Fanfiction ► But it's better if you do...

[Sterling_Silver]

I'm only posting this for the creds. And because there are only three chapters. ^-^ So this is the first, I'll post the second when I get seven, COUNT'EM, SEVEN, reviews. :]

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Damone twitched slightly in the cold, grey, stone walled 'apartment' cell that had uncanny resemblance to an actual prison structure. Well if there was any way to start off a great saturday... he sighed. Looking up, his grey and blue eyes peirced the two toes he scowled at, in what he had imagined to be the much famed "Deathglare of Ancient Kyuuri's". Everything about this was total and complete bullshist. It was so similar to 'Gothicka' that Damone himself wanted to laugh, and if he thought about it too much, he probably would. Apparently, he had killed his girlfriend. He didn't remember this, of course, but he had brutally slain his best friend and worst enemy. He had torn her insides out, he had devoured her skin, all sorts of insane crimes so hanous they couldn't believe the young boy had been at fault. But there he had been found, lying curled next to the mangled remains of her corpse, blood smeared on his face and hands, sleeping contentedly as if he'd been drugged. But he didn't remember any of that. He was innocent. Completely.

Right...?

They had told him what he had done. They showed him pictures. They diagnosed his condition, and he had laughed. "lycanthropy", they had called it. Now, the next day, the images had really begun to sink in.But every few minutes, his eyes would dart to the window parralell to the plexiglass door that kept all thoughts of freedom and escape at bay. His girl was dead. He did it. She'd never laugh or cry or come to see him or anything. Gone, pretty much. As he thought this, he expected to feel the familiar sting of tears in his eyes. It never came. Instead, it was like he didn't care... Well, not that he didn't care, but it was a sort of calm detachment. Maybe he was going crazy... he laughed bitterly. Either stay here in this comfy, cozy little small town asylum on the outskirts of Atlanta or go the nice prison a few blocks away and be cellmate to a big guy named Molly. 'Like picking your own poisen', Damone thought, staring at the ashen stormclouds that hovered outside the window. Footsteps sounded, and the boy lay down and acted like he had fallen asleep. It always seemed to work. He hadn't been questioned since, and maybe he could get out of this if he just acted asleep all the time...

"You. Super-six-forty-one. Looks like you have a full schedual today..." The overweight guard drawled on in an authentic southern accent. Damone laughed inwardly. This guy wasn't from the south. He didn't say his "ya'lls" or "th" words right. But the guard spoke on, unaware of the silent mirth he was causing. "First, you hit the showers, then you get to go to the weight and rec center, then you get another news and/or police interveiw! Lemme tell ya, kid, y'aint got nothin' on R. Kelly. You probably get more time on tha news anyways..." He finally realized the boy wasn't listening and knocked loudly on the glass. "YOU. IN THERE. SHOWERS. NOW." Damone sat up lazily, stratching his arms and scartching underneith the little dress shirt they gave you in the hospital. "Nah, I'd rather stay in here and smell like mouldy ass." He looked over his shoulder insolently at the guard's name tag. "Hey... Ron. Can I get some books in here? Maybe a little music.. Cause I'm bored and you never know what might happen when I'm bored... I just might bite someone's head off." He smiled cheerfully. This was still a joke, and he was gonna wait it out til this resolved itself. He wasn't gonna loose faith in his own sanity. The guard on the other hand, wasn't aware there was any sanity to begin with, so he grumbled and jogged back to the fenced off room in the front of the compound, calling up four officers who were in the lounge at the moment. When they arrived outside Damone's door, he just waved and asked with the same insolent tone, "Are you really going to make me take a shower? Are you gonna spongebathe me? Cause I'd really rather prefer one of the nurses..." he trailed off as one said nurse, a male one, walked past his glass door.

"You know what, never mind. I'm all up for a shower. BY MYSELF." he glared at the guards as he passed, elbowing one in the gut. "I thought officer's had to be physically fit to be in the force. Mind tell'in me how you got in there? Maybe you got some high up connections?" the guard grunted and pushed Damone down the hall. He stilled the questions on his tongue, for these guys had wonderful little nitesticks. And being beaten with one of those was NOT pleasent feeling. Later, when Damone had cleaned and made more jokes about the guards and the incompitency of everyone else in the building, he was escorted to a large, bare room with a steel framed glass table and four chairs, two on either side of the clear glass. Soon after, a police officer entered the room. He sat down with a sigh and took his thick framed glasses off and set them on the table with in a resigned action.

"Now son," he began much to Damone's dismay. Did they really expect him to be more cooperative if they referred to him as family...? "I need you to help me. I think... that this is all one big mistake. Or a setup. Something. But there is little evidence on both sides of this case, saying you are the killer and you aren't. The blame needed to be placed, and you were at the wrong place, at the wrong time." He peered up at Damone, almost squinting. "I think that you may be crazy, but that you really are just... misunderstood. And I want to help you. So will you help me." Damone rolled his eyes and leaned his head back on the top of the chair.

"I've yet to see what you want me to do, officer."

A scowl passed over the man's face but it was quickly hidden. "I need you to tell me everything. It doesn't matter if you think it's incriminating or not." He looked at Damone with an expression of urgency and false eagerness. The boy felt disgusted. "I already told you retards this. I don't know WTF you guys are talkin' about. I didn't do anything, and you guys are all assholes for setting me up like this. Even if I do say something, it'd make me look like the criminal, if I don't say anything, it looks suspicious, and I'm not allowed to stay in my cell all day, or Cookiemonster over there-" and he pointed to the rotund officer standing in the corner of the room "- will make me get off my ass and take a shower or something. Would you want to say anything in my position?" the older man was appalled. He couldn't tell what had shocked him more, but something had definitely shut him up for awhile. After hearing no response from his interrogator, Damone grinned evilly at the man and stood up, walking to the door and waiting for the guard to open it and escort him to his room.

Reaching his sanctuary, Damone jumped and fell onto his bed, rolling himself up in the blankets and trying to fall into sleep. The questions haunted him, irritated him, but what was he to do? He couldn't exactly call up his family. He'd practically been disowned. All that was left to do was wait and hope that one of his friends would visit him and sort this all out with the retards workin' the desks out front. But if they didn't come? If they left him here, stranded, he'd have no choice but to break out on his own. He almost laughed, but stifled it as someone walked by. Him, fourteen year old Damone Rigel, from some city outside the famous "A-Town", break out of this medium high security insane asylum. This really was worthy of a good laugh, but he just didn't feel up to it. He wanted to see his girl, he wanted to make sure this was all just the joke he ferverently hoped it was. He drifted off into sleep on this train of thoughts, with flashes of dark blue and black throughout his dreams. Then a loud knock on his door again.

"Gawdammit if you don't get your candy ass away from my door I'll make sure to eat your brains right out of that gawshdarned water bowl!!"

Damone regretted yelling that, seeing as a few minutes later the same four officers came and lifted him to his feet and practically dragged him down the hall, past the guard who he had insulted in his semi-sleep stupor. The man grinned and waved, then turned back to his tv monitor with a satisfied smile. Damone, who was still too asleep to make any jokes about his captors, was carried into the same room he had the interview with the last cop. After a few minutes, the counselor walked in. He set down his papers in a business like manner, and folded his fingers together, leaning forward. "Alright Damone. I'm going to start this off by telling you my name, which is Charles. You may call me Mr. Gardner. I want to help you-" Damone held in the bark of laughter and allowed the man to continue. "be more comfortable here. Now... will you tell me your recent thoughts? Feelings? Dreams?" the boy thought for a moment, then began to tell how he really wanted books and music and television again. He was sure to say nothing that could be used against him. At one point, he was asked if he had thought about escaping.

"Why would I need to escape? I'm all attached to this wonderful happy hotel, with it's lack of adequate security and desperate need of cable. It's like my home! Besides, as long as I didn't do anything, I don't see why I should leave. It's not like they're prepping a room for me in Juvy and in here I can be fed and have a place to sleep without having to spend my own money. It all works out in the end, huh?" the counselor's demeanor didn't change but the next question threw Damone off for a second. "You're innocent? You mean the pictures are fake? The parents are just actors paid to grieve for some child they don't know of? This is all a joke?" the counselor's eyes hardened at the last question. "You don't believe this is real?" Damone lowered his head, looking at the dirt-specked floor. When he raised it again, his voice was serious, as was his expression. "Yeah. That's it exactly. None of this is really happening, this is all just total bullshist." Pity showed openly on the counselor's face. Damone tried to smile, but held more of a grimace.

"Don't worry Chuck. Denial's the first stage, right?"
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shaZAM.

 

[GuardianOfHearts]

Dragging this neglected thing up.

I told you how awesome it was in the PM. ^-^

NOW READ, PEOPLEZ. D=<


You really like P!atD titles. o.o

The best is still "Lying is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off".

 

[Thelonepickle]

^No, that's a stupid song.

>.>

<.<

There's A Good Reason pwns that one. >.>;

This fic is awesome, Silvar. =O

REVIEW IT, PEEPS. D:<

 

[Katattack]

._.

Long chappeh.

Amazing fic, Silvah. I caught teh pickle reference, also! ^-^

 

[Sterling_Silver]

Amme. Get on AIM. Now. Or I might be forced to roastchya. >.< And thanks for the reviews guys. Four more and I'll get to the fun part.

 

[TheClamWhisperer]

Very nice Pervy Pirate ^_^

That gaurd is cracking me up for some odd reason XD

C'mon people, we only need 3 more for an updart, review this you flugernarkens!

 

[Sterling_Silver]

I'm updarting cause Amme said she'd send me a cool link. So.... ^-^

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Blue, dancing, swirling darkness. Whatever you'd call this, this strange, kinetic energy Damone felt running through him, it made him lose himself in constant motion, running, kicking, spinning while running or kicking, or slashing with the two blades he held. His right hand held a sword. Nothing more, nothing less. A sword with a blade that looked like a clouded ruby, no decorations on the hilt, nothing on the handle. A simple killing machine, eager to do exactly what it was made for. Damone's left hand held a blade with no definite end. As clear as glass, something in the light gave the blade itself a sapphire glow, accentuating the gold and navy blue hilt and handle. Both blades felt like extensions of Damone's own hand. As he looked around in the darkness, unafraid and baring his fangs, he felt a gnawing hunger. It ate through his stomach, down to the very deepest depths of his heart, into the darkest part of his soul. Damone whipped his head to the side and saw them in the darkness, leering through shadows. Glowing, yellow, catlike eyes staring at him from barely above the ground. Watching him as he danced to the whistled tune of his own blades. Then it struck.

"HEY! YOU IN THERE! QUIET KID!"
Damone sat up, sweating and gasping for breath, and looked at the security guard. A different guard from the morning, he subconsiously noted. The lean man grinned wickedly and leaned on the glass. "Look bucko, just cause you're a little coocoo for cocoa puffs doesn't mean you get to scream and make weird howls all night and wake the other patients up. You're not that special." the man shrugged, still smiling, and walked back to the seperate room for security. Damone watched him, feeling the traces of maddening hunger he had felt in his sleep. He put his head in his hand, realizing he was shivering badly.

What just happened? Had that been a dream...? Damone peered through the glass, realizing it was still dark. He shivered again, remembering those haunting eyes. Waiting. With the same intense, deprived, hungry look in their eyes... Damone lay back down and crawled under the blankets again. He lay with his back to the wall, not trusting the darkness, regardless of whether he feared it or welcomed what it had hidden in the shadows, and fell asleep.

A knock on the glass pane. The same, wonderful, smiling security guard who had the day shift was waking Damone up again, and, once again, Damone felt like he'd been hit with the Hangover Truck going at a-hundred and twenty. He rolled over and sighed. It was Sunday. Maybe if he lay there and play dead, the guard would go away and let him sleep. When the guard saw no attempt at movement from the still form underneath the blankets he sighed and went back to the fenced off room and turned on the tv, changing the station to a church service being broadcasted. The sound of the impassioned preacher speaking barely caught Damone's attention as he sheilded his eyes from the bright streaming sunlight that poured through the window. A warm breeze floated in from the open aperature, making Damone shiver. Why was he so cold? Probably the food that did it, he thought. Whatever it was, he decided it would wear off with more sleep, so he turned his head to the other side, making sure to keep all traces of sunlight out of his eyes.

"I brought you some food, my lord..." a meek voice sounded behind Damone, scaring him momentarily. Then he tried to speak, to say something sarcastic and offensive, but he made no sound and quickly stopped trying. He turned his head to see a small, thin man place a great platter of meat on a table in front of a large, heavily mustled man who seemed to have a holy glow surrounding him. The small man then stepped back, with a devious glint in his beady eyes. The heavily mustled man stared at the food without moving, then spoke in a deep, omnipotent voice.

"What is this?", he pushed the dish away in utter disgust. "Lycaon... How dare you? Your own son?! He was of your flesh." By now, the small man was sweating and shaking uncontrollably, making a real effort to speak but totally failing. "N-n-n-n-o s-sire, it w-wasn't-" the god held up a hand and the man stopped shaking and stuttering. "Zeus have mercy on me...", Lycaon whispered, and closed his eyes tightly, so as not to witness his own fate. Zeus shook his head in sadness and anger and sighed. He looked back at Lycaon, who now shook worse than before, though not entirely from fear.

Then Lycaon began screaming in pain, and sprouted fur over his arms, legs and face, which had elongated into a snout and grew fangs. The scream turned into a snarl of rage and fear, hatred and agony. What remained of Lycaon now stood on four legs, tail erect, claws and fangs bared at the mighty god Zeus. The god, who hadn't looked away or moved since the transformation, said nothing for a moment. When he did speak, it was in an aggreived tone of voice, like that of a parent to a misbehaved child who had just been severely chastised. "This is your punishment. You will live like this until the hour of your death, and may you regret this day for all eternity."

Damone found himself snarling now, at the powerful god who stood immobile, a sentient statue in a time long forgotten. Rage, hatred, and the smallest tinge of regret clouded his eyes in a red fog. "This is your fault! You did this!" He snarled at the granite statue that Zeus had become, now holding a lightning bolt that made the very air around Damone reverbrate with power. In this small hall-like room, with it's stone pillars and white washed walls, it seemed that if the boy screamed loud enough, Zeus might actually come back to life, give an explanation to his foolhardy actions, and take this curse that Damone now knew was his burden. "Speak to me! Tell me why you did this!", Damone shouted at the still form, clenching his fist, making his claws dig into the soft flesh on his palm. Getting no response, Damone succumbed his rage and snarled at the once powerful god. "I'll kill you! You won't get away with this! I'll get you back for her!", having said that, he sprang for an attack, preparing to rip out the god's throat with his powerful fangs.

Mere inches away from Zeus' neck, Damone had opened his mouth to roar in triumph, only to have them abruptly closed by the jaws of another wolf, who tore at the furred flesh on his muzzle while tackling him to the ground in midair. The other wolf glared at Damone with feirce yellow eyes, growling low in her throat. Fear lanced through Damone and he looked around, confirming that he had no exit other than through the jaws of this wolf. He closed and waited for the fatal blow, though none came. In it's stead, a sharp bark and an intense migraine made Damone sit up in his bed, which was now soaked with sweat. He looked around, noting the walls were now red with light from the sunset. His voice was hoarse, the light in his cell was in tattered shreds on the bed, and Damone was panting.

Now, all that remained of the dream, other than the memory, was the gnawing hunger, and the long, jagged cuts across the bridge of his nose and chin, reminiscent of saw-edged, ivory fangs.
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One more to go.