Warnings: Implied slash, torture, psycological torture, descent into madness.
Summary: Phoenix was born in fire, but the vampire was born in the dark.
He’s screaming, but it’s impossible to tell who he’s screaming to anymore. After so long, the names get confused.
Damian! Damian, please!
Let me out!
Don’t do this!
No matter how hard he tries, he can’t remember when he started screaming Lucifer! instead. The moment when he made the switch – the moment that the wrong, wrong, wrong name choked out of his bleeding throat, by mistake, an accident, he didn’t mean it –
No. He can’t remember. (Won’t remember).
He can’t remember how it’s possible to keep screaming. Surely his vocal cords should be ripped to shreds by now? Surely he should be too weak, unable to sleep, starving and thirsty (so, so thirsty), too weak to struggle anymore? Blood trails down his wrists, his bare arms, the manacles chafing blisters that constantly burst – but the blood doesn’t taste right on his tongue, thick and dead, and he spits it out (don’t think about it, don’t don’t don’t). His hair is limp and thick with grease, and his skin is like paper – just as thin, just as pale – in the light from the hallway when it falls on him. His legs won’t hold him up when he tries to stand, and he can’t pull himself up by gripping his chains anymore; his arms just shake and give out when he tries.
He can’t remember how long he’s been in here. Damian’s face, transformed by firelight and savage cruelty (and blood, bloodstained, so so thirsty) was the last thing he saw, the breaking point. Alex had seen the dancing, the killing (the slaughter) and fled, run as far and as fast as he could from the manor in the Scottish highlands, terrified out of his mind. They were careful with him when they caught him, but he couldn’t realise that, couldn’t see that – couldn’t afford to see that, monsters, all of them (don’t think about the blood the taste the chocolate-rich ecstasy as it slides down your throat). They locked him in the dungeon and threw away the key, and he can’t stop screaming.
Damian! Please! Please, Damian!
It hurts, so much, so much he can’t stand it. Thirsty thirsty thirsty, oh please, please, please! Fire in his veins, burning him alive, in his eyes heart lungs throat throat mouth skin mouth throat and he can’t stop screaming as he writhes against the freezing stone, his shirt and jeans in tatters, stained with blood and dirt.
He can’t remember his parents’ faces. Sometimes he tries to stop screaming, tries to be quiet, and while he hugs his knees and shakes (thirsty, so thirsty, shaking with the hollowness emptiness thirsty) like his aching vocal cords, he tries to picture his life before. Tries to remember that there’s more to the world than these four stone walls, than reinforced chains and darkness and pain and thirst.
But he can’t remember.
And it’s like a spiral – like a drug trip gone wrong, every time. Every time he fights to remember, to be himself (Alex Alex Alex, no one else, not a monster, no, don’t think about the blood, don’t) and can’t do it –
He tries to fight it. Tries to fight the fear, the (thirst) panic, spiralling up and up and up (down and down and down); but it grabs hold of his body like a puppet and throws him against the wall.
(Little puppet with your strings cut. Little toy.)
Grabs him and makes him scream again.
He can’t remember what it feels like to be without this fear. Afraid of the dark and of himself and of the thirst (thirsty, so thirsty, don’t think about the blood, don’t think about the taste).
Afraid that the monster behind his lover’s face will answer him instead of
He wants Damian back. He wants his life back. He wants the blood dripping in his head to go away (drip, drip, drip), to stop torturing him, please!
He shakes and writhes and screams, but the shadows don’t listen. They still claw at him and he can still hear the blood, still wants the blood, and no matter how he throws himself forward the chains won’t break. They’re going to leave him here, leave him here to starve when he can hear it, hear the blood, smell it, almost taste it, on fire, burning, burning him alive and he can’t – he can’t –
The darkness – Damian – the blood –
He roars then. Somehow, he carves through the pain and forces all of his fear and rage and pain out of his throat and into the silent dark. Let me out! Let me out! Roars and yells and pulls, pulls and pulls until the stone shrieks and the air bleeds ozone as binding spells threaten to break, and it’s building, building and building like a drug trip gone so right and he throws his head back and howls, wild and fierce and piercing, high and tearing and bleeding, a sound to smash the stars as his own spirit shatters into a hundred, a thousand, a million pieces –
He forces himself to his feet – just for an instant, a second – with his eyes glowing in the dark, bright as a hunter’s moon, and his fangs extended like knives as he screams to the sky hidden behind miles of stone and castle –
No, he doesn’t remember exactly when the wrong name came tearing up out of the deepest, darkest depths of what used to be a human being.
No one remembers the instant they are born.