The moment the entire room fell silent and the monsters had receded into the depths of this room, I knew that Damien and I were safe for the most part. As long as these illusory horns remained perched on my head, the monsters would show a strange, habitual terror. My gaze remained on the darkness where the beasts once stood, staring into the nothingness for a few moments to ensure we were safe for the most part.
The air around me never receded with its cold temperature; instead, it only seemed to drop further the longer this strange state I was in persisted. Damien's small hands remained clasped around my horns, clinging to the foreign appendages like a lifeline as the trembling of his body gradually began to falter.
"Do you think we're safe now?" The young boy asked.
I looked up at him for a few silent seconds before sighing. "I think the monsters don't really like this...thing."
I looked back towards the door that had been locked shut by Harland, the crimson light emanating from my horns allowing me to get an ample view. The wooden surface had been mottled and engraved by the sharp claws of beasts. The claw marks varied from barely marking incisions to deeply mottled ruts cutting multiple inches deep in the wood.
The spot on the door where a doorknob would have been was like the rest of the door, covered with broken wood that bore a similar texture. The doorknob had been completely removed. Seeing this, my eyes widened as I took a step back.
In my peripheral vision, I noticed Damien was constantly looking back into the darkness behind us, wary about the creatures that lurked within. His grip on my horns habitually tightened whenever a small whimper or whine emanated from these monsters.
"The door's broken; perhaps we can find another way out."
At this moment, I closed my eyes and didn't think any further. As my surroundings gradually grew warmer and ostensibly safer, I sent both of us to the throne room in an instant. Iron-black and red pillars shot up from the stone floor, extending into the inky darkness of the interminable dark gray mist.
When I opened my eyes, I swiftly looked around the familiar surroundings of the throne room. Damien remained latched to my horns, his matching white eyes wide and his mouth agape as he admired the space.
"W-wha..."
I set down Damien on the floor and took a step back, sighing softly. "This is my mindscape; just don't freak out, and we'll be good."
Damien didn't seem to regard my words, spinning around in circles as he admired the space with wide, childlike eyes and an expression of pure wonder. The boy almost tripped on the rug and fell onto his rear, but luckily, I caught him before that happened.
"I didn't know you had powers! I've only heard stories from my father!"
I knelt down to meet Damien eye-to-eye, arching an eyebrow. "What exactly did he say about people with powers?"
At this moment, Damien's lips curled into a smile as he plopped down onto his rear, reminiscing on previous times.
"My father told me that long, long ago, creatures like angels and gods were always fighting each other in big, angry battles. Empires were made to keep their power, and scary, dark beasts lurked in the shadows, in the Underworld."
He looked back at me, particularly at the crimson horns on my head.
Damien extended his hand, wrapping it around the base of the horns where they met my skin. Sure, they weren't real, but the sensation of him holding them was.
I quickly took notice of Damien's lower lip; it was twitching slightly.
"He said that demons who had horns caused destruction and chaos wherever they went."
His eyes widened a millimeter, and his small hand began to tremble. "W-will you...be like that?"
The moment the question was asked, I fell silent. My mind flashed back to my life before I came here.
...
My father held the bottle of beer in his hands, ready to hurl it in my direction. My mother watched from the sidelines, refusing to intervene even amidst the current chaos. My eyes were wide with terror, my lanky frame trembling like a leaf as I awaited the beating of a lifetime.
"You know you'll never escape me, dumpster boy." My father's voice was akin to venom in my body, coursing deep enough to make my heart tremble just like my body.
I stumbled back over a soda can lying on the kitchen floor, almost falling back and hitting my head on the counter. I frankly extended my arms backwards, grasping the edge of the counter to root myself back into place.
He took two steps forward, his grip around the bottle tightening until his fists turned an icy hot color. His ivory-black eyes flickered with malicious intent that could barely be contained by instinct. A sudden, razor-sharp slap from my father sent me hurling to the floor, my head hitting the rock-hard floor with enough force to knock me out.
As a small amount of blood gushed from my nose, he looked down at my pitiful form and smiled before kneeling down and taking hold of my chin.
His lips parted, allowing me an unwilling sniff of his pungent, odorous breath and golden-colored teeth.
He leaned in even closer, speaking with a low voice that rumbled from his throat. "You're lucky you're even still here, dumpster-boy. You've always been good at doing what you're told."
At this point, his lips were so close to my face I thought he might just kiss me. "Isn't that right?"
A low, barbaric growl emanated from his throat. Beneath his stained jean jacket and undershirt, the fibrous muscles and contours of his skin began to ripple and contort like waves. The pale color of his skin darkened to a sickly gray color, and the usually blue veins under his skin turned ink-black, like a dark, viscous venom was being pumped deep into them.
An uncountable number of spots on his inhuman skin cracked open like eggs, revealing the murky, bloody depths of his muscles and bodily tissues. From these ghastly wounds, fungi and semi-living organisms sprouted like flowers—they were worts.
The muscles on his back, just above his spinal cord, rippled for a short period before breaking open like a piece of bread. From the cavities on his back, a pair of insectoid wings sprouted from his bones, flapping wildly.
On his face, just above his eyes, numerous pairs of eyes protruded from his skin, and his humanoid mouth swiftly contorted, growing a pair of fangs reminiscent of a praying mantis. A pair of antennas bloodlessly poked through his forehead, sprouting upwards a few inches above his head.
I watched, my skin as pale as snow, as my father had fully transformed into an insect-like creature. Two more pairs of arms sprouted from his hips, wrapping around my chin and neck as he swiftly pulled me in his direction.
"Maybe I should call you bug-boy instead?" My father's voice now wasn't his own; it was Damien's.
My vision burst again with a bright, blinding light. I let out a sharp gasp as I returned to reality, my hands outstretched in front of me... they were wrapped around Damien's neck.
"What are ...y-you doing?" Damien sputtered out, his face slightly blue as he gasped and choked around my vice-like grip.
Oh my god!
My hands swiftly unlatched from his throat, shooting back to my sides as I clenched my fists so hard I swear my nails dug up blood. I couldn't speak—the words caught in my throat as I gazed at Damien's face. The blue color from the lack of oxygen gradually faded as the boy coughed and spasmed, filling his lungs with much-needed air.
"What was that for?" He asked, his brows furrowing as his hands wrapped around his throat almost protectively.
Suddenly, his expression softened upon seeing my form. My body was curled tightly into a ball, trembling slightly as low sobs emanated from my throat, rattling the walls of the throne room. Outside the circular window, the chaotic storm resembling my mind shook and trembled with crimson lightning. Damien didn't look back—his expression laser-focused on my body.
My form wracked with silent sobs, accompanied by muffled, barely-containable sniffles.
All of the regard he previously carried for his condition instantly vanished, gravitating towards me. Damien didn't hesitate to crawl over to me, placing one of his small hands on my trembling back. He slowly took a deep breath, before speaking in a low voice.
"D-don't cry ...I'm here."
His soft, innocent voice permeated the desolate atmosphere, resounding in my ears for a few moments. My body gradually unwinded until I was sitting upright, but I refused to look at the boy, turning around and gazing at the end of the throne room's hallway, where a pair of thick iron doors stood, towering numerous meters in height.
I remained silent, the clear, musky tears continuing the flow freely down my face, causing my vision to remain hazy and unfocused. My chest stung and burned like I had been dunked in boiling water, like the sight of my fathers transformation and the words he had spoken were a venom that refused to be digested.
Damien's small hands suddenly rested on my back, rubbing gently up and down through my thin gray tunic.
"My father always told me a good back rub helped calm him down; he always gave me them when I felt mad ...sad ...or like I couldn't take much more." Damien explained, his voice low as he looked back to the carpeted floor.
His small hands continued rubbing my back, never faltering in pace or speeding up, maintaining a calming rhythm.
"I'm ...I didn't like how I was to you when we first met, Isaac. Sorry if I seemed like I was a bit of a meanie."
His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, and I heard a small, vulnerable squeak leave his throat. Damien didn't pause his rubbing, even if small sniffles filled the air. The boy's small hand began to tremble, but he kept rubbing my back even through this complex storm of emotions.
"How was your dad?" Damien asked, the question emanating through a shaky voice. It rested in the air a little longer than it should've.
After wiping the tears from my eyes, I suppressed the flurry of emotions that coursed through my body, before turning back to him and sighing. "He was a bit of an asshole."
My tone must have come off a little too cold for the moment, because I saw Damien's body tense slightly—the rubbing of my back ceasing for a sliver of a moment.
"Sorry..." I rubbed the back of my neck while using my other hand to wipe away the residual tears.
"No, no ...no need to feel sorry. You're mad, I understand that." Damien's sudden mature approach to this conversation caused my heart to freeze in my chest. Was this bratty child I had met only a few hours ago being ...not bratty, or something like that?
At this moment, I couldn't help but smile self-deprecatingly. "You sound like your dad was the best in the world."
Damien's lips curled into a small smile as he shook his head. "He wasn't perfect, but I still loved him to pieces."
The boy crawled a little closer to me, almost resting on my lap as he let out a shaky breath. "When we first came here, he ensured to protect me from all of the scary things here. But ...after he was taken away ...everything felt so much worse."
A small amount of tears gathered on his cheek, which he swiftly wiped away with his oversized sleeve. "The toys in our room are the ones the medical facility let me keep ...the others were burnt in the furnaces or discarded like trash ...they were my fathers."
I leaned back, my body resting on the carpeted floor as I gazed up into the abyss of endless dark fog. "You're lucky, I never had childhood toys, or toys in general."
"Really?" Damien seemed genuinely shocked upon hearing this statement. He leaned in even closer, the ends of his white hair brushing against my light gray shirt. "Maybe, if you're up for it ...we can share."
Hearing his words, I felt my face flush, and my lips contort into a shaky flustered smile. "I-I think I'm too old for ...t-toys or playing with stuff like that."
I instantly knew I was lying when I said that. When I found that discarded stuffed bear on the side of the road, I wanted to take it home and snuggle with it every night until it eventually broke down and had to be thrown out. My drawings were always hanging on the fridge, courtesy of my mother. When taken for mental evaluations when they first found me, they always talked about something called 'age-regression,' which seemed deathly embarrassing if I were to tell anyone what it meant—all it took was a quick internet search.
I always mindlessly sketched in my science notebook after I had taken all my notes until the period ended, I always huddled in my little corner of the cafeteria, watching videos on my slightly cracked phone. And, while a little unorthodox for someone my age, I had an imaginary friend up until a year ago. From what I could remember, his name was Silas.
I even wrote a book, though it wasn't the best piece of fiction. It was called Isaac's Great Adventure, and I believe the main character got taken to a fantastical world like this. He found love, he had friends, and he was happy. Heh, who knew I wrote self-insert stories like that.
My train of thought was broken by Damien pinching my cheek, smiling. "No one's too old for stuff like that, dummy."
The boy's small smile sent a rush of warmth through my body. And I just couldn't help myself. Damien was so much like me, I saw my own eyes within his own. This ...was my chance—I could prove to everyone, prove to my own father that I wouldn't end up like him, that I wouldn't become a monster just like he was.
I could make Damien my own adopted child, I could correct and right the wrongs that he had placed upon me. Now, there was no more Isaac that would get beaten up and cry himself to sleep, feeling sorry for himself for not being able to control his emotions. No more Isaac that would suppress his emotions, kick charity baskets, and scream into the night sky.
"First ...we have to find our way out."