OOM: Damian's Daymare
Pulled from the depths of darkness and death, a blistering, hot need rushes through him in a flash of scalding pain.
A vision too real, too palpable, to not be a memory.
Lights.
Impact.
Convulsing pain.
Spine-tingling. Mind-numbing.
A breath that sends the heart pounding in a painful, untamed rhythm.
A loss of control again.
Control denied.
Control ripped away.
Dominance.
Submission.
Fear.
Resignation.
Power. The presence of something... else. Foreign, dangerous.
Rising and
f
a
l
l
i
n
g. UnCoNtRoLlEd.
Unchecked.
Suddenly gone. Ripped away, like air from the lungs after an unexpected blow.
Madness like a noxious fume, rising to overtake him, reanimate limbs.
A hunter turned loose.
A splash of crimson.
Exquisite blood.
His or another’s?
Soaking through cloth.
Pouring over his clawing hands.
Lips.
Throat.
His blood?
Does it matter?
No.
No.
Drink. Fill the void.
Cool air. Drying blood. Hands all over.
Not hers.
Fear. Rage. Struggle.
Why struggle?
Don’t.
Don’t struggle. Just give in.
No.
It’s over.
No...
No choice.
It’s over?
It’s over.
For a single moment, in the quiet hush of mid-morning, the coffin resting in the Executioner’s basement jostles, the contents inside surging with sudden life. A gasp of pain is forced from Damian’s lips as he feels power leech away from him, pulled by an unseen force.
"Anita..." A panicked whisper to the satin-lined box. Such peace he had known. Such peace he had felt when he knew that Anita had claimed him, saved him again. That blissful feeling of hope that the worst of his suffering was finally at an end. And now, the loss of that peace is as a physical blow, one he is powerless to guard against.
His throat clenches, but it is not the loss of strength and energy that forces a single, red-tinged tear to streak down his cold, pale skin. The loss of power to his new mistress is something he will survive. But the loss of hope? That loss seems far more devastating.
Such fleeting things, peace and hope.
He suddenly doubts he will ever feel them again.
His power wanes, sapped by the one who now controls the very beat of his heart. Doubt now gnaws at him from the inside out, an enemy unaffected by the barriers he now has no will to defend. His heart slows, his soul pulled once again by the daytime death.
Just give in.
No.
You have no choice.
No choice...
For a single moment, in the quiet hush of mid-morning, the coffin resting in the Executioner’s basement emits a muffled, despairing sound, and then all is quiet and still. A memory of movement and sound easily overlooked and forgotten.
A vision too real, too palpable, to not be a memory.
Lights.
Impact.
Convulsing pain.
Spine-tingling. Mind-numbing.
A breath that sends the heart pounding in a painful, untamed rhythm.
A loss of control again.
Control denied.
Control ripped away.
Dominance.
Submission.
Fear.
Resignation.
Power. The presence of something... else. Foreign, dangerous.
Rising and
f
a
l
l
i
n
g. UnCoNtRoLlEd.
Unchecked.
Suddenly gone. Ripped away, like air from the lungs after an unexpected blow.
Madness like a noxious fume, rising to overtake him, reanimate limbs.
A hunter turned loose.
A splash of crimson.
Exquisite blood.
His or another’s?
Soaking through cloth.
Pouring over his clawing hands.
Lips.
Throat.
His blood?
Does it matter?
No.
No.
Drink. Fill the void.
Cool air. Drying blood. Hands all over.
Not hers.
Fear. Rage. Struggle.
Why struggle?
Don’t.
Don’t struggle. Just give in.
No.
It’s over.
No...
No choice.
It’s over?
It’s over.
For a single moment, in the quiet hush of mid-morning, the coffin resting in the Executioner’s basement jostles, the contents inside surging with sudden life. A gasp of pain is forced from Damian’s lips as he feels power leech away from him, pulled by an unseen force.
"Anita..." A panicked whisper to the satin-lined box. Such peace he had known. Such peace he had felt when he knew that Anita had claimed him, saved him again. That blissful feeling of hope that the worst of his suffering was finally at an end. And now, the loss of that peace is as a physical blow, one he is powerless to guard against.
His throat clenches, but it is not the loss of strength and energy that forces a single, red-tinged tear to streak down his cold, pale skin. The loss of power to his new mistress is something he will survive. But the loss of hope? That loss seems far more devastating.
Such fleeting things, peace and hope.
He suddenly doubts he will ever feel them again.
His power wanes, sapped by the one who now controls the very beat of his heart. Doubt now gnaws at him from the inside out, an enemy unaffected by the barriers he now has no will to defend. His heart slows, his soul pulled once again by the daytime death.
Just give in.
No.
You have no choice.
No choice...
For a single moment, in the quiet hush of mid-morning, the coffin resting in the Executioner’s basement emits a muffled, despairing sound, and then all is quiet and still. A memory of movement and sound easily overlooked and forgotten.