Double update to make up for the long hiatus. Make sure you continue onto chapter 3.
The entire fight takes less than five minutes. Damon pauses and reaches into his back pocket, taking out some tissues, and pressing them against his facial cuts. He lays quietly, allowing his trainer to work on him.
It occurs to him that this was how a deer might look after being taken down by an actual tiger. Completely shocked and overwhelmed by the ferocity of the attack while waiting for the neck bite that will end it all.
He coughs a few times but is finally able to breathe again without laboring. He turns on his side so he can spit out the blood and wipe it away. There are only two places his opponent has actually broken the skin. One was the juncture of his upper and lower lip and the other, his nose. After a few moments of pressure, the bleeding stops.
Damon crouches with his hands on his thighs and eventually raises to his feet. He dabs at his face and looks to see if there's any more blood.
"You fight like a girl," Damon quips in a vain and poor attempt to save face, shakes Enzo's hand, and steps off the mat, having had enough for today.
Walking into his apartment, he tosses his keys on the countertop. Setting the grocery bag down with the hand, he puts them away then reaches for a soda. Damon plops on the couch and out his legs, letting his feet on the end table. Running his tongue along his split lip, he grimaces at the sting but takes a swallow anyway. He rolls his eyes at himself at the drool since he can't form a good seal around the bottle top.
His muscles hurt but it's a good ache, the kind one feels after accomplishing something. Closing his eyes, Damon leans his head against the back of the couch, a crappy attempt at sublimating but... When he signed up for martial arts training, he instinctively knew he needed something to kill time, to take his mind off his problems, to find a positive outlet for his emotions.
Is it working?
He knows it provides distraction at the moment. The dark emotions are like salt, just a pinch adds flavor, yet too many ruin the entire dish. The trick of it all is to remember what is salt and what's not.
Food is love, empathy, kindness, joy, compassion, nurture, protection, and integrity... the salt is envy, hate, greed, anger, and sloth. Somehow he needs to find a balance... One that will allow him to vent, exist, survive, and simply sleep without being haunted by the dreams...
Feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket, he pulls it out, sighing when he sees who it is. "Ric?"
"Hey, just a friendly reminder that work starts tomorrow."
"I appreciate it," he yawns, covering his mouth.
"It's a little early to be yawning, isn't it?"
Damon hears the suspicion in his voice. "Jesus, Ric," his fingers wrap around the bottle, whitening the tips at how hard he's squeezing it.
"You can't con a con, Damon," Ric retorts.
"I was at the gym most of the afternoon, I'm tired, that's all," he snaps back. Although he wants to break something, he quickly finishes his soda and sets the bottle down.
"I'll meet you at 7, we have a few things to go over, and you need to be on the route by 8."
"I'll be there," Damon ends the call and tosses the device on the cushion next to him. The storms inside him never seem to subside, the triggers of his past keep churning them up, depriving him of even a moment's peace.
Today was a long day and he can't help but wonder if everyone is going to be this way like he's fucking trapped in his own personal 'Groundhog Day'.
Frustrated that his mind refuses to give him even one moment of peace, he grabs his keys and exits his apartment, slamming the door closed behind him...
Feeling irritated, tired, and angry, Damon pushes the gas pedal a little too hard. "Just perfect," he utters, pulling over to the side of the road when he sees the flashing red light in his rearview mirror. Rolling down the window, he reaches into the glove box for his registration and proof of insurance.
"Put your hands where I can see them," the officer says, his hand on his weapon.
"Chill, okay." Damon drops his forehead on the steering wheel.
"Can you get out of the car?"
Waving his hand and with his emotional hurricane at gale force, he shakes his head and steps out, telling the officer what he was reaching for.
"You were speeding but I'm more concerned with the weaving over the center line. Have you been drinking?"
"No! I haven't been drinking," Damon hisses, "I've had a bad day. I'm frustrated and angry. Give me a breathalyzer if you must."
"Walk a straight line and we'll call it good," the officer steps back to give Damon room.
Dropping his chin to his chest in annoyance, he nevertheless complies with the officer's request. Walking toe to heel, he passes the test. After verifying Damon's driver's license and registration, he lets him leave with an admonition to watch his speed. He remains parked at the roadside till the officer drives away.
"Fuck it," Damon steps on the gas, makes a tight U-turn, and heads out of the city, hoping to find a way to soothe his shattered nerves.
Highway 101, also known as the Pacific Coast Highway, skirts the coastline from California to Washington. As the last vestiges of daylight fall, the rocky outline grows blacker against the orange-kissed sky, and the water grows darker too.
In the distance, a spit stretches out into the sea and upon the end is a lighthouse, lonely and abandoned. The foamy crests of the crashing waves are the only sound other than the cry of the seagulls. Pulling off the road, Damon parks his car and pulls a cigarette out of his pocket. Lighting up, he takes a long pull, blowing the smoke out in rings. He tries to clear his mind but it's impossible. There are so many things on his to-do list, he doesn't even know where to begin. He knows he should reconnect with his family, at least let them know he's back in town.
The last letter he got from his dad mentioned his nephew's upcoming basketball game. Glancing down at his watch, he takes one more puff of his cigarette, stomps it out and jumps back in his car. A half-hour later, he parks in the last row, a good distance from the entrance.
The playground that was mayhem at recess, abuzz with runners, chasers, and all manner of games, lies almost silent at this hour. Only the drone of traffic gives a backdrop of noise. In the middle of the aging blacktop lies the hopscotch grid.
Damon can almost see the custodian grumbling about painting over it. Although he can't explain it, there is something about this old school that brings him more peace than anywhere else. Here he can sink back to childhood for a moment and forget about what his life is like right now.
Hoping not to be seen, he walks the familiar halls to the gymnasium. The bleachers are full and the boys are on the court, a redheaded one making a basket. Rather than take a seat, he stays close to the doors so he can make a quick escape. Scanning the crowd, he sucks in a harsh breath when he sees them, his parents, Stefan, Rebekah, and even Katherine.
Stepping farther into the shadows, he locates his nephew, Elijah. The coach gestures for him to go onto the court. Moments later, he has the ball, leaps, and makes a 3-point shot.
"Yes," Damon mumbles under his breath.
He stays till there's one minute left on the game clock then slips out of the gym, and slides into his car. Feeling better, he goes back to his apartment, hoping that sleep will come quickly.
Damon's alarm clock doesn't go off. He's not entirely sure if there was some sort of mechanical malfunction or if he simply forgot to set it last night, but there'll be time for solving that little mystery later. Luckily, he's up now, it's 6:00 AM, and if he doesn't hustle, he'll be late for work and subject to Ric's wrath.
He throws on his shorts, and shirt and grabs his hat on the way to the car. The fact that he arrives at the station on time is a miracle, even to him. Ric goes over the basics and outlines his route.
"You put me on that route? What were you thinking?" Damon rants, cursing under his breath.
"It's the only route that had an opening, you're just going to have to deal with it."
"Unbelievable," he shoots a scathing glance at him.
Ric leads him outside where he finds his truck loaded with the mail, which is as well sorted as it's ever going to be at such an early hour. Damon notices a mousy brown hair young woman approaching them.
"Morning Ric," she smiles.
"Rose here is one of our sorters."
"Thank you for sorting it, I wouldn't begin to be able to do your job. I'm Damon," he gives her a nod.
"No worries," she considers Damon, perusing his form before walking inside, a hint of blush on her face.
Getting into his truck, he drives to the neighborhood and parks, picking up a bag full of letters, he throws it over his shoulder and starts walking down the sidewalk, sticking mail in the boxes as he goes along. Sometime later he begins to see a few people outside on the roads walking their dogs.
"Good morning," he calls out as he passes a young man in a dark green sweater far too warm for the morning weather.
"And to you!" the man says back with a wave.
He says good morning to a blonde woman who looks to be in her forties, but too quietly to catch her attention. The lady nods, then turns the corner at the end of the block.
He thinks that perhaps he'll have more confidence tomorrow but in reality, he probably won't. Damon suspects he'll have these little interactions almost every day. He imagines what he might say and how the people along his route might react. He used to be good at making conversation before...
Once he's finished with this block, he goes back to his truck and drives over to the next, delivering to both neighborhood hubs and door to doors. Ric told him the hubs are the worst part of the job—they save time but will require him to just stand there with his bag for what usually feels like hours.
If he'd wanted to stand and sort envelopes into tiny boxes, he'd have applied to be a sorter. He doesn't like to be still; it gives him too much time to think. When he's done, he continues on to the next area on his route, delivering letters and packages, some even requiring a signature to their respective addresses.
At noon, he takes a thirty-minute lunch break before continuing to the southern section of his route. There are far more people out now, and too many faces to memorize. He looks at them and thinks about who they might be anyway, using whatever small cues are visually available to him: that lady is wearing a UCLA shirt; she's got two kids with her; another guy is smoking a cigarette faster than he should be.
As he stops at the next house, he hears someone speaking behind him.
"Excuse me," the voice says. It sounds like it came from an older man.
Damon freezes. This is a real voice, a real person. He slowly turns to face whoever has spoken.
"Can you give me a change-of-address card?" the old man asks.
Damon doesn't immediately answer.
"Hello?" the man asks again. "I'm usually the one hard of hearing." he taps at his large hearing aid.
Damon laughs and the spell is broken. "Um, yes!" he exclaims. "I've got one right back here in my truck. Just a moment please."
"Mighty fine day, today," the man says as Damon rifles through a box behind his seat. Ric mentioned that all postal carriers have these cards on hand.
"Yes, it is," Damon says back, finally landing his fingers on one of the cards. "Here you are," he says nicely as he turns back toward the man.
"Thank you," he nods and walks about half a block down the sidewalk, before opening a gate and walking into a fenced-in yard.
Damon turns around, fills his satchel again, and then walks into the block he's been dreading since he left the post office building this morning. "Please don't be home," he mumbles under his breath as he approaches the Cape Cod-style home. He stops at the porch and with shaky hands, he pulls the mail for this address out and slides it into the box. Just as he turns to make a hasty retreat, the door behind him opens.
"Thanks, would you wait for a second, I have a letter for you to take."
Damon can feel his heartbeat… every single pound in his chest as he slowly turns to face the woman.
Her mouth drops and she stumbles backward slightly when she realizes who's standing in front of her.
"Damon?"
Blood drains from his face while his brain is desperately scrambling to make a connection to his mouth.
"Um..." is all he manages to get before anxiety squeezes his vocal cords closed.
Thanks for reading. Sorry for the long hiatus. I learned a lesson. I won't post peaks at stories until I'm ready to update regularly.
PLEASE remember that this story is over four years old and I'd like to think I've improved as a writer somewhat over the last four years. I honestly don't know why I never got around to posting it years ago when it was fresh and new.
Chapter title: Deer in Headlights by Sia.
Be sure to check out "Hearts On Ice" my other story. I posted the prologue a few days ago.