Desmond's mental capacity had a limit, like all creatures did. You couldn't continue to learn more, to understand more, when your brain simply couldn't comprehend it. He couldn't figure out why he had a habit of keeping everything he bought and stored it away meticulously in his ranch-style home. He hoarded everything.
There are many reasons for Desmond's subtle insanity, or to be strictly perverse, his inexorable delirium. So many things contribute to the way people are from everything that has happened to them. Any situation is accountable for how people turn out, even if it's grimly subconscious. Desmond's past wasn't a pleasant one, which lead to his troubled adulthood and blandly ocher later years. His father leaving left him scarred, confined to a life with his abusive mother, in which influenced him to his want to retaliate physically for every confrontation. Now, that urge had substantially lessened over his maturing years, but you never forget the ones that hurt you. It's funny how you discount the compliment someone gave to you just a day ago, but remember the grudge you had with a boy in elementary school over a deck of cards.
Desmond had a strong-willed memory that always locked away his most private thoughts but remembered every detail like he'd been there yesterday. He couldn't forgot those who teased him, those who broke him over and over;, those who didn't cease to quit. One always tends to remember. A hateful trait in itself – the ability to never forget. A human flaw.
There are those that follow the rules of humanity, and there are those who don't. There is no in between in barbarianism. Desmond learned that the hard way. The difficult path everyone was too cowardly to embark upon because they were too afraid of the outcome. Too afraid to leave their childhood behind to take the leap of faith into the real world. They didn't, and so they perished. Desmond took his chances, played his cards right, and looked forward to auspicious dreams.
It's even more funny that after you beat that one bully in a card-game, you never forget it. Was it your best victory? No. Are you entirely proud of it? No. You lost yourself in the game and wouldn't stop until you won. How does that make you feel? What does that do to your self-confidence. Burdens are meant for those who are capable to take them atop their burning backs.
Could you?
Desmond raised a wrinkled hand to stroke the wooden armrest of his decrepit rocking chair, remembering when his mother had rocked him in it after she'd drunk herself raw and listless. Her incoherent babble hadn't bothered him much when he was so young; he thought that was just how Mommy was, and those who didn't understand could get the fuck out. 'They' made fun of him incessantly for his mother's inability to pull herself together after his father's death, which the Blys heard about six months after it had occurred. Mother Bly never recovered, and Desmond never mentioned it. Not to Madison, not to his children, not to himself.
Memories hurt too badly, anyways.
He pulled his hand away abruptly, watching it shrivel and drop to his side. These memories were not for him. They were meant to be sacred and untouched. He wouldn't be the one to break that silent promise. Not now.
A harsh knock erupted from down the hall. Desmond took his time into ambling into the foyer and opening the door. He really wasn't in the mood for any company. The door stood ajar, and he looked up into the crude eyes of Seth Clearwater. He resisted to clear his throat in nervousness, deeming the action insecure and embarrassing.
"There had better be a sufficient reason as to why you're standing on my doorstep, Clearwater." he said finally, blinking slowly, tightly.
Seth tilted his head to the side in an unassuming manner, and he didn't seem to be quite aware of it, anyways. "A justifiable reason, yes," he replied just as coldly as Desmond had. His hands went to his pockets as his posture loosened slightly, as if he were comfortable in the older man's presence. That only fueled Desmond's desperate hate for the child.
"I know it's not my business asking you what you do in your day, but when it concerns... my acquaintances, I think I've got some say in where you shouldn't be able to go." He didn't breathe once in his conclusion, angering Desmond further.
"So you have the right to tell me where I can and cannot go when it involves those who you know? Clearwater, I'm sure you're aware of the local and stately legal body, the police and the courts, but you can't and won't order me around as if you have the authority to do so." Desmond took in a calming breath to ease the restless stuttering of his pacemaker. "Moreover, I will not listen to the useless babbling of a child on the matter at hand."
He went to shut the door, but Seth's hand blocked the door from hitting its target. An uneasy smile swept its way onto the teen's face, setting a deep, unusual fear in Desmond's stomach.
"All right, you can spew all of your logical shit as long and as much as you want. I don't care about that... No, I have a better idea." His smile grew wider, giving way to white and sharp canines. "I'm going to tell you what to do, and the police won't be able to do a thing about it. No one you call can help you when it includes me." His hand around the door curled in, splintering the door where his hand was placed. "I'd kill you before you even got the 'nine' in on 'nine-one-one', Bly. And don't even try to get the courts involved in on this. That'll only get you sent into an insane asylum for claiming a harmless teenager is a werewolf in disguise." He cocked his head further, almost to an extreme angle. It looked painful.
"And the pack wouldn't help you either," he whispered, swiping his tongue over his piercing teeth. Desmond stood his ground, knowing Seth was simply playing with him now. He was attempting to get Desmond to spill his secrets and plans. Too bad Desmond had far too many years on Seth to be judged inadequate.
"You're trying to be clever now," Desmond said tactlessly, "And I don't much appreciate your attempts. At least honor the art and come up with a more discrete way of 'breaking' it to me. I'll have you know that any malicious intent towards myself, the second chairman to the La Push Council, is considered treason. How does that sound?" He was bluffing.
Seth knew.
"Oh, how cool," he grinned, "a threat. Maybe even a good one! But it doesn't faze me. Nah, Bly, I've said it before and I'll say it again, I could kill you right now and you wouldn't even know it. You'd be sitting in a flame-encrusted parlor in hell before you realized you were dead."
"Then why don't you?" Desmond spat back with equal malice, unable to fathom the boy's train of thought. Seth ran his tongue over his teeth again. He leaned down, nearly breathing straight into the elderly man's face, and spoke, "You've said that before. I almost think you're expecting me to do it. Well, I'll make sure I give you a fair warning ahead of time."
He paused, took a deep breath, and blew it out. "I'm going to break your arm now."
With lighting fast speed, his hand around the door threw the piece of wood back with a thunderous impact, shattering the grains against the wall. His free, unobstructed hand brought up with balanced dexterity, came to a head and snapped the equilibrium of Desmond's left arm. Desmond didn't feel it for a second.
But then he did.