My name is Damien, and on a clear, crisp autumn morning, beautiful to the eye, a lure to the mind, I awoke. I had been dormant in a state of comatose at Mercy Hospital for some time. The doctors had given a prognosis, days earlier. They had said that I would not survive. I suppose I was lucky. If I had known the cost then, what they would do to me, the extent of their morality people would sacrifice to allow me another chance to breath, I think I would’ve preferred the comatose, or even the death. However, I allow myself to give away details. Let us push on.
I was a young man when I entered the coma. Barely old enough to have my own car, I decided to have a late drive on my first day of freedom. I took the vehicle out to a local McDonalds to get my first meal after owning the glorious machine. I had picked up a few friends, and we all enjoyed the meal together, then parted ways. It was almost serene, although all of us knew we only had a couple years at most to enjoy each other’s company. We swore to make the best of it.
Damien several days directly before the coma.
After we had all finished the last scraps of burgers and chicken nuggets, and devoured the remaining milkshakes, we said our farewells and left. I wish I had left with another, or perhaps just not have gone, if only I had known what the next hour of my life would be like.
I began on my drive; not exactly home, just… anywhere. Wherever I ended up would be utter bliss, for I was free from my home-bound bonds. No one could control me anymore; I was my own independent being. About half an hour after my departure from the eatery, I received a text from a friend of mine, Bill Abraham, that he needed a ride. Apparently his car had broken down and he was stranded on the interstate. I attempted to reply, but I was prevented by way of the Tanker that had crashed into my car, speeding along the roads.
I felt the full brunt of the impact in an instant, and to this day I am amazed that I survived. The diesel had skidded about 20 yards off road after smashing into my car and the one beside me, and was starting to catch fire. That was not my main concern, as part of the windshield protruded from my upper left torso. The shard of glass was about five inches long, not including the part of it that was next to my heart. I was winded by the blast, and my seat belt was cut. I could no longer find my phone.
It took me a moment to take a cursory glance around at the wreckage, and I could hear people crying. I think the gentleman who had been driving beside me was dead; when I looked to my left, he wasn’t moving and was bleeding from several places, including a rather nasty gash across his brow. I myself had received many wounds, I was practically peppered. I kept trying to call Bill until someone took the phone and told me to calm down, they were calling 911. I was stranded, stuck in my seat with the dashboard crushing into my pelvic area. After the first minute, a thought arrived: I had to piss. So, I kept struggling until the police, ambulances and fire trucks arrived about 3 minutes later. By then I had soiled myself, and was still trying to claw my way out of the wreck. I was taken out of my vehicle by means of the Jaws of Life utensil, saved from my demise by the firemen. On the gurney, I kindly thanked the young fireman who had told me it was alright.
The tragic car accident that started Damien's conquest.
The ride to the hospital was a painful one. There were many potholes and speedbumps, and at every one I felt a stab of pain, not un-akin to that of a knife, in my breast. I feared that I would pass out, or bleed to death. I eventually drifted into unconsciousness, and never awoke until the end of my coma, seven months later.
When I awoke, the room was very empty, and very white. It was a standard hospital room, with scant furnishings besides the machines and uncomfortable wooden chairs. A bright shaft of light was straying into my room via the window to my right. Much of my body was concealed by the covers of the bed, but I feared to see it anyways. At this point I was unaware of my coma, and couldn’t feel much of my body. I feared they had amputated, and was not looking forward to seeing the result. After a few minutes, a doctor arrived and told me of my disaster. I had lost a whole seven months of my life.
He grinned and brought in a friendly face, the one face to whom I could reveal anything and talk with about personal issues; it was Bill. He had teared up, and I could tell by the look of him that he was starving. I was still in a sort of trance and had a clear enough mind to figure out that he had blamed himself for my tragedy. I dared to console him, but he rejected it, saying it didn’t matter. We just stared at each other for a while, until I decided to break the silence.
“Bill…” I croaked, not realizing how weak my voice was.
“Yeah, Random?” Bill often referred to me by my nickname given to me at the age of 12.
“I need to know… what’s happened while I was gone?”
“You won’t believe it, man,” Bill started, tearing up, “I was published! That story I showed you, it was a hit. I dedicated it to you, man. I knew you’d pull through. I just can’t believe it’s been 7 months…”
“Let’s not talk about the coma, please… anything else, anything but the coma.”
“Alright, you decide. I’m just glad you’re up.”
We carried on and on, for hours on end. I would ask questions, he would notify me of current events. I was happy. After an hour or so I told him that I was tired and needed to sleep, and to come back tomorrow.
The next day was overcast, shadowy outdoors. I asked a doctor when I would be allowed to go home, and he informed me that I was due to be let out in a mere 36 hours. I was ecstatic. I had a strange urge to go home, to see my family. I knew from Bill that my dog, Oreo, had died in the months. She was buried in a real pet cemetery, in a real grave. I went there immediately after seeing my family. I locked myself in my room for that night, crying.
That night, I had a strange vision in my dreams. It was the most vivid thing I had seen in a dream yet, almost like a waking hour. I was in an office, I recognized it as my father’s at our home. He often stayed in there, doing filing and paperwork for his company. He was employed at a local car dealership, but that’s not important. He was in his swivel chair, smiling at me. I almost wasn’t sure it was a dream, although I didn’t remember waking up or going to his office.
The vision continued for a minute or so with just me and my father, chatting. It was peaceful, but I kept felling that something was wrong. I started getting scared, fearful of my father. His voice started changing, slowly, and his image as well. It wasn’t noticeable if you didn’t concentrate, almost as if he was changing, but yet, staying the same. If I paid enough attention, his appearance was thusly:
- He had grown a black goatee, while my father was normally clean-shaven.
- His eyes were now a ghostly pallor of yellow, almost gold.
- He had become thinner, and more muscular. My father was a tall, yet stout man, often ignoring exercise for weeks at a time.
A common image of Lucifer, no photo of the true form has ever survived.
He started talking in a distorted voice, and even though I tried to ignore it, I almost swore that I heard a large, crackling noise, almost like when you knock over a beehive and get the angry buzzing of the swarm. Our conversation started getting darker, violent, and bloody. He was informing me of some major murderers, and seemed to almost praise them. I asked to leave, but he denied my request.
“Who are you?” I demanded, the sound of the hive getting louder.
“I am your father. I am the one that has allowed you to loiter in this world, to do as you please. I have a job for you now, my son.”
“You’re not my dad. I know what my dad looks like; now tell me who you are.”
“Very well,” he sighed. “I am known in many names. You may call me Lucifer. I am your father, the one below you who has been watching you since your conception. I have kept you safe from harm until your coma. Now, I have a job for you to do, Damien.”
“How do you know my name?” I was getting nervous. The sound of the swarm was getting louder still, almost deafening. Yet I could still hear the man across the desk clearly, almost as if his voice was simply transmitted into my thoughts.
“I need you to do what you were born to do; I need you, Damien, to start your conquest.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Lucifer sighed. “I can see this is going to take a while to get used to. In 4 days you will find a dog, it will be whatever its master wants it to be. It is a hell hound, and you will be his master, Damien. It will protect you and guide you.
And I woke up. I was shivering, either from the cold of autumn or the fear of the dream. I tried to stay awake all night, but could not. I was going to just put the thought of Lucifer out of my mind. I would just ignore it; chalk it up to overactive imagination, which would have been easy had it not been for the dog 4 days later.
The dog was quite large, a pit-bull the size of a Newfoundland. It was not in this state long, however, as when I saw it I remembered the vision. So, first, I thought of my ideal dog. I thought of Oreo. The dog slowly melted down into Oreo’s form, although bigger, and seemingly feral. I tried leaving it, however, without ever seeming to move it was always behind me. It had the most intelligent look in an animal I had ever seen, and looked exactly like a 2x scale size of my old dog Oreo. Oreo was a black and white Chihuahua-Terrier with what we always called a white moustache. She was a wild dog, and always attacked anyone entering the house. This dog, however, seemed bloodthirsty and growled at people passing by.
More visions arrived in ensuing days, commands from Lucifer and promises of greatness. At this point, I felt myself compelled to do it, but then one vision really caught me. It was about Bill.
“I have sent a demon to watch over you. He has been with you since you needed to be watched, since your powers started. He put your powers into you while you were in the coma; he is you8r best friend. Amazing how much can be hidden with a human body, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about…?”
“I’m talking about Bill. He is your guardian as well. These visions shall stop after tonight, but Bill will always report back to me. He will constantly be by your side, constantly guarding you from the dangers of Heaven.”
The vision ended there, and I did notice Bill hanging around a lot more after that. I confronted him, and he denied everything, saying he was worried about me and asked if he should start helping me through the day. Oh well. The dog still followed me around, although my family was nervous of it.
I started being compelled to do horrible things, especially when I was around my family. My mother always told me what to do, and when to do it. Whenever she spoke I always felt the anger rising inside me, boiling like blood, and often times it was for almost nothing. Even my younger brother made me full of rage, whenever he asked for help on a game or a puzzle. I could just imagine taking his tiny little head and cracking it in my fingers…
No, I couldn’t think like that. I love my family.
I think something is wrong. My mother swears she never saw the dog, even when it’s by her. I don’t understand it, has Lucifer done something? Bill continues to pester me about my health, and seems worried about me, more every day. My anger issues are getting worse, and when I woke up last night I had a knife by my bed. I don’t know what to think anymore.
I received a final vision from Lucifer some time the next day, and he seemed irritated. He questioned me as to what I had been doing for the past month, and I just sat there, sullenly silent. His eyes flared now, whenever he shouted. He eventually tried a calmer method, and tried to explain the logic in this.
“OK Damien. Let’s look at it from your point of view. You love your family. You love your friends. You’re almost done with high school, probably going to get a nice job somewhere. Real cushy situation, but you have to ask yourself: Does your family love you? Do your friends love you? Or do they use you? Use you as a manservant, always asking for this, asking for that, always wanting more? Think of a time when anyone besides Bill did something for you, without expecting something in return. Does one come to mind? Of course not. They have been using you for years! They’ve never stopped! Think, Damien! They just want you for your service! They never wanted you! Ask your parents, they’ll tell you! You were an accident; but not for me. I planned, and I worked, and I toiled for two thousand years for you. I’ve never asked for anything in return until now. I will test you many times during your conquest, but in the end, I am the only one to truly love you, Damien. I am the only one who will ever truly understand you.”
At that point, I was in tears, sobbing on my father’s desk. I kept murmuring, “it’s all true, it’s all true...” Lucifer took my hand and led me to the window of the office, and I saw what lay beyond the vision. I saw a line of hourglasses, thousands of them, all on shelves pitch as night. The hourglasses were glorious, black and gold with the Omega symbol upon each one. Lucifer spoke.
“These are lifetimers. This panel on the back indicates who it is assigned to, and their sins. Now, here is the common misconception: You are never forgiven for your sins. Why would anyone hold back, after all? Every sin, of every mortal, is listed here. Would you like to see yours, Damien?”
A lifetimer would look somewhat like this, embellished with the golden omega and the panel on the back.
I was shown an hourglass, much more lavish than the others, apparently made completely out of gems. There was no sand pouring down in mine, oh no. Mine was empty, and perfect. There were no sins labeled upon the back, and it was not branded with the golden omega, but instead an obsidian alpha. Lucifer once again started speaking.
“You are special to me, Damien. Even if you do not know it, I will always love you. Your family is incapable of this. Hah! Do you know that you are not the son of your father? Your genetic father is a nameless man, found on one drunken night, and you were one drunken mistake. He died three years ago of a coke overdose. That isn’t even the worst of the sins in your family. Your ‘real’ father once aided in the cover up of a murder, burying the body when you were merely three years old. The body lies still beneath the cherry blossom tree in your backyard. The worst thing is, he enjoyed it; the thrill, the exhilaration of breaking the law. As the one human whom I’ve come to respect once said, ‘What fools these mortals be?’ Damien, you really must understand, they aren’t your real family; I am all you have. I love you, Damien.”
I didn’t remember waking up, but rather just was. I was sitting in a chair at the dining room, with a note. It was in my handwriting, but almost shaky, like I was scared, or forced. It read thusly:
Damien, you know what you have to do. -Your father
I decided to do what I had been made to do. I began the conquest. I called the dog, and called Bill. Bill didn’t answer, so I started on my own. I remembered the knife from my room, and retrieved it. It was night time, and on a school night, everyone would be in bed. It was a mere week from Christmas break, but I doubted anyone would care.
So quietly I went from room to room, murdering. I had a total of five siblings, three sisters and two brothers. I was beginning to understand that they weren’t my siblings and shouldn’t be considered as such. After I had killed my parents, slitting their throats with a sickly grace, I went to my oldest sister’s room. She was awake, and a year older than me. She was protecting my youngest brother, and I still felt the urge to crush his skull.
I decided to have a little fun. I still had my humanly urges, and started pleasuring them immensely. I first disarmed my sister, causing her to go unconscious. I then grabbed the younger one, my brother, and tied him up with some rope from the garage. When I got back, my sister was gone. I found her a mere minute later, hiding in the closet. I dropped my brother and realized how beautiful she was, how pristine her figure. I slid the knife along her face, and started slipping her garments off, while she was crying, sobbing, begging to know why I was doing this. I merely kept saying Lucifer’s name, saying that they never loved me. I raped her in front of my brother, and then killed her, too. I tortured my youngest brother, a mere child of the age of seven, for three hours before police showed up. My youngest brother was all the survivors. I was hauled off, but I didn’t care. Lucifer would take care of it. My father would free me from bondage…
The asylum where Damien was imprisoned for 12 years, until deemed fit to go.
Bill looked through the window at his old friend, Damien. There were tears in Bill’s eyes as he replayed the last couple months through his mind. It was pretty obvious that the doctors had fucked something up, and cost him his friend. Damien had just killed everyone, and was talking to Lucifer even now. Bill stayed at the station until Damien’s uncle arrived to sign off on him going to the asylum, where Damien stayed until he was 28, at which point he disappeared from everyone’s radar and was never seen again. However, every year or so, his brother swore he saw him in public somewhere, just watching him.
Damien Walker was a normal 16 year old young man until he was put into a coma. He awoke seven months later and soon after began hallucinating. Among these hallucinations was one that started after he had watched the old horror movie, The Omen. He believed that he was the antichrist, and began a string of murders that caused him to be dropped into an insane asylum a mere six weeks later, shortly after the death and rape of his older sister, Gwen. Damien killed a total of six people, all members of his close family except his little brother, Harrison. After being allowed out of the asylum, he was never seen again except by Harrison, although this, too, is believed to be a hallucination. Damien started his slow descent into insanity when he was diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of 14, when he still had imaginary friends and often complained of symptoms relating to schizophrenia.
Written by AMarbleHornet
Content is available under CC BY-SA