Prologue of Night First: The Divinity of Damien Calla

22nd December 2013

Things are getting bad. There are only a few more nights left then all will be going down the shitter. Saving her life isn’t logically beneficial to me for it will cost me everything, but I have no other choice.

This journal always puts things into perspective for me. Sitting here in the cold is but a memory that I will wish to forget. This red silk thread that I’ve had for so long still serves as my bookmark. It will keep time well, as shall I. The paper still feels like a silk shawl against my skin. This quill is exquisite with its peacock feather and everlasting ink. The gods were useful when they were useful.

I keep returning to some entries that should remain dead to me. Like a predictable fool, I bring them to the present, preserving their presence in the future. One in particular really threaded my life into each new day, since it was like the beginning of my new life. It hurts to think about it. I can’t let that one get to me now.

I was always wary of my brothers. Their insatiable appetite for dealing out punishment through torture was unforgivable and unpredictable. They had revealed some of Father’s secrets. They will never know mine. They have proven their false faces to be more trustworthy than their sober ones. After all these long years, why can’t they just dish out love instead of hate?

I have searched every corner of my brain to figure out a way to get them to see things the way I did back then. But they have set themselves on a path that I cannot deter them from. I have decided that I will stay out of their lives. I am not too concerned about seeing them or not. They will most likely find me, like they always do.

Ripped from the comfort of home, isolated to the dark; it took all of Damien’s strength to keep control over his anger. He didn’t want to have to kill everyone.

He sat against the wall of the alley that divided Club Gothic and Brenda’s Diner. It was rather dark despite the bright lights hanging on the sides of the buildings, burning down on him like tiny suns that were made just for him. Isolation is dark, even if you can see the sun. It stank of old beer bottles and rotting food. Used condoms were frozen in the cracks along the cobblestone. All in all, a good place to sit and ponder.

The need to feed was powerful and increasing by the second. The Devil is never kind, but he tries to please you to please himself. The days were numbered. The rise to fall comes whether you want it to or not.

Damien looked up. Laughter roared around the corner. The drunk kind. He cursed the urge to feed. It screamed louder than a New York City-pissed off-person’s horn. Louder than standing next to a plane taking off. The urge couldn’t be satisfied with a spoonful of sugar, it needed the whole damn sugar factory. He crept close to the opening of the alley, which was a strain for him to achieve. Every ounce of his blood boiled with the anticipation. The release from hunger deprivation. He bit his lip, then rolled his tongue over the blood that came. The taste of that copper flavor that most people abhor would soon be flowing down his throat like a mad river, stretching to the far corners of his body, quenching his thirst.

No, of course it wouldn’t. He was now cursed to never be satisfied no matter how much he drank. A woman closest to the alley was to be the first of the evening. As her arm fell by the opening, Damien struck with the force of an eighteen wheeler hitting a car at full speed.


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