Haunted Memories
Crest Residence, Metropolis
2:35 a.m November 3
It was hard to sleep. Not because the blanket was too thick or the pillow wasn't soft enough or the light from the fireplace was bright. In fact the blankets were just fine, pillows had already been fluffed by the maid, the mood was quite soothing when in a dim room resting.
But try as he might, Damien was no closer to being able to shut his eyes than he was an hour ago. His mind was occupied. With that past he remembered so clearly like it was just yesterday. The inner demon circulating deep inside his blood and veins, spreading like a virus. Multiplying. Killing slowly.
He recalled the feelings he had that night. Sadness over his loss, and revenge didn't make him feel an ounce better of anything. All the tragedies were there, still the same, thorns ripping through his skull.
Streetlight poured beams on the child, giving light to him and his father, who now shined like angels as a result of its effect. It was as if they were the only thing that mattered. Beyond the border was nothing but darkness and evil. Criminals, thieves, rapists, murderers, the personification of all of God's seven deadly sins.
"Papa!" he leaned on the bleeding man broken on the ground.
The two men behind laughed voraciously.
The only thing the child could do was shed tears for his family. He was so helpless. His older sister and mother were both gone, all he could do now was watch his father depart him as well.
"I'm so sorry," he told his father.
That did nothing to help matters. In fact it only made things worse. It broke the man's heart to hear his son say those words. If he had only the strength to slap him across the face.
"Son," he said instead. He was too weak to speak sentences, so his messages were short. He tapped on his brown overcoat now painted with blood. "My pocket."
The boy's eyes glanced with ambiguity. Then he slipped a hand lightly under his father's coat. The murderers made no response because they didn't see anything but the boy's back in front of their eyes.
"Cute kid," said one of them, following a mad snicker.
"Oh yeah. We should definitely put this on a wall or something. It's just art man. A dumb kid crying for his daddy," came the other, then mocking the weeping child by rubbing his index fingers across his eyes. "You crying for your dada little kid?" he high pitched his voice, adding more to the insult.
Upon reaching into his father's coat pocket, they boy came across a cold metallic object chilling the tip of his finger. Puzzled, he yanked it free, and his eyes widened in bewilderment. It was a four inch revolver completely loaded.
"Papa", he whispered, trying desperately to keep his breath.
But his father, with whatever energy he had left could only muster up the words, "Be brave. Be brave."
Then the child opened his ears to the murderers. It made him mad, and angry listening to their voices. It fueled his rage.
He turned around and locked eyes with his family's killers. They're faces went stone cold after seeing the child in grip of a gun. Each lifted their cannons at a desperate attempt of self defense. But...
Blam! Blam! Blam!
...It was too late. Not a round went off their guns.
The first one took two shots straight to the heart, ending his life immediately. The second caught a bullet on his gut and fell on a wall, bending his knees trying to support balance.
"Oh shit!" he barked. The boy approached him slowly, taking time in each step. Once he closed in, the murderer pleaded to the boy, begging for pity. There was none.
The boy stared coldly at the man who just killed his family, blunt and emotionless, with the weapon still on hand. He raised it pointing the barrell to the murderer's chest.
"No. Please."
Fear was everywhere. He examined from the man's face. The child wiped the emotion off his face.Instead...
Blam! Blam! Blam!
...His anger took shape in bullets. Pain was what he was dealt, pain was what he played.
Damien Crest killed the men who murdered his family.
He recalled the face perfectly on his mind. Begging for his life like a stray dog. It was supposed to feel good. To pull that trigger. All the fear and confusion was meant to end. His actions were justified, he had done the right thing. But the price of war can make people lose a sense of view. Now nothing made sense. His family was still dead, revenge brought nothing. The child was even further in the dark now, slowly slipping away.