Pairing: None.
Note(s): This story is a little dark and a little creepy, so just warning you. Please enjoy and provide me with feedback! Seriously, don't just favorite and alert, review too. You have no clue how happy that would make me… (plus it is the day after my birthday, at least review once?)
Desmond does not see his mother walk through the door nursing a bottle to her lips.
His heart is heavy, his mind weak, like soiled weights curling down towards the world. He is only five; he shouldn't feel this way.
He does not see her as she yells and screams, as she throws glass and chairs and cries, he doesn't see her sinking down onto the ground like a fallen airplane, so silver, so divine. She is broken, and yet so is he.
The only substance that Desmond sees is red, molten red. It is the color of his cheeks.
He dreams of seeing him again, with his flax colored suit and lilted glimmering skin. He dreams of riding on rollercoasters and bumper cars. He dreams of ash and smoke, fire and lava. It's so pretty, he realizes, so flashy and dark.
He presses a finger to his cheek and blood swipes down. The color of fire, regret, the past.
Desmond does not see his foster sister shoving him into the hall closet.
He is swollen and inflated, like an escaping balloon. An egoist at age ten, his father would be proud. But he doesn't really care what people think about him, after all, he rips frogs apart and tears feathers off of birds. He likes to think they're angels and this is payback. He smirks and rolls a piece of gossamer between his hands.
He does not see as his new parents drive through the garage, through their old timey this is home, this is where the heart is routine. He doesn't care. He doesn't want to care. He doesn't want to have anything to do with those people.
The only thing he sees – hears – is Desmondwhoputyouinherewhyareyoulockedinweloveyou.
And it's all a jumbled mess, but then again, he doesn't care.
Desmond does not see the way her smile shines around him.
He is insane and crazed at only sixteen. He thinks about torture and blood and all the things that goes bump in the night. He wants to be one of them; he wants to be a giver and taker.
He wants to take lives and give risks.
He does not see as she is rushed to the hospital with a waxed frown and uncolored skin. He chooses not to watch as her white light hair is pulled and tugged, pushed and fought, into a corner. He decides he doesn't want to see her being attacked – killed.
The only thing he sees is a would-be-princess forever sleeping. Stuck in Wonderland, like Snow White or Cinderella. A kiss would – might – send her heart a flutter, aghast with emotions and feelings, love and hate.
Desmond does not see as he presses his lips against hers and feels—
--disappointment for the first time.
Desmond does not see the nurses walking by.
He is in an adult asylum, full of the lonely and ineligible inhabitants of the world. He is just twenty one with a raging smile and a conflicted heart. He is still an egoist, still a brat, but he chooses not to watch.
The only thing he sees is her walking down the halls with her cherry hair and sincere smile.
She is fluid, liquid, in human form. Mellifluous and slinky, like water slipping through his rough palms. She runs and he chases and they meet somewhere between room one-hundred and three and square one.
He presses her up against the wall and hushes her with yearning lips. Oh, how he has wanted to be kissed for so long, to be loved. But she doesn't love him, she only knows him to be that child in room one-eighty-nine.
He doesn't care though and takes her heart watch into his lips. He takes a soul for the first time in his life.
Everything returns to the time his father was killed in a fire. Back to the beginning, to the square cause of it all.
Desmond smirks and twirls his watch – his power – around his fingers. It coils and beats, flutters and pounds life and death, hatred and love. He is an all powerful being, destiny as humans like to call it.
He feels amazed, dirty.
He has killed and tortured and it was all her fault. If she hadn't of been so reckless, so hasty, he might still be a crazed human. He still might be alive.
But now his heart is encased in glass and metal, barb wired to the point of no return. He is not human, he is not life. He is death. (he is darkness)
And everyone else is to blame.
end.