Re: In person: Misha B/Damian W
[The room then, was full to brimming with boys currently engaged and choking upon their own self-loathing. For Misha was not alone in this. Damian hated himself thoroughly. It was part of what made the morphine so appealing. He could forget that, just as he could forget (in a sense of immediate removal) everything else. It narrowed the present down to nothing but the sensation of levelness. Again, the man thought on Misha and his pockets, but this was as unhelpful as it was before.—He tried speaking, inasmuch as he was able, though he was aware he was making little sense. (Any sense was an infinite improvement from twenty minutes ago, yes, but that did not mean very much.) It was rare that Damian should feel undeserving of things. He hated himself on a regular basis, but he had been raised to believe that, in spite of his lack of self-worth in some arenas, he was the al Gol heir, and that that meant something. But, right now, he felt as if this—this angel, this boy, who cared for him and cried for him, that he did not deserve him.
It was, to put it mildly, a horrible feeling. And though he despised Mother in some ways, he was attached to her. (He could not hate her, if he did not love her.) It was another ugly contradiction, thick with scars from picking fingers. So, no, it was not wholly surprising that he should be drawn to someone who reminded him of her, but that did not mean he did not hate himself for such. It was still an incredibly stupid, jeopardizing thing to do. He did not wish to think about this, but he did not seem to be able to rid his mind of it either. Still, it was as if he was not yet in complete control of his own brain and his thoughts directed themselves ruthlessly.] I will get rid of her. [She controlled me. She puppeted me. She played me. She loaded me with a bullet and emptied the chamber. He could feel the residue of her presence on his skin, like morphine insufflated, but grimy around nostril. It made his body feel foreign to himself, violated.]
[The crying was obvious, perhaps, from the outside. But, Damian did not want it and he did not wish for the pity that accompanied it. He felt Misha sag and he disliked himself for earning such even more. He did not deserve it. This did not stop the tears, however, or the idiotic hiccoughing that wracked the man rhythmically.] You—you can hit me with recrim-recriminations. I would be j-jealous t-too, even though it was not—it was not like that. [He did his best not to allow himself to cry harder when Misha spoke of her not being run off and when the boy said she called him 'maggot.' He did not say he hated her, but he hated her. Instead, he attempted a brief resistance to the fingers that tried to turn his face, but there was no real will behind it. The man did not argue again his likeness to the chaotic, old god that lived in the skin of a young woman. He did not remind Misha that genocide was in his blood and his destiny. He let the boy pet him and he tried to swallow whatever stupid hiccough rose to his tongue.
The forward-looking, the 'next steps,' while practical assisted him making him feel worse and he just turned toward Misha in the end, to butt up against him, knees to the boy's or to his side.] I—I will m-make a deal. Not-not you. N-no one saw anyth-thing. I made certain. [Did he? He thought he had. If he was any good at what he did, he had. And Damian was the best there was when it came to killing the innocent and guilty alike.—He whined and shook his head, very much like a child reminded of bedtime.] No—[He was not afraid of the nightmares he knew would come. He was not even afraid he would wake up insane, though he might. He only did not wish for Misha to leave him.] I will—[Hiccough.]—I will not.