."

Zazul stopped his dirty yellow eyes boring into mine. Now I realize he was trying to gauge my reaction to a final death, then I found my crimson eyes blinking in confusion and one last question on my mind. None of that stuff seemed to awfully important.

"So… why do I turn into The Beast on full moons?" I hazarded to ask.

Truly this was the most burning question of all. On nights when there was to be a full moon on the northern hemisphere of earth I was locked into my room, which had no windows and an iron door, and left to transform.

My skin would blacken and sprout thick fur and my teeth would lengthen. After an hour of agony my bones would have reformed themselves into a distorted shape, vaguely bare-like in appearance from what I'm told. I would be left the opposite of what I had been in my human-flesh, a tall dark beast of a thing with a slavering blood thirst and hunger to hunt. My crimson eyes the only unchanged aspect of me.

No one had ever explained it to me, so I had assumed I should already know the reason.

Zazul looked startled. Probably shocked that I wasn't more concerned about himself and my father deciding what day to send me out to die. But he spoke again, no hesitation in his voice.

"You are The Beast on full moon nights because that is the punishment you receive for not doing your duty every month. To fully create the apocalypse all you are required to do is stand in the moonshine of a full moon and the process will begin. For every moon you don't do so you will be forced into the change, forced to endure the agony and control the primal urges it incites.

The moon will draw your life essence out, coat your skin with the voices of the fallen and twisted angels, and break the world apart. The land will tare asunder, spouting ash and raining fire from above and below, the sky's will bleed red as your eyes and you will slowly fall. You will be left as a human, your skin will fade to a human shade, your hair dull to human in color, your eyes would lose their crimson.

You would no longer see, feel or taste. And with the last breath you draw, the last sound you will hear will be the sixteen hooves of the Horsemen. As they enter the word to wreak havoc, you will leave it."

Zazul narrated with perverse relish. I had long since come to terms with the gruesome side of death, How could I not with rotten corpse's in my front yard and tortured screams my alarm clock most days? So Zazul's vivid description of my ultimate doom was more exciting than terrifying for me.

My father spoke again then, a warning, his tone more chilled and stilted as it usually was. He wasn't acting the caring parent of even the kind friend then, he was being Satan speaking to Damien.

"This is why we have to lock you in your room on those nights Damien. If even a ray of moonshine touches you the whole process will begin. It is unstoppable and inevitable once started. God hasn't the power to end it, but neither do it. It is important we time it perfectly."

It was after discovering that my life was done. My spark extinguished. That I remembered this conversation. I knew what I had to do. I knew the only way to leave behind the gaping emptiness I had now was to end it.

Fulfill my purpose and end the world.

I read everything I could for weeks in the library's of Hell about the apocalypse. I read about molten lava rising to the surface and the air infusing with brimstone. The speculation about who the Four Horsemen were hiding as, where they hung in limbo at, awaiting the end of days to ride forth and sow ruin. The stories about the glory Satan would bring and how the fallen angels, cursed into demonic bodies and striped of beauty and power would rise again. How god's glory would never be sung from mortal lips, how screams of the dying would perfume the air.

It was rather biased in Hell's favor.

And then when I could finally wait no more, when the hollow pit of despair I had become was overwhelming, a full moon had risen.

Instead of locking myself away in a basement, my room, or even returning to Hell.

I stepped forward.

I walked out the door of my house and let my naked flesh meet the moonshine of a full moon for the first time in my life. For the last night of my life.

And now my body painted with silver moonshine began to melt and boil in earnest. The Black tattoo's expanding and taking shape, the written language of Heaven scrawled across my skin in the fallen angels ever-tortured screams.

My eyesight was dimming; I could feel faint heat outside myself for mere moments before it to was gone. I landed on my knees, the sting of my peeling, burning crisping flesh almost non-existent as I landed on hard concrete.

As I struggled hard to breath air through my near-paralyzed chest I heard it. The dim clip, clop, clip, clop of more than a dozen legs striking pavement. A choir was resounding around me, God opening the stage for war, and a discordance of screams as Hell's gates burst forth.

A single neigh pierced my waning awareness.

The fight had begun.

StarGuide2011