Desmond wished he had better company.
Strike that.
He wished he had smarter company.
Being coerced into spending the afternoon with Malek Savst (by his own goddamn wife) wasn't his idea of fun. Rather, he felt as if he wanted to tear his eyes out from the sheer stupidity of the man. Local folk he could deal with, seeing as he had dealt with their utterly abhorrent and ludicrous behavior since he was just a lad. But Savst, an outsider, was a little bit different. He hadn't been safely kept under Desmond's thumb throughout his life, and still had some free will (though the government was going to steal that away very soon, regardless). Malek wasn't totally stupid – he knew what kind of backup Desmond controlled, and didn't dare say anything out of line to the man. Seeing as Malek had been kicked out of his own community, he hadn't anywhere to go if La Push forced him out... He was useless, as most people were. But he still had that miniscule amount of brains (wholly limited) and used it as best he could.
Malek was a burly man in Desmond's opinion. Not very tall, stocky, but burly. His features were the equivalent of an ox, and that's just about as far as his intelligence went, too. He didn't have much respect, only getting the position of council member due to his relation to Paul's father, Gregory Savst (some blasted community service twenty years back, but once more, wholly limited). Malek, like six of the twelve council men, were figureheads – not smart enough to make the cut, not dumb enough to be thrown out. They had their uses, the more renown council members agreed, but were not to be included in major decisions. Who knows what they'd fuck up.
"Desmond?" Malek prodded, looking upon his fellow colleague with imbecilic concern. "Ya all right, bud?"
Desmond shut his eyes, bringing his index fingers up to rub his pounding temples. What a headache this man was. "Quite fine, Malek. Thank you." Of course I'm not fine, you fuckwit! How about you learn to shut the mouth God stupidly gave you and realize that people enjoy quiet!
Malek nodded, his large, trodden-on-several-times-in-the-past glasses sliding down his narrow hook nose. Desmond wondered if Malek had ever seen a goddamn mirror in his life, as those glasses looked completely ridiculous on him. Desmond's hand went to his own nose, which was swollen and hooked itself from his many years of alcoholism. At least it's not a beak like his, Desmond thought in relief.
He had his wife and children to thank for his alcohol consumption. They stressed him when he had wanted to relax, always pushing him to the breaking point, where he'd ultimately lose his temper. He had always fabricated his calm demeanor, and when his wife had sent his anger spiraling, he'd depart for the garage, returning several hours later with a smile on his face and apology written falsely in his shit-colored eyes.
She was far too into her own fairytale to notice his lies or, much more noticeably, the several holes dotting the plaster inside of the garage itself.
But that's blue-collar for you.
"Woah there, Des, I lost ya again!" Malek laughed, pounding a meaty fist down on the table they sat at. That only punctuated the migraine writhing around (which could possibly be a brain tumor, but who knows) in his skull. Desmond kept his hands placed firmly on the table top, fingers twiddling with the place mats. He wanted to strike the man, perhaps even give him a good verbal raping, but decided not to. He needed Malek's assistance when it came to decisions in the court. Malek was like a lost puppy; he'd do anything to please any master he came across, and if blatantly disregarding his responsibilities would do it, then he would. Just to please Desmond. Malek wanted a friend, even though Desmond wasn't a very well-rounded 'friend'.
"Caught me again," Desmond replied weakly, voice edging on a whisper of rage.
"S'pose I did," Malek congratulated himself, "But that's why I'm here, yeah?"
Desmond held back a snarl. "Of course, of course, Malek. That's why you're here." Insufferable little abortion-mishap.
His wife, cleverly named Madison, or Mad(the name was bitter on his tongue) barged into the living room, holding two bottled waters in her hands. She set them down, giving a strange eye twitch at her husband that he would later discover to be an attempt at a wink, and departed. Desmond watched her leave, thanking God that she had a tolerable face. If she didn't, then he wouldn't have mistaken her for a nice fuck buddy twenty-three years prior. I wish I had just left that damn grocery, he thought with menace, And if I did, then I wouldn't be in this mess. But I wasn't too perceptive then... I am now, and I wish I could go back and change everything.
He stared down at the bottled water, holding back a grimace. Mad did not know how long that package of water had been sitting dormant in the basement – she didn't know how many chemicals in the plastic had leaked into the water, leaving it practically undrinkable. He looked up at Malek, who was chugging down the water greedily, and smiled.
Well, Malek was very thirsty. If he finished off the pack, maybe he'd get leukemia...
Desmond hoped he did.
When he lay down in bed much later in the evening, his oblivious wife off into some level of unconsciousness beside him, he stared up at the ceiling. It was some kind of nightly ritual for Desmond to gaze up at the winding patterns on the ceiling, thinking of all his mistakes. It was the opposite of prayer, and often helped him get quite a good rest.
My mistakes: meeting Harry, meeting Madison, fucking Madison, getting stuck with the kids, forgetting my purpose as a young man, not keeping Sam under my authority which led to Seth's motherfucking insubordination...
His lids slid shut, and he drifted off.
When he reopened his eyes, everything was pitch black. He first imagined that he hadn't actually fallen asleep, but dozed off instead, but halted those thoughts when he saw a figure at the base of the bed. A woman, he recognized, stood at the edge, arms hanging listlessly at her sides. A shock of black hair covered her head, and it was fraught with tangles and wild disarray.
But that's not what made his heart leap to his throat.
She stared at him with an expressionless face. Her skin (or whatever that horrendous patchy filth that was her face) was crinkled into a more than disturbing grin. Instead of teeth, there was black string where her teeth should have been. Her nose, or lack thereof, was a dark splash of obsidian compared to the rest of her face. As a substitute for eyes, there were huge holes of gaping blackness staring back at him. No eyes to be seen.
She placed one decaying foot on the bed, using her swaying arms to latch herself onto the bed posts. She pulled herself up onto the covers and began walking across the bed till she was standing right above him. His stomach squelched at the smell she omitted. He couldn't describe it and wouldn't even dare to. She raised one decrepit hand and pulled back the left sleeve of the dirty scraps she was wearing, revealing a pasty arm with ink scribbled onto it.
The mouth moved, white bile dribbling down her chin and onto his bedspread. But he did not pay attention to that, rather, his eyes were focused on the writing on her arms. Though almost illegible, he made out a few words, those whom were some that didn't make a lick of sense.
"Conscience?" he questioned aloud, looking up back into the holes where her eyes would have been. She nodded, the grin growing even wider, more of the filth spraying down on him.
"You're going to die."
The voice was grating, rasping, like nails on a chalkboard. Gooseflesh prickled up and down his arms like wildfire. His hands, which were shaking badly, seemed to move to his throat of their own accord, clasping around his fat neck. He began choking, trying to force his hands to retract their death grip.
"So very charming..." she cooed, tracing a white finger across his jawline. He started to gag in reflex, all the while screaming in his mind at his hands. Get off! For the love of God, get off me! Get off!
"Charming," she chanted, her finger reaching up to his right eye. She opened the lid all the way, cocking her head to the side. She thrust her finger into the socket, not even registering his garbled grunt. She leaned forward, watching the blood soak her finger and pour down his cheek. "The boy," she whispered, her deathly breath making him want to retch if he hadn't been strangling himself, "will kill you. Just like... this." She jammed her finger in farther, stabbing brain matter.
Black spots exploded in his left eye. His right eye thrummed in agony, while his hands retained their fierce grip on his neck, and Desmond died.
He shot up in bed, vomiting all over the covers, his heart shuddering in his over-packed chest.
"What's wrong?" Mad shrieked, stomping over to the bed from the open door. Desmond, though sick, managed to think, Well what do you think, woman, that I'm doing this for my own fucking enjoyment?!
His head pulsed in sporadic waves of pain, nearly causing him to pass out. But by force of will, he kept himself awake, not wanting to go back to that woman. Whatever she was, she had sent him a warning, one that he would not forget.
The boy had to be Clearwater. That was the only logical answer. He would be the only one brave enough to kill him, as he had subtly suggested in the court before. But now that Desmond knew, he began concocting a plan. One that would keep him safe, and most likely even ridding the world of Seth Clearwater forever.
Later that day, Desmond sent Malek the entire pack of old, contaminated water, opting that if Malek enjoyed it, then why not share?
Focusing more on Desmond... Funny story, the woman is actually from one of Maggie's own nightmares. Woot!