Damaged

by Timothy W. Long

  “There’s no absolution for you, Sunny Rains, no escape into God’s light.” He leaned in even closer, spittle peppering her face as he spoke. “You are mine, now and forever.” Satan laughed.

  As if he’d dismissed her, Sunny found her strength, at last. She bolted upright and crashed into the confessional door, stumbling out the other side. She hit the ground, knocking the breath from her lungs, her glasses and wig tumbling away. The old women in the pews gasped and jumped to their feet, fingers pointing. Sunny didn’t give a fuck.

  She bolted for the exit and skidded out onto the sidewalk, nearly careening into the street as she caught her balance, the pole of a yield sign the only thing between her and traffic. She didn’t even notice how close she’d come.

  It wasn’t until she was in the SUV with Armand, the vehicle screaming down the 405, miles from the church, that her hands stopped shaking enough for her to take a hit off her pipe.

  She hit it over and over and over until oblivion filled her skull.

  5

  Demon of the Fall

  Oswald

  Oswald Riker ran through his playlist for an hour before getting out of bed. He should have been up and drinking Red Bull a few hours ago, but his head hurt too much to move. He’d tossed the covers off and the room was so hot it was oppressive. Why his mother wouldn’t invest in air conditioning when she had money to blow on bingo and donate to the church, was beyond him.

  He was thirsty and hungry but didn’t feel like going to the kitchen. He wanted to lay here and wallow in misery.

  Oswald glanced at the calendar and realized what day it was. Suddenly, life returned to his limbs.

  His mom had put him on antidepressants. Then she’d tried anxiety meds. Then both. For the last few months, he had lived on legal meth, aka, Adderall. He’d wake, take a pill, and then be hyper-focused for the next few hours. After a while, the effects weren't as strong so he had taken to crushing it up and snorting it. Talk about a head rush.

  He’d managed to hide his overuse from his mother by supplementing his pill supply at school. He had a dealer who was a skinny little punk in the tenth grade who always had pills available.

  Oswald was a senior, larger than most of the other kids, and he wore black. His hair was long and he walked with attitude. No one fucked with him or Jon. No one. Even his English teacher, a weekend biker named Mr. Stone, didn’t give Oswald crap, except for the one day, a few months ago, when Oswald had been tripping balls in class. Stone had tried to kick him out but Oswald had become combative, prompting a near lock down.

  Jon had saved his ass from getting the shit beat out of him by security. The guard had looked like he wanted a fight, too. Oswald, high as a kite on Adderall, had been out of his head with rage because the eyes kept appearing in his head. Not just an illusion, either, this was a pair of daggers that hit the front of his head and burned like blazing hot pokers. The same ones he’d seen right after the concert.

  Mom had taken him to the hospital and they’d suggested therapy. Great. He’d gone for a few sessions and managed to play it cool. His mother was busy with a new guy and had slacked on his therapy schedule so his appointments just sort of evaporated.

  One thing that had not disappeared was Oswald’s paranoia. He was sure the band was onto him. They had seen the pictures and figured out a couple of punk kids had taken it. They were probably out there looking for him, even though it had been almost a year.

  He couldn’t worry about that now. It was the 10th of the month and he’d just gotten his prescription filled. Thank the fuck Christ.

  Oswald rolled out of bed and made his way to the kitchen.

  The change, the change,

  The change comes,

  The change breaks,

  The change…

  Oswald muttered the lyrics to one of his favorite Damaged songs. It was like Wex was in his head, performing a concert for Oswald alone. Then “Burn” popped in his head and visions of torching churches made him grin before the pain hammered him again.

  The hot pokers bit into his brain and sent him reeling. Oswald stumbled and nearly went to his knees. He caught himself on the kitchen counter and shook it off. Two days without his meds. Why the hell did he do this to himself?

  Then he saw the refilled prescription sitting on the counter and snatched it up.

  Oswald opened the bottle and peered at the pills. He could take one now and it would help alleviate the pressure. Get him focused. Snap him out of this funk.

  But he had other plans for the drug. He’d be putting two right up his nose.

  Someone banged on the front door.

  Oswald’s house was a fifty year-old rambler that had seen better days. He crossed creaking wooden floors, past pictures of him as a child, and a portrait of white Jesus with a little light shinning on the man’s face. He gave the son of God the finger, as was customary.

  The pokers jammed into his head again and he saw black. Then pain raced from his forehead, down the neck, and caused racking waves of agony to pour out of his spine. This time he did drop to his knees and pressed his hands to his temples. He grunted and a howl of pain followed.

  Then a hand on his shoulder. A voice. Familiar.

  “Oz? Oz?”

  Oswald looked up and found Jon staring at him. His friend’s eyes were scrunched together.

  “Jon,” Oswald said. “How did you get in?”

  “Front door was unlocked and I saw you trip. Dude. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, man. Just a migraine. It’s fading now. I missed my meds for a few days.”

  Jon looked away and nodded. “Yeah. I hear ya. Want some help?”

  “Do I look like I need help?” Oswald asked.

  “Actually you do,” Jon said.

  Oswald blew out a pffft.

  He rose on shaky knees and moved to the front door. He looked up and down the street but there was nothing out of the ordinary. The Latino family across the street danced around a two foot plastic pool, the little ones splashing water on each other. His next door neighbor, Agnes, plucked at a rose plant. She was so old Oswald wasn’t sure how she managed to get out of her house. She had to be at least seventy.

  “Hi, Oswald. I need my lawn mowed if you want to make some extra money,” she called to him.

  Mow the lawn? More like throw her in the backyard and run the machine over her until her face was lacerated and her eyes hung around bloody cavities. Then he’d carve words into her chest and cut off her sagging tits.

  The fuck?

  “I haven’t mowed your lawn in three years. The hell is wrong with you?” he called back.

  Agnes stiffened. “You don’t have to be a little asshole. I’ve changed your diaper, young man, and that wasn’t so long ago.”

  “If you need yours changed, let me know,” he said in a voice but it wasn’t like him at all.

  Jon grabbed his arm and pulled him back in the house.

  “Dude.”

  Oswald shook off his friend’s hand and went to his bedroom. With each step, the pokers in his head stabbed, but he kept his head up and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

  “Just go home, Jon. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Clearly,” Jon said. “But I need to talk to you about something.”

  Oswald ground his teeth and thought about his prize. When Jon followed him, he didn’t argue.

  Jon slacked into the canvas-covered office chair at Oswald’s desk and splayed his legs wide. He used to wear his black leather jacket everywhere but today his friend was dressed in khakis and a salmon colored polo, of all things. His hair was short and his eyes were surrounded by dark circles.

  “You look like shit,” Oswald said.

  “Coming from you that means what exactly?”

  “What the fuck do you mean?”

  Jon sat up and met his friend’s eyes. Oswald stared back and thought about bad things. Images of yellow eyes, all encompassing, and blazing with hate, nearly staggered him again.


  “Look at you, man.” Jon said, his eyes roving up and down Oswald.

  “Look at you in your fancy shirt. Get that at Macy’s?” Oswald said and thought about hitting his friend right in the nose. Maybe that would snap Jon out of this place he seemed to be stuck in. Sporting yuppie clothes and an attitude. There was a time when Jon would have kicked some kid’s ass for dressing like that.

  Just a year ago, they had listened to metal day and night. Smoked pot. Hung out in Oswald’s shitty car and catcalled girls. Neither one of them had a chance in hell of getting laid. Finding girls these days who lived the music were few and far between as far as Oswald was concerned. Not like Wex who bathed in pussy day and night.

  “It’s a nice shirt. Besides, after we gave up on our band, things changed,” Jon said. “We haven’t talked in a while, man. I’ve been meaning to stop by for the last few months but haven’t had time.”

  “Too busy jacking off to Justin Beiber?

  “Fuck you, Oswald. I don’t know why I even came over here,” Jon said. “I felt sorry for you but you seem to have it together. I’ll just leave you to it.”

  “Wait. I’m sorry,” Oswald said, even though he wasn’t. They did need to talk about some things. “So what went wrong?”

  “Things changed after that night and you know it.”

  Oswald sat on the side of his bed and dug a large mirror out of his nightstand. He laid it on the sheet and shook two pills onto the reflective surface. He used the bottom of the bottle to break them apart.

  “We never should have released the pictures, Oz. Never. It was stupid, and things have been happening ever since.”

  Oswald shook his head and concentrated on breaking up a couple of smaller pieces. He dug around until he found a small white envelope and carefully took out a razor blade. Oswald dropped to the floor and went to work chopping up the pills until he had a fine white powder.

  “But we did,” Oswald said, completely absorbed in the task.

  Pokers throbbed and pressed, then withdrew for a few precious seconds before impaling his brain again. Oswald closed his eyes tight and fought down the urge to puke.

  “We did. We saw something we shouldn’t have. I’ve changed, man. I’m out of the scene now. I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Yeah. Cool,” Oswald said.

  He worked at the pair of lines until they were straight. The left line was thicker so he scooped a little more to the right and worked the blade back and forth.

  “You’re not even fucking listening to me.”

  He dug around in his pocket and came up with a fiver. It was crinkled to hell so he checked his other pocket and found a pair of crisp dollar bills. That would work. He could go back to the kitchen and find a soda straw but this would do for now.

  “I’m listening. Pictures. Concert. Yeah, brother.”

  “Tell me you’re not having dreams. Fucked up dreams. Things that no one should dream about.”

  “I dream all the time, bro. Like that little Nikki Melton in third period. I’d like to split her in half, if you catch my drift,” Oswald said.

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Jon said.

  Oswald rolled the dollar bill and leaned over. The first line went up and burned like fire. Oswald sat back and waited for the pokers to fade, but they kept hammering away so he did the next line.

  “And you’re snorting your ADHD drugs. That’s perfect.”

  “Not always, man. I told you. I ran out a few days ago,” Oswald protested. “Just need to get them in my system as quickly as possible.”

  The Adderall hit him like a train. One minute the pokers were there, and the next, they were blessedly gone. His heart hammered against his chest and dizziness made him glad he was already on the floor.

  “You’re turning into a fucking meth-head, dude. Look at this place,” Jon said.

  Oswald looked around and smiled at the mess. He’d taken his old PC apart and put it back together a few times. Extra parts lay on the desk. It wouldn’t boot and he didn’t remember why he’d even been at the innards. The last time he’d been online, with the exception of his phone, was a few days ago.

  Oswald touched his leg and winced. The marks were there and they burned. Felt like they were bleeding. A vision of him cutting symbols into his thigh rushed through his head, and then was gone. Not symbols. A word.

  Damaged.

  No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t some lame ass who cut himself. That shit was reserved for depressed teenage girls crying for attention. Look at me, I’m so lonely. Just look at me, all while displaying full pouty lips. So why did it seem like he’d done exactly that last night before going to sleep? Oswald looked around and even spotted another razor blade on the nightstand. It was stained with dried blood.

  He wanted to rush into the bathroom and drop his pants. Check for damage. Scratch that, Damaged. Oswald let out a little giggle.

  There were dirty clothes everywhere. Come to think of it, he’d slept in his clothes last night and hadn’t bothered to change them. He stank and there was no way to cover up just how badly. At least he was wearing his favorite shirt. The letters WWWD were spelled out in red. The third W had a pentagram constructed of middle fingers. What Would Wex Do indeed. Wex would get off his ass and take care of business. Too bad Oswald couldn’t focus on shit today.

  It was the lack of his ADHD drugs. That was all. He’d wash a load today. He had a clean T-shirt somewhere, he had to have one.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks.” Oswald found his friend peering down at him.

  Concern etched Jon’s face. Jon put his hand on his Oswald’s shoulder again and gave it a squeeze.

  “I’m not gay or some shit, I just worry about you, man.”

  Nattering voices sounded in the back of his head. They overrode his thoughts and became a chorus. It was the same song about the change. In 1998, Damaged had released their third highest charting album titled Lamentations of the Damned. The song “The Change” wasn’t the best of the seven long tracks but it had become one of Oswald’s favorites. Now the chorus hammered him over and over.

  “It’s the change,” Oswald said with a grin.

  “What change? Oh for fuck’s sake, never mind. We need to talk about the pictures. I think it’s time to take them down. I’ve been getting a creepy feeling over the last few weeks. Like someone is watching us, or looking for us or something,” Jon said.

  “Can’t take them down now. They’ve spread all over the place. No one believes them anyway. Look at all the dumb memes they led to,” Oswald said almost rote. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, not by a long stretch, and frankly he was sick and fucking tired of it. Those photos were a sign.

  They’d witnessed something special. Proof that Damaged not only talked the talk, they walked the walk. Rituals in the dark, with candles, blood, and orgies.

  Blood orgies, a voice whispered in his ear.

  “Disavow them or something. Say they were faked,”

  “But they weren’t faked. That was the real thing, brother. We witnessed history, and we’re part of it.”

  Oswald leaned over and hit play on his beat up stereo. Megadeth was next on his play list so he cranked it. It matched his mood. He didn’t feel so right. Not so right at all.

  Blood orgy, the voice throbbed again. It slammed into his head this time, and then the pokers were back and they were hotter than ever. Oswald’s eyes closed and a keening cry rose in his throat.

  Blood. Orgy.

  “Oswald? You okay, man?” Jon squatted next to his friend and put his hand on his shoulder again.

  This time Oswald’s path was clear, the voices laying it all out for him. Oswald knew what he needed to do to make everything go away.

  He spun on his hips and punched his friend right in the face. Jon’s nose crunched and blood burst. Jon sat down and reached for his face. His fingers pushed his nostrils together.

  “Dude!” sounded like he said ‘bude’ thanks to hi
s crunched nose.

  Oswald’s head throbbed one last time, and then the pain left. It didn’t just fade, it disappeared, and Oswald was left with a clear head, the clearest he’d had all day, hell, in a week.

  Oswald grinned and popped to his feet.

  “You fuck!” Jon cried.

  Oswald kicked him in the gut. Jon collapsed on his side so Oswald kicked him again, this time right in the temple. Jon grunted and tried to get away. Oswald’s mirror fell to the ground and smashed. He stared at shards that made his face a tortured affair. One piece, in particular, gleamed.

  “Blood. Orgy.” Oswald smiled.

  He kicked Jon again, just for good measure. Something in the corner of his room beckoned. A pair of slits that opened wide until they were fiery eyes. The iris turned red and flames danced.

  What would Wex do? He’d do this.

  Oswald leaned over and repeatedly punched Jon in the head until his friend stopped moving. Big, overhand blows that landed with wet thwacks that left Oswald’s knuckles bloody.

  He sat down next to his friend and smiled. “You see, Jon, it’s like this. We’re chosen. We have to do the band’s will, have to lead the way. It’s all clear to me now.”

  Oswald picked up the piece of glass and stared at it. The reflection of his shirt and the WWWD stared back.

  Then he went to find some cord and as many candles as he could get his hands on.

  6

  Ten Seconds To Love

  Wex

  Wex hadn’t picked up a guitar in six months. He hadn’t attempted to belt out a tune in four. For all his bluster and indignation regarding the band, he wanted give up and call it a day. The band should have imploded in that hotel lobby years ago.

  But he couldn’t. They had contracts, obligations. They were supposed to do a fucking photoshoot in a few weeks and none of them were on the same page. Hell, their social media page on Facebook was a wreck. A few years ago, they’d taken turns posting details about the band’s life on and off the road. Then a personal assistant had started filling in. Then they’d pissed her off enough so that nothing got added to the page unless it was a fan saying either how great they were or how much they sucked donkey balls.