Damon Cheyne [D4] ~FIN~

There are a lot of things I hate, my long gone mother is a testament to that.

(Damon, your heart is full of hatred.)

She wasn't violent but that one last attempt to drive a knife through my heart fell blunt. She gripped tight and twisted and I stood there unflinching, facing the heart of the truth head on. With that one last point she turned and left, her possessions, legacy and all. Turning her back not only on me but the family she built with my father for fifteen years. Scars across my chest remained crystal clear to this day because her words cut deep. And yet to this day, I still can't find it in my heart to care.

To be fair, what she said was true; there's not many things I don't hate.

"Mother, I fucking hate you."

(Damon, your heart is full of hatred.)

A declaration of who I am, left strewn across my chest as she turned her back on us and left that house with her things. What I said was completely true, even though I still see her once in a blue moon she knows I hate her for what she did. I hate her for her declaration of who I am and I hate her for her deceit and her lies. Call it irony since she is the one who has shaped me the most but I hate her with a passion that burns to the bottom of my guts. The fire spreads from the bottom of my cuts to the chamber hidden in my ribcage that harbours the hatred of eighteen years.

I hate her even though I look like her the most. When I look in the mirror I see her and I feel the burning passion ignited in the chamber of my hatred. The light green eyes that burned into my chest the moment I spoke those words (Mother, I fucking hate you) are the light green eyes that sit in my sockets. Thin lips that are rarely cracked by a smile are twinned between us. Almost like a mirror image. I hate that when I look in the mirror. I hate the fact that we share the same nose, pointed and thin.

My jet black hair, all her fault as well. It's long, mainly slicked back behind my ears since I have to keep up an appearance. She's even cursed me with her damn height. She's the same height as my dad who's the same height as me. Five foot eleven on the dot and that's that. Months I spent hoping I grow an extra inch, just to take me out of the same bracket as my mother and father. Mainly my mother, I hate my father just a bit less. Months I've longed to break the chains binding me to that pair. My father has a stubble so I'm clean shaven, I don't want to look like him. My father has short hair so I allowed mine to grow, but not so long that it's like my mother's shoulder length hair. I need to differentiate myself.

Career training has left me physically fit and quick. I'm not overpoweringly strong but I'm damn quick on my feet, like a butterfly. In the training centre people just can't catch me, I'm too quick for them to hit me. I duck, weave, dodge and spin, making hit after hit until I bring the giants to their knees. It's usually their fault for underestimating me.

I remember when my father told me he was sending me to the career centre. My mother didn't want it because that's where the 'rough boys' went and I wasn't big but he insisted. I just went the old days back when my father taught me how to hold a spear and when he taught me how to fish when I was seven. I loved it, the fishing and the training. I spent nearly all our time in the huge family boat. Ate my dinner there, sometimes even slept there over night and only came in the house when I absolutely had to shower. Now, I spend more of my time on the boat for an escape route. I can't stand being in the house with him. Besides, no one but me has been on this boat for years.

I always take the family boat out now, I'm almost pirate like with the time I spend on sea. As soon as training finishes I shower and go out to sea on the boat. Sometimes I even set up the table and eat my dinner there for myself. I hate that house, just the thought of being in there ignites the burning passion deep in the chamber of my hatred. I avoid it as much as possible. There's a bed on the boat, I can just sleep there. If showering and changing clothes wasn't a necessity I would live on that boat. There's a sense of calm that comes with being at sea and fishing, as if all my problems could be drowned from just sitting on a boat and watching the waves.

If there's one good thing my parents did for me, it was igniting my drive to be the best. Before I became driven by the hate of course. My father pushed me to be the best, and not just in fishing and training, school was a necessity as well. My mother focused more on the academics, sitting me down and making sure I did my homework before I went out to play on the boat by myself. My father taught me how to fish, taught me how to hold a spear, taught me how to tie a net, taught me the more practical things. I had to be the one who caught the most fish, I had to be the one who got the most 'kills' in bloodbath simulations, I had to be the one who had good behaviour.

And I was.

I always fulfilled my weekly fishing quota, I averaged three kills across every bloodbath simulation and I never got a bad report or missed a singe piece of homework in class.

I miss the routine sometimes, when the four of us were a real family. Fourteen years of age came and the illusion of a happy family was shattered before my very eyes and I pierced my neck on the shards. Father was working and I brought the boat back a good six hours early because there was a storm outside. The moment I entered the house, my perceptive mind caught onto the fact that something was wrong. Me and my mother always shared an eye for perfection, her more so than me, hence why I knew something wasn't right when I saw a discarded lingerie strewn across the living room table. Scented candles were lighted to make the room smell like flowers, my mother never lighted scented candles; she called them a fire hazard.

Stealth overtook my movements and I crept up the stairs and that's when the illusion shattered. I never should have pressed my air against that bedroom door.

Two female voices, my mother's voice moaning with pleasure while an unknown one giggled and the occasional rough smack filled the room. My heart dropped and I fled, creeping back down the stairs and sprinting away and back into the boat.

I didn't say anything the next day. My logical mind filled me with denial, after all, I hadn't seen anything. Only heard something suspicious. Besides, my mother was married to my father (a man) and had children. I had just misheard.

I dared test fate the next day. My parent's bedroom window was by a tree that overhung in the back garden. I climbed the tree, sat in a branch and waited for a good hour. That's when she showed up. They burst through the door, half undressed and full of excitement. The strange woman had sandy blonde hair and even I have to admit she was strangely attractive, she shared our green eyes. Before anything, she held up her hand and my mother took a wallet from the night stand, pulled out some cash and handed her the money.

I saw the whole thing and I threw up.

After climbing down from the tree I retreated to the boat and didn't come out until the next day. I held my silence but distanced myself from everything. Six months I held my silence but I still knew what they were doing. One time my mother said she was going out to meet with her friends and I trailed her, my career stealth was clearly very useful, and she walked through the streets for a good hour and half before she made it to a different woman's house. This one was different because she had ginger hair instead of blonde. My mother handed her money and the door closed behind them. I retreated to the boat that night as well.

Six months I held my silence until I had enough. I told my father everything, that my mother was seeing female prostitutes behind his back and she was being unfaithful.

"Why are you lying, child?" He broke the silence, his words were like a whip.

"I'm not lying, I saw them." I told him, my voice cracked.

"Disgusting lies, I could have you punished for-"

I massively cut him off. "How do you explain the underwear you found at home last week then? You said they weren't hers and I certainly didn't bring anyone ho-"

His hand cracked across my face.

"Get out!" He shouted, among a smear of insults and variations of calling me a liar.

I think that's when I began to hate my father as well as my mother.

It felt like bittersweet justice when a week later, my father came home early one night to those scented candles and the not quiet clean living room. Even never ending denial couldn't blind him to the truth. I saw the whole thing, watching from the tree in the back garden. Even denial couldn't blind him to the fact that my mother was tied up to the headstand with knots of rope and had not one, not two, but four strange and unknown women in bed with her.

The divorce papers were signed not too long after.

Father couldn't even look at me the eye, not even an 'I'm sorry, son' or a 'you were right.' He didn't even look me in the eye.

I fucking hate him.

The day she came back for her possessions to take to her new place I will forever remember it. It was three years ago but it feels like yesterday, every moment, every facial expression can be paused and mentally re-winded like a television.

"Why?" I asked her before she could walk out of that door. I had to know. "Why would you do this?" I asked, my fists clenched at my side and tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.

"It's- it's- you're too young to understand." Was the only response she could give me. That and her sad eyes. I refused to accept it.

"Bullshit!" I shouted out, but she didn't even seem taken aback by the sudden outburst.

She sighed and turned around to face me. "I never should have married your father. It's not me, it's not who I am. This is who I am, I've accepted-"

It seems I didn't learn from my father. I cut her off. "You're a bitch who turned on her family just to get fucked by some fucking whores." I snarled, not a single word regretted.

"Damon!" She gasped, taken aback by my outburst.

"Mother, I fucking hate you." I snarled, I think that's when the fires truly burned in the chamber of my hatred.

In that moment we were both as weightless as air. She pressed the verbal knife to my chest.

"Damon, your heart is full of hatred.

And plunged it in and twisted it into my far too numb heart.

We barely spoke after that day, I spent nearly all of my time living with my father but even that wasn't very thrilling. It wasn't long before word of why my parents split went around the school. I got into my first fight because someone said some kind of remark. I spent most of my time in my boat, father didn't mind and even if he did I really wouldn't have cared. He hit me and proclaimed me a liar. I wanted nothing to do with the bastard. Two hears the fire burned in the chamber of my hatred, I thought it was die out with time until I turned seventeen and my mother doused the flame with fuel.

She introduced me to her new partner, and it just happened to be the blonde woman I first caught her with. Had I been fifteen I would have called them both cunts and told them to go to hell. With two years, the fires scalding the walls of my chamber simply made me grow up. I knew not to do that. I didn't act happy to see her but I acted civil, I drank with them and gave her a hug when I had to go. Apparently she felt obligated to introduce me to the person she loves because she could be my new step mother one day.

(I hope you learn to understand, I love her Damon. Perhaps when you fall in love you'll understand.)

I hate whores and killed my first one that night.

It wasn't hard to find one, the back alley streets were I trailed my mother when I was fifteen. The first one I found I grabbed her by the waist and handed her some cash. "I want the full treatment, you're coming with me." I told her. She looked sceptical so I gave her a nice wad.

I took her to my boat. She had dark hair and dark eyes and was taller than me. A red dress as well, her clothes weren't great at all and she looked like she had been beaten one too many times. I definitely wasn't going to fuck that. I took her to the boat and we started sailing. She knew I could pay her well, she had the cash in her pocket after all. I had 'borrowed' come of my father's wine and had two glasses set out on the table already. I think she enjoyed the treatment and my sweet talking tongue. I knew the right things to say, I knew she was poor and wasn't used to being treated this way. She told me her name was Patricia, I liked that name. She told me her story, her father had been executed and her mother was also a prostitute who died from getting in bed with the wrong man. The more tipsy she got the more she told me. She was poor and saw her job as her having no choice.

Gutting the whore was so satisfying.

Granted, despite my eye for perfection, it was pretty messy. She actually tried to resist when she saw I was going to kill her, I took a soft blow to the jaw but in the end it was futile. She was underfed and hadn't gone through any training, I'm a career. The knife went in so deep and I twist and brought it across her mid section. The red grin made me laugh. I cut and slashed so deep that she was crying and begging for mercy, the blood blending in with her red dress. In the end I slit her throat ear from ear, the knife bit deep. We were out in the middle of nowhere in the sea, no one would know or or care.

I tied something heavy to her feet and tossed her overboard so she could feed the fishes. The difficult bit was cleaning up. I had to scrub out the blood with the strongest detergent and burn my clothes, I had to make sure no evidence could be found. Even if she's reported missing I doubt anyone would miss a whore.

When it comes to killing it's not the desire to be the best that drives me on. It's the deep fires burning in the chambers of my hatred that drives me on. With each kill they got cleaner and cleaner, easier and easier. Five girls I've killed and I remember each and every one of them.

Patricia came from a poor background, prostitution was her only choice.

Hope had been disowned by her family and lived on the streets. She was attractive, had blue eyes and blonde hair. She almost got me to actually go through and sleep with her but I'm not an idiot. With the way these whores are passed around you never know what you could catch.

Paige had two ten year olds to feed.

Jane was being forced into this.

Rita did it for fun.

Five of them are rotting at the bottom of an ocean somewhere. I usually have to do it after I see my mother with her. I fucking hate whores, no matter what their story is.

(Damon, your heart is full of hatred.)

That's what drives me on.