That night, Damien sat at his kitchen table, writing away.

And please rain fall and cleanse my soul

The soul in which I'd believe to be nonexistant

If only my father wasn't the part of it

That most despise with the passion

Of the burning sun that He created

All those years ago in the years of glory

In the years before me

And in the years before my descendents

'Boy, when are you gonna stop with that blasted poetry?'

Damien drops the pen when he comes to the realization that the voice came from behind him. And that the owner of the voice was looking over his shoulder the whole time.

But his reply is solemn. 'Never,' Damien replies, eyeing Opal, a tall and attractive redhead whom his father had favored due to the fact that she was a dedicated member to the Church of Satan in life. He isn't eyeing her in a sexual or lustful way as he normally would be when she wasn't looking and he was bored, but instead, in a way of annoyance.

She nods. 'You've been writing in that notebook a lot lately. Especially when it looks like you have something on your mind, I've noticed.' She walks over to the spot next to him and pulls out a chair, taking a seat, and her head rested on her folded hands on the table. Her eyes were looking at him. Then she continued, 'How can you write, anyway? With that mop of hair of yours, I didn't think you'd be able to see period.'

'My father sent you to the mortal world to defend my mortal soul. Because my mother was human, I'm much more vulnerable than an eternal or immortal life form.' Damien looks at Opal in a way that tells her the point he's trying to get across: You're not my fucking mom. Don't give a flying fuck about what's going through my head. It's probably just the same hormone that's making fire burn in my eyes much more frequently, making me grow taller, and making me grow these horns on my head.

'Yeah, he did send me to protect you,' Opal says, and he knows she's going to try to correct him. And then she does. 'But he didn't say from what.'

Damien scoffs, 'But he didn't say from what? Of course he means from all of these fucking Christians who are probably plotting to shove a stake through my heart when I walk to school one day.'

She giggles. 'Now I know there's something going on. What is it?'

'Nothing,' Damien mumbles, and looks down at his poetry book, turning a page and jotting down:

Everywhere is the place with something to breathe

And something for everyone to see

Everything is all that matters

That leaves hearts in tatters

Everyone isn't exactly clear

No matter what is near

And I see this

And you do too

Everywhere is where I love you

A fucking awful poem. Damien thinks about reaching in to his notebook and yanking the page out, crumpling it up and throwing it in to the garbage. But before the thought can fully cross his mind, another thought occurs to him and he quickly looks up, for a half a second thinking he's to break his neck in the process. Shit. She was watching him, wasn't she? Opal's eyes were exploring the paper and he was too in to his work to realize it. She gives him a look. Her eyes glitter with mischief.

'Fuck me,' says Damien aloud.

She nods. 'Who is she?'

'This poetry is for profit,' said the half-demon.

'This poetry is for self-expression,' Opal replies. Then she says for the second time, 'Who is she?'

She? Wow, she had it all wrong.

'She is a he,' Damien corrects Opal, and it takes her five seconds to catch on to what he says. The fact that it takes her mind so long to register such a simple comment agitates Damien a little bit, but he doesn't say anything about it.

'Oh! You're gay!' she qualifies much to Damien's dismay.

'No,' corrects Damien, 'I'm bi.'

'Oh, just like your father! We're gonna have to arrange a wedding for you and this lucky guy! I'm going to go tell your father and in Hell we'll have this big celebration!'

Damien rolls his eyes underneath all of his hair. The worst thing about Opal was that sometimes she could be such a scatterbrain.

'We're only sixteen,' states Damien, 'and the guy I'm in love with is a goody-goody British boy whose mother is such a bitch that she doesn't want him hanging out with me. Oh, and he doesn't have much of a sexuality in spite of the fact that he might act femme in some ways.'

Opal's pretty face fell. 'Oh,' she concludes, and then asks yet another question, 'does it seem he would be more in to a girl or a guy?'

'I don't fucking know!' Damien snaps. 'Nobody's ever dated him before, so...'

'...Well, if you want him, you have him.'

'It doesn't work like that in the mortal world. Just because I want somebody that doesn't mean they'll get on to their knees and suck my dick. I wish it worked like that, like in Hell where somebody will do that just because I'm the boss' son, but quite frankly, it doesn't. It really fucking doesn't.' It takes a minute for Opal to finally conceive what Damien is saying to her and for Damien to cool down. 'And besides,' he continues, nuetral with his new statements, 'I want much more from his than just sex. I want him to be my very own...wife. My. Fucking. Love. Guess you never thought of that, eh?'

'With somebody who you have no chance of being with? No.'

What emotion is going through Opal's voice is unidentifiable, just as her face is expressionless. She gets up from the table without saying good-bye or good night and fucks off to somewhere. Damien can't imagine where in hell she's going.

He's still thinking about it when he climbs the staircase to throw himself in to bed at two o' clock in morning after many hours deprived of answers and looking at gay porn on the computer. What was that she was feeling? Regret? Disgust? Anger? Pity? No, please let it not be pity...

...It'll take much more than hours of going to sleep to resolve this problem. It'll take 'conflict solving' as he learned in health class years ago. Why the hell am I thinking about health class right now? Damien thinks. We're not thinking about Billy arguing with Jimmy on the basketball court over a fucking basketball. But he needed the sleep. After stripping off in to the nude, or his 'sleeping clothes', Damien raised his hair out of his face and took a second to look at his reflection in the mirror. He was so tired that even the bags under his eyes had bags. Damien took a last thought of what a prurient pervert he was and then hopped in to bed.

Bedtime was the only time of day Damien could really look foward to because then he could think about things he daren't think about when he was awake in vivid imagery. So within seconds he fell asleep, and two and a half hours later, still without much sleep, he awoke with a stunning resolution to his problem.

He had a plan.

And he liked it.

Chapter three will be much better, I promise :)