Eyes Up, Guardian

Chapter 10

Damian struggled against the chains, the cold metal biting into his wrists and ankles as he lay on the floor, the man's knife slicing at him. The room was dark, the walls cloaked in shadows that almost seemed to reach for him, but he could see the man sneering down at him as he struggled. He could feel the hand on him, holding him down, pressing him further against the freezing stone floor. Damian was too weak to continue struggling against him as the man above him climbed onto him, kneeling on his chest, the knife to his throat. He went still, and was silent as another hand held a different knife to his throat, allowing the man to side lower, onto his abdomen, placing the knife on his bare chest. With every pound of his heart he swore that blade got closer, sharper.

Damian cried out as the knife plunged downward, cutting through his flesh, angled between his ribs, down, down into his heart.

Damian jerked awake, shaking, his heart pounding, his body covered in a thin layer of sweat. In a blind panic, he threw off the covers of his bed, looking down at his bare chest, at his wrists and his ankles. He felt like he was suffocating, but he could see there were no chains, no knives. He'd been dreaming. It was just a dream.

Hastily, he pulled his Light toward him, back from where it usually spread about his apartment. He couldn't let it touch Kylie from where she was resting on his desk. He didn't want to wake her up to deal with another one of his nightmares. Between the Ghost and Guardian, the Light was like a bond through which they could sense each other's emotions. Of course, Kylie needed light to live, he gave her that, but no more.

He took a shuddering breath, eyes stinging as he murmured to himself, telling himself it would be okay and that he was okay, and that it was just a dream. It was normally more reassuring to hear himself, but now it didn't nothing to tame his wild panic. He knew that man. His face smirked at him from the back of his mind, poisoned blades in hand.

Before he knew it, Damian was in the bathroom, his stumbling legs leading him to the toilet before he collapsed on his knees, vomiting his guts up. Somewhere along the way tears started pouring down his cheeks, his shaking grew worse. The world was spinning. He'd locked the door and shoved Kylie out, he'd cut his hands on glass, he'd fallen to the ground. The mirror was broken, shards glaring at him from the floor.

He couldn't breathe. He thought he was going to pass out. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe. He was drowning, his mind was a sea of panic. He was crying, he was sobbing. His wings were out, dark, cruel, leathery things, wrapping around him, protecting him. Then they were cut. The man was there, in the room with him. He'd broken in. Then he was hitting him, hurting him, grabbing him. Dragging him back into the darkness that he came from, running a hand over his wings, reminding him of who he was.

It was chaos, it was pain. He couldn't think clearly, he thought he heard someone screaming. Maybe it was just him. He was drowning, he was drowning. Drowning in the past, in the pain, in the dark. He couldn't escape. He couldn't get away. They held him like chains. Chains, they were on his wrists and ankles as they beat him, raped him. The man and the others, laughed as he screamed and struggled. Laughing, laughing–

It was her. Out of the darkness, she was there. A distant slam of the door as her Light burned away that dark, as she tore through those men. Her hand was on his shoulder. Tessa. She was gently moving his wings, wings she'd never seen, never known existed, yet she treated them with such care, as she gently moved them to take his hands. She slid one of his arms over her shoulder, lifting him up, bearing all of his weight as she took him out of the bathroom. Bloody, covered in broken glass and vomit. Drenched in tears.

She brought him into the kitchen, helping him sit on the table. She walked away for a moment, finding a blanket and wrapping it around him, over his shoulders, the weight comforting him ever so slightly. She found a washcloth, running it under the tap before she gently took one of his hands. She'd found a pair of tweezers as well- probably from the bathroom- and carefully began to remove the slivers of glass from his hands, cleaning his cuts with the cloth. She wiped away the blood, bandaging his hands when she was done with them. She reached for one of his wings, blood smeared on the edge, but he pulled away before she could touch it. No one had touched his wings for years, and as he was still swimming in somewhat of a panic, he wasn't ready for anyone to touch them. Even if he was, that was still too personal.