August 24th- Book One in the May 3rd series

Chapter 7-TO BE WRITTEN

Warnings ⚠: Child Abuse, Rape, Violence, Religion, Drug Use, Alcohol Use, Use of Slurs, Homophobia, Bullying, Mention of Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicidal Actions, Gun Use

Damien's P.O.V.
-Tuesday, August 31st-

Tuesday and Thursday nights are reserved for family time, and by family time, I mean learning how to run my parents' drug company.
I know. That went from 0 to 100 really quick.
It's wrong in most people's eyes, because it's against the law, but I've been an accomplice since birth, and like my dad says, selling drugs to people isn't wrong per say, you're just giving people options that shouldn't be held back from them.  I'm impartial on the matter.
Free will.
My mother is extremely religious, and says God gave us all free will for a reason, so we could choose to follow him, or some shit.
She makes it fit into her lifestyle choices.
But if I was God, I would just sit back and let shit happen. No rules, no fucking shit up, just chill and watch humanity fuck itself time and time again.
It seems like a fun eternity.
But then again, how do we know we're the first or last earth? Or first or last race of humans?
Religion has always been in my life, but I've never considered myself a part of it.
But Hell seems pretty fucking terrifying, that's for sure.
Let's hope it's not real, because my good doesn't outweigh shit.
I drive home, curious to see what my dad has planned for me to learn/do tonight.
It's definitely a shock to go from semi-shitty school anywhere from drug dens and high brow nightclubs.
Mom wanted to pull my out of high school and make me jump into the company head on, but thankfully my dad is not an idiot. He said I'll just join as soon as I graduate.
I, on the other hand, have different ideas.
I've been saving back money ever since I was a kid. In a bank account they don't know about that I made myself, one that my parents don't know about. There's enough in there to move far away from here, and to go to college, if I want to.
I still haven't decided if I'm going to or not. I figure it's better to have money saved and not need it.
I drive Josiah home, then quickly speed back to the house, where my dad is waiting.
I don't see him except for on training days.
"Hey, dad!" I say, dropping my backpack beside the door.
"You're later then normal." He says, looking up from his phone. He's a stickler for timing and planning, a lot like me. He's a side effect of having to run an entire underground drug pushing operation, I'm sure. And he has to deal with the front businesses, some of which are actual, popular businesses in town.
Like he's told me. The more we're in, the less suspicious it all seems.
"Sorry. I had to drop...a friend off at home."
Josiah sure as hell isn't my friend, but if I said the kid that's tutoring me that I'm forcing to accept it, it could raise a few questions.
"Was it the one that ate with us earlier this week?" He asks, leading me down to the basement.
I blink, taking my time to word everything right.
"Yeah. He's fucking smart, and helping me pass science and math."
"He looks like the kind of kid you would target, not one you would befriend, much less drive home." He says, raising an eyebrow at me.
"...You know about that?"
He laughs, "Of course. I know everything you get up to. We've gotten a few calls from the school about you, and from a few angry parents, but nothing we can't handle. It's funny. I know you can get mad, but I've never seen you as an aggressive person. I'm not going to do anything about it, I'm just curious what you get out of it?"
...Get out of it? What do I get out of it?
"An adrenaline rush, for starters." I smile.
He shakes his head, laughing again, "You're more like your mother than either of you care to admit."
He confuses me sometimes.
"So, we don't have a meeting or anything today? We're not going into the office?"
He shakes his head as he leads me into the gym we have downstairs. It's pretty big, and a standard looking gym, except for the target range at the end.
When I was eight, for my birthday, my mom got me a set of throwing knives.
Obviously, a fucked up gift for an eight year old, but this was the signal that they were going to start preparing me to run the company once I turned twenty.
That's when my great grandpa passed it to my grandpa, then my grandpa to my dad when he was of age.
Now it falls to me.
If I left... My parents wouldn't ever stop looking for me.
But like I said, it's just a backup plan.
I've been taking out large sums off my card every month since I got the knives. As soon as I was old enough to make my own bank account, I did, stuffing all the money in there.
My parents don't know about it, but I didn't think they knew about the bullying either.
I need to be more careful.
Always be on edge, never trust anyone no matter what.
Dependency and comfort is weakness.
Weak.
Never be weak.
My mom has always told me and dad I'll never be good enough. That I'm too weak, too soft.
So I've always tried to prove her wrong.
Some days I wonder why fucking bother? Why try to impress her?
Because I'll always crave any sort of love from her. And the only time I get that is when I'm doing as I'm told, and being a good son. A good weapon.
Dad on the other hand is kinder. He still has me train harder and harder, but he puts limits on mom.
He makes sure she doesn't take things too far.
Without him I have no doubt that I would have tried to kill myself, if only to escape her.
She's fucking crazy.
My dad snaps me out of my thoughts, "Let's start on the punching bag. Get warmed up for the night."
I throw myself into my training as I always do.
This has always been nice. Training. Whenever I'm doing something physical it almost gives me the same thrill I get when I hurt someone.
That adrenaline, being able to throw myself into something physical and just shut my mind off for only a second.
My brain is.... Something else.
Annoying.
But it's always trying to calculate ten steps ahead, always trying to plan, always having a plan and a backup plan and a backup backup plan.
I can't control everything. But anything remotely in my control, I keep it there.
I can't stand the unknown, the uncertainty that comes with it.
Anything that doesn't have a plan.... Anything spontaneous is fucking terrifying.
And the fact that I can't control everything fucks me up.
Most times, the thoughts get so loud all I want to do is shut them out. If only for a moment.
Training and working out can do that for me.
And being muscular helps with the scary factor.
So that's nice.
After that, we move to cardio.
Then weights.
And then some. All of it achieving that goal.
As much as I like to complain about having this allotted time, it's really nice to get to spend time with my dad.
With everything he has his hands in, I should appreciate that he has any time for me at all.
But a selfish part of me wishes we could do something that didn't involve training at all sometimes.
Even when I was small, before I did my training, my dad set it up like a game.
He made a scout troop.
And by troop, I mean he made one that was just us two.
He even went to the lengths to do patches and everything.
I think he felt bad for pulling me out of soccer so I could start working.
I loved soccer. And I wasn't bad at it, either.
Our team made it to championships.
And then I got pulled out and away from all my friends.
That was right around the Parker incident.
And after that, Mom wanted to even pull me out of school, not to mention the useless extracurricular activities.
After we finish the workout portion, we move to knife throwing and shooting practice.
My aim is impeccable.
Always has been.
Yet, he makes me practice every night that we're training downstairs.
If you don't practice it, you'll lose it.
And if you lose it, you're weak.
Always weak.
Always weak.
Never good enough.
Be better.
Be more.
Improve.
Always.
I shoot the target in the head again, still hating the cold metal in my hands.
The gun is like an extension of my arm at this point, but I'll always be more comfortable with my knives.
They don't scare me when I hold them.
They don't make me contemplate how easy it would be to just put the barrel to my head and... Boom.
I shake my head and unload my chamber into the target's head, each one so precise and on top of one another, that it only looks like I shot one bullet.
Perfect.
Once I put my gun down my dad looks at the target.
"Off by a millimetre." He says disapproving.
A fucking millimetre.
Right.
"I'll do better." Is all I say.
Be better.
Always.
Or they won't love you anymore.
Maybe one day, they'll see me as their son. And as an asset.
As an equal.
Maybe one day, I can become good enough, that they'll finally see me again.
One day, I'll earn their approval.

End