Muse [18+] • REVISING

36 | One Hot, One Cold

D A M I E N

━━━━━━━━━━

I finally had her back, for whatever time we had, and I let it slip.

The second my father walked through that door, my vision ran red and no matter how much I didn't want it to end, she ceased to exist right in my hands, and the warmth between us grew almost eerie. I looked between her and my father, trying to make sense of how the entire world had a way of crushing me once more. Taking in the fact that my lack of a father was standing only feet away, I had a hard time believing I'd recover from this kind of damage.

As I saw him, I couldn't see her. Like I hadn't just planned on devouring her for the first time in over a month. God, fuck me. I groan at another inconvenience that keeps her and I miles apart yet again, despite my arms still wrapped around her body. All I could do was pull away, tell her she should get some rest, and obliterate that feeling that drew us together the second I saw her on the front steps of this house. This is the kind of destruction that Alexandre causes. He's always done this. He shows up when he needs something when it's convenient, and then he leaves when the paint on the walls starts to crack and the home starts to deteriorate.

And then I think, is that how she sees me? Unable to stay at the first sight of things going bad? Taking what I want when it's convenient? There's the slightest pull in the back of my mind that yells at me to turn around and tell her just how much she means to me, but my feet move faster than I can grasp and I've already left her outside, in pursuit of him. I find Alexandre in my mother's old study, and as I look at the man I haven't seen in three years, aside from the snowy color of his hair, it feels like I'm looking in a mirror. The fear of turning out just like him surfaces, bringing a vile taste to the back of my throat. The thought grips my heart and twists.

I watch as he looks through my mother's things, acting as if he has the right to, and a fit of violent anger sits in my stomach. The minute his wife dies, the one he left when she got sick, he's back trying to make himself at home again. This isn't your fucking home.

"Why are you here?" I keep it level, more so to convince myself not to kick this man out on his ass.

He continues to rummage through little boxes of trinkets sitting on shelves and opening drawers, never lifting his eyes to me for a minute. What's he looking for? Then it dawns on me. He's looking for the ring. The one he asked for back after she told him they found a brain tumor. The one she had been wearing for almost forty years, the one he gave to her when they were just shy of twenty.

"It's not here." I lean against the frame of the door, crossing my arms. There's a slight satisfaction in knowing he can't have what he wants.

He finally turns to me, letting out a sigh, and then a short laugh. "Damien, do not play with me right now." The tone of his voice is cold but still calm. Exactly how I heard it when things started to get worse.

It wasn't always like this. Alexandre used to be soft, despite the pollution that came with being raised by him. When I was little, there would be times where he'd make me forget that I ever hated him to begin with. I remember one birthday he introduced me to paintbrushes and the art of using gouache. He was the first person to ever give me some kind of purpose, even when he was the same person who made me feel like I didn't have any.

Now, as he stands in front of me, it's him who doesn't serve any purpose. He's just as dead to me as my mother is. My mother. She told me he'd show up like this, after the fact. She explained how he'd only ever had the courage to come back, once she was gone. That way, he wouldn't have to truly face the guilt of leaving. Instead, he passed that feeling onto me, making me feel helpless as I watched my mother deteriorate.