Shining among Darkness
By
WingzemonX
Chapter 06.
Orphan
The long black limo, just washed and waxed, was moving at careful step through that low neighborhood of southern Los Angeles. Since they left the main avenue to enter those streets, the appearance of the buildings and sidewalks seemed to be degrading gradually. The driver, with the stereotypical black, suit, pants and tie, and a matching driver's hat, was visibly nervous. Traces of sweat made his forehead and nose shine. His hands were clinging to the steering wheel, and steadily looked in the rear-view mirrors to make sure no one was following them, or there was no one nearby suspicious.
On the contrary, his passenger in the back seat not only looked calm: he seemed fascinated. The young man, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, was looking out the window at his right hand, admiring the dirty sidewalks, the graffiti on the walls, and the people with unique appearances. It was already close to sunset, and slowly everything became darker. It seemed as if the atmosphere of the place adjusted and modified accordingly.
From the neck of the young man, was hanging a professional camera, black, clean and shiny, almost like new. When he saw something interesting enough on the way, without any hesitation, he raised the camera, placed it in front of his face, and took a picture from the moving car. He portrayed without problem some boys playing basketball on a public court. A beefy man, tall enough to perhaps double his height, with a dark sweatshirt, and his hands hidden in its pockets; he was standing on the stool, with his headphones on, and doing nothing more than waiting. The boy took another picture of a young girl in a white nurse's suit, although somewhat opaque in parts, who walked hastily down the sidewalk with her eyes downcast as if she didn't want to look at anyone on her way to the bus stop.
But what was most abundant, and what he managed most to capture with his camera, were women. But not women like the young nurse: women in small outfits, high heels, extravagant makeup, and flashy hairstyles. Not everyone had all of these at the same time, but at least two. All of them standing at some point on the sidewalk, doing nothing but wait, like the man in the black sweatshirt, but surely not expecting the same.
He noticed that several of those girls turned to see his beautiful vehicle sideways. That was not weird. The weird thing was in fact, that none seemed surprised, scared or surprised by his presence.
Sure, that was supposed to be the kind of place that "good" people did not visit. The type of locale where honorable and respectable people of society, never put a foot. But that was just a bad joke, wasn't it? More than one of those supposed good people, put more than their feet in those parts, and he knew that. For the same reason, more than surprised, those girls were waiting for it. They were waiting for that elegant limousine to edge right next to them, for the rear window to open and for a man to stick his head out of it, shaking a wad of bills in his fingers.
That was, in fact, the kind of place where people with indiscreet vehicles like that went in search of discreet fun for those hours. A funny discrepancy, he thought.
"Is not it fascinating, Billy?" Asked the boy, a moment after having taken a picture.
"Sir?" The driver murmured, turning to look him confused in the mirror. The young man moved away from the window and settled into his seat, but did not withdraw his eyes from the outside.
"How long did it take us to get here?"
"Forty minutes, sir; because of the traffic."
"Forty minutes, because of the traffic," he repeated it slowly as if saying it out loud made it more meaningful. "That's what separates the most luxurious and luminous place in this city... from this. For many, it would be enough. But if you put it in perspective with the distances that separate entire countries, is not it, in fact, quite a bit?"
The driver didn't answer anything, and he didn't expect him to do either.
They continued for about another minute. After turning a corner, the number of those women on the street appeared to be relatively higher. That should be the right place.
"Stop here," the boy said to the driver in a commanding tone, leaning his body slightly forward. The man obeyed, bringing the vehicle to the sidewalk.
Once edged, the young man did not waste time and immediately got out, with his camera in his neck, in addition to a black sports bag that was hung over his shoulder.
"Are you sure it's here, Mr. Thorn?" The driver said worriedly, leaning out the window.
"Completely," he replied in turn, with a wide and candid smile, while adjusting the lens of his camera. "Thanks, Billy. I'll call you when I want you to pick me up."
"Do not you want me to...?"
"No, I don't want you to come with me," he interrupted abruptly, finishing easily the sentence he was about to utter. "Go, now."
The boy started walking along the sidewalk at a calm pace, so the driver had no choice but to obey and leave. Not far away, but enough so that his order was considered fulfilled.
The vehicle that transported the boy perhaps did n0t stand out as much among the people. Or his black suit jacket and trousers perfectly ironed and trimmed, his Armani shirt without a tie, or his shoes polished and shiny. But what could draw the attention of several of the individuals who crossed with him by the stick, or saw him from the other side of the street, was his apparent age: quite young, at least for the average of men who used to walk in those parts. And besides, he was alone, with such expensive clothes, a much more expensive watch on his wrist, and a camera even more than this on his neck.
He realized without the slightest problem that several individuals looked at him from afar and whispered to each other. What were they saying? He supposed it, and no need to dig deeper than necessary. People like them were always the clearest, especially their evil intentions. But he was not worried, because as well as his intentions, his cowardice was also apparent. If they knew what was in the bag, would that give them more brave? He would love it that way; with one of them being encouraged to try, it would be quite fun. But none did; they all let him go his way, without bothering him beyond his prying eyes.
The boy continued walking, taking some photos in his advance, of everything he saw interesting.
He could have gone with the one closest to him when he got out of the car, but it would not have helped him. He was busy finding the right one, the one who could tell him exactly what he needed to know, without causing more problems than necessary.
After turning around that block, he found two women in a corner facing each other; one blonde and the other brunette and dark skin, and both with small and tight clothes, and a lot of makeup. Both smoked a cigarette. He felt it almost immediately after putting his eyes on them: they were the right ones, or at least one of them was.
He approached them with naturalness, and when they noticed him, both looked at him with slight confusion in their eyes.
"Aren't you too young to be around these parts, kid?" Questioned the blond girl, letting out a puff of smoke.
The boy looked at her, and a half smile emerged on his lips. He stopped a meter and a half from them, adjusted the lens of his camera with his fingers, lifted it, and pointed it directly at the blond girl.
"What about you, Kelly?" He suddenly released while he held the camera in front of his face. "Aren't you too young?"
His finger pressed the camera button just when that girl's face was filled with stupefaction, and was just that expression what was captured in the photograph.
"What did you say?" She murmured nervously, barely a trace of her voice.
The boy took a step towards them and activated the camera's trigger again.
"Tell me, was going against the wishes and warnings of your parents worth it?" He said with a mocking tone, approaching her carefully, still taking pictures. The young blonde started to back scared, staggering in her high red heels. "Get away from your house and come alone up here, with nothing more than a childish desire to be an actress? Was your life really that bad in that little town in Iowa? How things turned out, was it better to have stayed with the buried dagger of what would have happened if...? This at least I tried allows you to sleep at night, while you have at your side the hot and sweaty body of a man more disgusting than the previous one?"
The blonde stepped back more and more nervous, panicked by every word that came from that boy's mouth. Irremediably she fell to the floor, but even then she didn't stop. She crawled back along the sidewalk with her miniskirt getting completely dirty until her back was against a wall. And when she was having nowhere else to run, she only had the option of raising her arms in front, and cover herself. Her entire body began to tremble uncontrollably, and the boy seemed more than happy to photograph that deplorable state in which she had fallen just by hearing the truth; her truth.
The other woman was slow to react because she did not understand what all that was about. However, seeing her friend on the ground trembling was enough to make her step forward to help.
"What's your problem, brat?! Leave her alone!" She shouted angrily, quickly approaching to the stranger. "And get that damn thing down...!"
She took him by his arm with the firm determination to knock his camera down, smash it into the pavement, stomps on it, and then do the same with his head if necessary. But she was unable to do any of those things because when her fingers pressed against the dark fabric of his sleeve, she stopped short; No, she was instead paralyzed, unable to move even a single muscle. Her throat closed, her fingers began to tremble, her eyes bulged, and some sweat began to cross her face. There was no word coming from her lips; just some nervous gasps.
The boy slowly pulled the camera away from his face and turning his head towards her. She only took a small look at those cold, penetrating blue eyes, only occupied that he looked at her for a moment, to make her retreat in fear as if she had seen the most horrible of the beasts face to face. That was not an ordinary fear: it was the worst sense of terror she had ever felt in her life, a terror she was not aware she could sense. Her back was stuck against a poster, and her hands clung to it as a support, because otherwise, she would have fallen.
The boy smiled, quite satisfied by her reaction, and still took the audacity to make a quick picture of her in that position.
"Wonderful," he murmured happily, and then began to review all the photographs he had taken, on the small digital screen of the camera. "Besides good models, you look like smart girls. Maybe you can help me with something. I am looking for a person who is supposed to live in this neighborhood." He paused, placed the lens cover, and looked at both of them, something more severe than before. "I think you know her in the streets as the Orphan."
She had read some time ago about people who looked at themselves in the mirror and felt that the face they were looking at was not theirs. It was a concept hard to understand unless one came to live it in the flesh. Most likely, those sensations that invaded her suddenly were not something as serious as that, but they allowed her to get an idea.
In recent years, she felt less and less than the person in that mirror was her. But, who else could it be? That eternal face was her. She understood that well. But it was precisely that perpetuity that made her feel that she was looking at a photograph, a drawing, a caricature ... something that did not really represent her. Especially when she put on make-up, and she did it frequently.
And she did not really need much: a little dust here and there, hide a couple of wrinkles and Voilà! It was the adorable, innocent, white and soft face of a ten-year-old girl, adorned with flirtatious freckles. Because that's what her customers expected. They didn´t go to that corner forgotten by God of the city to feel that they fuck a fortyish woman of short stature, that was what she really was. No, nothing like that. They wanted to imagine that they did it with their daughter, their little sister, their niece, their student, the girl who lives across the street... or let them know in whom that people thought exactly while they did it. But that didn't matter to her.
The only thing that really mattered was their money, the money she used to pay the rent for that small and nauseating hole in which she had ended, in addition to food, water... And of course, makeup and accessories; those definitely nobody gave them away.
After finishing with the first of them, who had decided to appear much earlier than usual because he had an important appointment more night, she sat in the chair in front of her dressing table, to smoke a cigarette. Her black hair, slightly curly, was loose, falling on her shoulders. She pulled on only a thin white nightgown, which, due to her short stature, reached too far below her knees.
The subject was finishing arranging on the other side of the bed. The woman could see him through the reflection of the mirror, but she tried not to do that. In fact, she had her eyes crouched down on the surface of the dresser. That was precisely one of those days when she was disgusted to see that face in the mirror.
"How much is it going to be?" She heard the sturdy, gray-haired man in a two-piece gray suit, ask her. When she glanced at his reflection, she noticed that his tie was poorly arranged, but she was not interested in even pointing it out.
"The same as always," she replied indifferently, just after releasing a thick puff of smoke from her pink lips. "Leave it at the desk."
The woman looked at him through the mirror, noticing how he pulled a wad of bills from his bag, separated several and left them on the bureau as she said. What had he told her he worked for? Something in the government, surely. Or was she confusing him with another?
She hoped that was all and next he left without saying anything else. But, instead, he came up behind her, bouncing proudly.
"I've told you before, but I'll tell you again," he said with a lewd tone that was quite direct and not very subtle. He stopped then just behind the chair; she continued without looking directly at him. "A beautiful girl as you, shouldn't be doing these things." The man suddenly placed his thick and hairy hands on her bony shoulders, squeezing them a little between his fat fingers like sausages. "I could get you out of this place, you know? Give you a house... hot food... be your daddy full-time."
The caresses of that man became more and more suggestive as he spoke, moving from her shoulders to her arms, and then daring to venture towards her torso.
She looked at him in the mirror in silence. He looked like a stupid dog, euphoric to see his own face while he touched her that way. Another day she would have endured and let him continue; but that day, even though she was just beginning his busy day... she was not in the mood for that in the least.
In fact, she felt disgusted by his mere closeness, by his only smell.
She lowered her gaze, now contemplating a pair of scissors that landed just above the dressing table. How easy it would be to take them and stick them in one of those thick hands. She imagined for a moment that it burst like a balloon, although she knew that was not how it worked; but what a funny image that would be. For sure he would scream learned by pain and confusion. She would go back, and then she would throw herself at him. She would knock him to the bed, put herself on top of him, and begin to repeatedly nail the sharp tip of the scissors to his neck. First ten or fifteen times on one side, and when it became boring or felt that the metal no longer had opposition on that side, she would start doing it on the other.
Seeing his eyes wide open, looking at her pleadingly, would surely be enough to really turn her on properly, although at that point those eyes were just shuttered windows because behind them there would be nothing. And then, and only then, could she finally do with pleasure all the disgust things that he liked so much.
Yes, that would be fine... but she would not do that. Instead, with the hand that did not hold her cigarette, she took one of his little fingers and folded it back, also bringing it dangerously close to the breaking point, to force him to release her.
"I've had enough daddies," she said bitterly, and then pulled his hand to one side violently. "Now go away."
"Ok, ok, don't be angry," the man grumbled, rushing back to the door, rubbing his finger. She did not take her eyes off his reflection until she saw him go out the door of the room.
She remained seated, finishing her cigarette, and plunged a little while longer into the same thoughts of a while ago. Again, she no longer looked at the mirror, but at the surface of the dressing table. To her hair comb, to her makeup, her powder box, her lipstick, and her scissors... those scissors that she wanted so much to nail in the neck of that man, and so many more. Sometimes, they left it too easy. Some liked to be tied up and cover their eyes; they would not even see it coming. No, but it was better than if they saw, to contemplate their eyes... those eyes of despair and horror...
"Good place," she heard a strange voice behind her suddenly. "Very adorable."
She did not even turn around or look in the mirror; just listening to that voice put her entirely on alert. Without even thinking about it, she opened the left drawer of the dressing table, took from it a long dark revolver, considerably more prominent than her hand, stood up and turned so violently that her chair fell in motion. She raised both hands to the front, holding the gun without letting go of the cigarette, and pointed firmly at the intruder: a boy, with straight black hair, combed to the side, in a black suit, blue shirt, a camera to the neck and a sports bag on the shoulder. He was standing right in the doorway of the room, looking around with a curious look and a calm smile.
"How did you get in here?!" She shouted angrily, without any trace of false sweetness in her voice.
The boy seemed to downplay her demand or the fact that she was pointing a gun at him. He continued looking at the rest of the room while allowing himself to enter a couple more steps inside.
"If I told you that your friend who has just left kept the door open, would you believe me?" He replied with a mocking tone, whose only response was the sound of the hammer of the weapon, getting into position. "I suppose not."
"Who the fuck are you?" The woman questioned again, a little calmer, but not without demand. "What are you doing here? What do you want?!"
"I understand the type of environment in which you work, dear; but that is not an excuse to use that vocabulary."
With a normal attitude, he approached the bed and allowed himself to leave his nag on it.
"Are you not listening to me, blunder head?!" The owner of the place yelled with even more force than before. "I'll give you ten seconds to get your ass out of here, or else..."
"Is this the way you treat a potential client?"
"Fuck you. I choose my clients, and I don't get into brats with more milk on their lips than hairs between their legs."
Although indeed, except for his age, he was the most handsome boy she had ever seen put a foot in that apartment. He, for his part, gave a loud laugh in response to her comment.
"That's good, I like it. You are ingenious, as well as beautiful."
The face of the girl did not lighten a bit. He could feel and read without a problem that the only reason why she had not shot him already, was because she was still thinking about all the implications of doing so. Beginning with the noise it would make, the attention it would cause, the cleanliness she would have to do; well, if she wouldn't have to flee from there right away. And that idea did not exactly convince him; in spite of everything, she liked where she lived.
Although perhaps there was another factor, perhaps unconscious and more hidden, which forced her not to do such a thing. The same fear that inspired all those on the street not to approach that guy, not to dare to take his camera or take his bag. A feeling that was saying her if she did, the gun might explode in her hands, or the bullet would end up not hitting him, bouncing off the wall, and piercing her forehead right through the middle. It was something that could, in fact, happen.
But whatever it was, the reasons that had led him there forced him to try to take this situation a little calmer. So, instead of remaining defensive and pedantic, the guy made a couple of steps back, and raised his hands in submission, to try to calm her down a bit. His face, however, remained peaceful.
"Let's start again, ok? My name is Damien, Damien Thorn."
That name created a slight, barely noticeable, intrigue reaction in his forced hostess.
"Thorn? Like Thorn Industries?"
"Yes, it is written the same way," he replied with a shrug. "And you are... Leena, right?"
The girl's eyes widened and her face, more than surprised, became furious; even her milky white face turned reddish in a second.
"How do you know that name?!" She screamed at him entirely heated, and quickly circled the bed and approached him threateningly, gun still in hand. "Who you are?! Who you are?!"
The distance between them was shortened so much that the tip of his cannon and his chest separated them only about half a meter.
"As I said, I'm a potential client," he repeated, without losing a single molecule of his almost disturbing tranquility, "but not the kind you think. No offense; I'm sure you're very good at what you do, but it's not those skills that made me look for you."
He put his hands in his pockets, and put all his weight on one foot, taking a much more relaxed posture.
"I need you to find two people for me."
"Do I have the face of help to missing persons?"
"No," he replied with a mocking tone." I think you have the face of someone who throughout her life has cultivated many special skills, which have allowed her to survive and hide. The face of someone who knows very well the dark side of many cities and corners of this country; and that even better, she knows how to move around them. And most important of all," he leaned toward her then, making his penetrating eyes stare at her, "the face of someone who when she stares into the abyss, holds its gaze..."
There was silence, absolute silence, the seconds after. They did not even blink.
Incoherent as it sounded, something in him made her feel... confidence, something she had not felt in the presence of anyone, much less of a man.
After a while, she cautiously lowered her gun.
"What exactly do you want?"
"I said it, I want you to find two people, and bring them to me. Two little girls, in fact."
The woman snorted in annoyance and headed towards her dresser again.
"So, you are another degenerate after all. They are becoming younger."
She left the handgun on the table and extinguished her cigarette in the ashtray, only to relight another almost immediately.
"It's not what you think," he said, accompanied by a small chuckle. With a confident step, he approached her. "They are two extraordinary people, just like you. You know what kind of extraordinary I mean, right?"
"Not even the most little idea."
She lifted the chair and sat down on it again. After that, she extended her arm to throw some ashes in the ashtray. But, just then, the stranger guy rushed his hand forward, took the same scissors that had fascinated her a few moments ago, and in the blink of an eye, he stuck them in her hand, making it pass through his palm and fit into the table's wood.
"Ah!" The woman cried, full of pain and confusion.
Bursts of blood came from the wound when he immediately after removed the improvised weapon from her skin, staining the entire dressing table. Before she could take her gun back, or at least hold her injured hand to press it, the boy grabbed her first from her wrist, and pushed the palm of her hand against the mirror, causing her blood to stain it, and begin to drip through it. With his other hand, the boy held her chin tightly, forcing her to stare straight ahead, toward her own reflection, the very one she had no desire to look at.
"Of course you know, Leena," he murmured in her ear gravely. "You know very well that you should be dead right now. Your body should be rotting under the frozen water of that lake where you were thrown, and where you were considered finished. But instead, you are here, satisfying the low and forbidden desires of the old, sick and horrible men, in exchange for a few dollars. How is this possible? I bet you've asked yourself often."
While both were contemplating together in the same direction, they could see how that vertical wound that was drawn on her hand, began to close slowly. The blood stopped flowing, and in the blink of an eye her skin was again intact, as white and smooth as an instant before the stabbing ... or even more.
Damien smiled, amazed by such a show.
"It's funny how any wound you get now is cured right away." He then turned her head to the side, leaving the right side of her neck exposed; or, more specifically, the scars of past wounds that ran all around his neck. "But these scars that you got escaping from that Mental Asylum will forever mark your skin, as a horrible reminder. I bet that not all your clients find them so attractive."
Any trace of fear or anger that arose in the woman after that treacherous attack had vanished as the strange visitor spoke. All this had been far outweighed by the enormous confusion that caused her to hear everything he said, and the incredible accuracy of the data.
He not only knew her name: he knew absolutely everything about her. And for the first time in a long, long time, she felt entirely weak, naked, and under the mercy of another person. Impotent, unable to do anything beyond listening and let him do what he wanted. And the worst thing is that he was a simple teenager, one who was barely about to become an adult.
It was a feeling that overwhelmed her and twisted her stomach. However, at the same time, and although it seemed impossible to understand... it caused her arousal as intense as she had not felt in years; so much that she felt that her whole body was tingling, and not because of the pain of his recent wound, already cured at that moment.
Who was that guy really? And more importantly...
"How do you know all that?" She moaned with some weakness, because of the immense amount of emotions that ran through her body. She felt her nose impregnated with the sweet scent of his cologne; nothing to do with the rotten and unpleasant smell of the other bastard who had just left. "How did you find me? Are you a cop?"
"Of course not," he whispered softly in her ear. He still held her, both his wrist and his chin. "I'm not even old enough to enlist. But I know a lot more about you than you think; much more. For example, I know that night someone, or something, took you out of those cold waters, made the air return to your lungs, and your wounds were closed. And, do you think he did it so that you would spend the rest of your life opening leg and mouth to sick perverts in a dirty apartment like this? Do you think this is the only thing for which you are still alive? You are much better than that, I know it. But, do you know?
Only then he released her completely, and he slowly moved away from her. The girl still left her hand against the mirror for a few moments, and then let it slip through it, leaving a trail with the blood still left in her palm.
Shy, she turned to see him over her shoulder. He was already relatively far from her, leaning against one of the bunk beds, with his arms crossed; he was staring at her with enough intensity.
Yes, he was definitely the most handsome man who had gone to that place in the almost eight years she had been living there... pity he was an impertinent child.
"Do you know what happened that night?" She murmured, little by little more recovered. "Do you know why I'm still alive?"
Damien smiled once more.
"Make this assignment for me, and I assure you that you will answer that question and more."
He nodded toward the bag he had placed on the bed. The woman looked at it, and then stood up and approached with the same caution she would have if she were approaching an active bomb.
"There you will find all the information I've gathered from both girls I told you about," the boy informed a moment before she opened the bag. "It's not much, but I think it will be enough. In addition to a little advance payment for your expenses."
When she opened the bag, inside it were two files, one with a brown folder, and another with a blue folder; both full of papers. But more importantly, under both, there were bundles and bundles of bills; of twenty, fifty and one hundred. The bag was practically full, and it was impossible to guess how much money there was really there. But, reaching a certain amount, of which she was sure that it exceeded, it hardly mattered a few dollars less or a few dollars more.
Was that a little advance payment?
She put the money aside for a few moments and concentrated on the files. First, she checked the brown one. When she opened it, the first thing she found was a newspaper clipping, apparently from Portland. It was the front-page, and it read in big black letters:
MAD PARENTS
COUPLE TRIES TO COOK HER OWN DAUGHTER IN THE OVEN
She arched her eyebrow, intrigued. A pretty yellow press title. But, if in fact, they did what it said there, it would be difficult not to sound yellowish whatever the title was.
"Nice," she exclaimed sarcastically. "I guess it was not because she failed algebra."
She suspected that the daughter was one of the two little girls he wanted her to find. She lowered the file, and her attention focused on the boy on the other side of the bed.
"And what is special about her?"
"You will know when you find her, and the other one."
"And, what should I do if I find them?"
"Bring me to both. Healthy and safe, please."
"If you have so much money and interest, why don't you do it yourself? This newspaper is from Portland, so at least you know where one is. If you don't want to do it yourself, you could hire any private detective, mercenary, or whatever. Why are you asking me?"
Damien laughed in a somewhat exaggerated way, which seemed to try to demonstrate more the absurdity of the question, than the humor that caused him.
"You haven't understood anything yet, right? Do not worry, you'll find out." He started at that moment to walk to the door, with the same calmness with which he had entered. "As I promised, find both girls, and you'll discover more about yourself than you think."
He kept advancing and was practically at the exit when he heard her speak again.
"Esther," she murmured slowly, but hard enough for him to hear. "Call me Esther. Leena Klammer died a long, long time ago."
Damien looked at her, shrugged and continued on his way.
"Esther, then."
He left, and she stayed.
Esther sat on the bed, trying to digest what had happened, or at least what she understood of what had happened. She looked again at the contents of the bag; she had never seen so much money gathered at one point. She imagined everything she could do with it. Buy a false identity, pay someone to take her out of the country, maybe go to a southern country. Perhaps she could get another family to adopt her as their daughter, and do things right that time... at least as long as possible.
But there was another side to that plan. If that guy had left her such a large amount of money, it was surely nothing for him compared to all he had. And with resources like those, it would not take much time to find her; in fact, she did not understand how he had found her in the first place. And her name? And her story? How had he found out about all this?
She did not like games like that, especially when she felt she had all the disadvantages and someone else was controlling the game.
She took out the other file, the blue one, to review it. There were also newspaper clippings on it, but they were talking about an incident on an island in Washington, about horses that had jumped into the sea for no reason. The name of the ranch was "Morgan."
After digging a little deeper among all the papers in the file, she came up with a name, possibly the name of the second girl she supposed to look for: Samara Morgan.
END OF CHAPTER 06
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
—Damien Thorn is based mainly on the same character as the movie: The Omen (2006), which is, in turn, a remake of the film of the same title from 1976. Although in terms of continuity I will take more the facts and times from 2006 film, for his story, and some additional details of the character, will also be taken from the other movies Damien: Omen II (1978) and Omen III: The Final Conflict (1981), and the television series Damien (2016). Concerning his personality and powers, they will be based in part on those mentioned above, but also on a more personal interpretation.
—Leena Klammer, aka Esther, is based entirely on the antagonistic character of the film Orphan (2009), standing eight years after the events of that film. What happened in this will be fully respected, but some adjustments will be made to its end that will be explained more clearly later.
I must admit that this chapter took me a bit out of my comfort zone, because of the themes touched and the language. It is not the style of things that I usually write, but the characters that I have decided to use so deserve it, I think. It is likely that this will be repeated often from now on so I will give everything to do it well.