Chapter Text
He was the antichrist, the son of Satan, from the seventh layer of Hell– Damien. That's who he was. His coming was the end of days, and all would feel his wrath!
Especially those dumb kids in his class. They all hated him, to put it strongly. They didn't take him seriously, how could they? Some random new kid from Alabama who claims to want to kill Jesus? That's nuts, what a fucked up kid!
He recalled his first day of school. He wouldn't let himself be shy, he told everyone who he was. Damien, the antichrist, son of Satan, from the seventh layer of Hell. He expected looks of confusion, disturbance, hopefully at least one face of fear, but no. The children looked at him with blank expressions, or grimances of annoyance. How terrible.
It was this particular group of boys in his class. He recalled one named Stan Marsh saying that one of his friends said Damien's mom was a 'real dog'. He imagines turning his friend into a platypus, or lighting their lunch table on fire. But he didn't have fire powers, and he wasn't the antichrist– his dad was a therapist, and Damien didn't hate anyone more than him.
Damien remembered sitting in the counsellor's office, unable to look at anything but the floor.
"The other kids hate me," he said.
"And why might that be?" the counsellor asked. He had a big head, and he said 'mkay' a lot. He annoyed Damien.
"Because I'm the son of Satan?" Damien questioned. He knew that was the reason.
"Okay, good start," the counsellor said. "Anything else?"
The counsellor's advice was to 'try and be friends' as if the third grade was really that simple. This wasn't kindergarten!
Everything was bad, and everything is bad, and until the End of Days everything will be bad. He knew that from the beginning of his days, just as you know it from your own.
"Damien."
His father was large, and his face was red, like the devils. His voice was smooth, like sand. He never raised it, never. Not at Damien, not at anything.
He was the devil, and Damien was his son.
"Why did you tell your school you're the son of Satan?'
Damien was standing by the front door, snow still caked onto his boots. He clenched the straps of his backpack.
Because I am the son of Satan.
"That's not the truth, and you know it. I'm your father, and you know that's the truth."
His father was sitting in the kitchen, his hands folded neatly on the table. The collar of his shirt was all messed up.
You're the devil.
"I've done so much to make you happy…"
His mother said, "Damien, how could you–"
"You refuse to be happy… This is only you working against yourself."
His father stood up from the table, and stormed over to Damien. His mother shrieked, and backed herself up against the wall.
YOU ARE THE DEVIL.
He never hit Damien, no. He never hit his mom, no. He stood over Damien, looking down at the eight year old boy. His face was red, like the Devil's.
"I do so much for your happiness, but you won't repay me with your obedience. This can go the easy way, or the hard way."
It was never easy, and Damien never got to choose. He was always given the most extreme punishments his father could come up with, without laying a finger on Damien.
He always had to have it hard, because he was a bright boy. He was intelligent and different, and he wouldn't learn from easy punishments because of that. He needed it hard, for his own good.
It was so boring being locked up in your bedroom, only being able to clean it because your dad destroyed it. He got distracted, examining his toys, finding ones he thought were lost forever. But the sound of footsteps and the sound of rapid knocking flung him back into his senses, and scramble around to appear as he had been cleaning this whole time.
"Damien?"
It was his mother.
"What, Mom? Just go away…"
"Damien…"
"I don't want you here right now!"
"You're going to just make it worse–"
"Leave!"
She shut the door, and a few moments later it was powered through by his father.
In the middle of the night he would still be awake, adrenaline unable to leave him, hours after his father's temper was over and he and his mother had gone to bed.
There was still his dinner by the foot of his bed, only played with. He hadn't taken a bite, and it had gone stale. The mashed potatoes and macaroni were neglected, and would be thrown out the next morning.
He was flipping through a comic book, next to his lamp, his room still not cleaned up from his father's tantrum.
Many nights were like this one.
His father was the devil, he was the son of Lucifer.
He was to do his father's bidding, which meant wrath, because if there was one good thing his father wanted, it was wrath. Clearly.
"Oh, my gosh, Damien! No one gives a shit that you're the son of the fucking devil!" It was Stan Marsh who said that. "Grow up already, this isn't playtime, get a grip!"
"You'll feel the burns of one thousand volcanoes for that one!' Damien cried out.
"O-oh, I'm so scared!' Stan Marsh cried sarcastically. "I'm gonna be burned, oh my God!"
His best friend Kyle Brovsloski snickered, telling him something like 'Careful, he has fire powers'.
Damien lunged at Stan Marsh and tried to break his nose. He was pulled off by Stan's girlfriend, whatever her name was.
"Again, again," the guidance counsellor sighed after a few moments of Damien sitting in his office in silence.
His room would never be cleaned.
He never really noticed Pip. When he first came to South Park Elementary in the middle of November, he was more focused on acclimating to a new schedule, mainly waking up in the morning and not forgetting important items such as his pencil case.
He also hated homework, and his classmates. So Pip was naturally grouped into something he hated, and it was like that even after Pip suddenly became prominent in his life.
Suddenly there he was, that pathetic British boy.
"Hello, Damien!" he said to him one morning. This was right before school started, they were sitting in the gym as it was too cold for morning recess.
Damien was sitting behind the bleachers.
"Hi."
"We're not allowed to be underneath the bleachers. You should come out now."
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Oh, but I don't want to see you in trouble." Pip was wearing suspenders, Damien noticed. Who wore suspenders in this day and age? Someone's grandfather? Not even!
"Go away," Damien demanded.
Pip frowned, and walked away. A teacher yelled at Damien, and told him to get out from underneath those goddamn bleachers.
He groaned loudly and crawled out. Pip was waiting for him, but he ignored him and sat against the wall until school began.
Everything was running along so consistently. He went home with a heart full of worry and fear, went to bed late, went to school, and hated it as well. What he looked forward to was being alone in the woods not too far from his house, pretending to be a prowling demon.
He would stalk 'prey', which were imaginary people alone in the woods during sundown that Damien made up. He would follow them around closely, but not let these imaginary people see him. He would sometimes jump out and scream, to scare them, then he would chase them.
He was all alone. If anyone saw him, he would probably have killed himself out of embarrassment. But it was his game, and he loved it.
Of course something was going to interrupt the flow of this routine. It was so sudden, he was unprepared.
He was in the bathroom, leaning against the sink. He had just lost a tooth, and was rinsing out his mouth of all the blood. He had the tooth in a special tooth-shaped plastic container, and it was in his sweater pocket at the time. He was alone in the bathroom, another boy had just left.
An alarm went off, and a robotic voice over the announcement intercom was explaining how there was an active shooter in the school, and this was a lockdown, and it was not a drill.
Damien's blood ran cold, he paced around the bathroom. Should he leave? Run to class? Run out of the building?
Someone had just run into the bathroom and tried to shut the door, but the stopper caused it to shut slowly. That someone had grabbed the sleeve of his sweater and pulled him into a stall.
Then someone stood on the toilet, and Damien climbed onto the toilet as well. They stood next to each other.
He looked up and saw a brown floppy cap. It was Pip. The two boys were deathly silent, listening to the sound of gunshots but the lack of screaming.
Damien wanted to say something, but he didn't.
The gunshots were growing closer, and Pip gasped, and looked at Damien.
Were they really going to die in the bathroom at school? Together in a stall?
Pip hugged Damien, and Damien hugged him back.
Damien was thinking about everything at that moment, his parents and how angry he had been with them. He didn't remember the last time he hugged either one of them.
He had been such a brat, calling his father the devil.
If he made it out, he would never call his father that again.
Never.
Someone had burst into the bathroom. Damien almost screamed. Whoever they were, their shoes squeaked, then they left.
It seemed to last for ages. Damien wondered for a moment if he should peek out into the hallway, to see what was going on out there, and why it was so silent.
It was only a thought, he knew it was stupid.
Occasionally Pip and Damien would glance at each other, the same look of fear and question on both of their faces. They had stopped hugging a while ago. They just stood on the toilet, uncertain of what to do.
Then it was over. They all went home, and Damien, for the first time in his life, saw people being wheeled away into ambulances. Some had white sheets covering their bodies, some didn't.
There were a lot of parents hugging their children and crying. It was Damien's father that picked him up, but he didn't hug him or cry. There was no sympathy or emotion in his eyes.
His mother showed a lot of sympathy, and a ton of emotion.
When he walked through the door his mother was taking off her boots, and when she heard the door open she spun around quickly.
"Damien, Damien! Oh my God!"
She had just returned from work. Most likely she got off work early because of the shooting. Her keys were jingling in her hands when she hugged Damien so tightly he had trouble breathing for a moment.
"Are you alright? Where were you when it happened?!"
"I was in the bathroom with Pip," Damien replied.
"Who's Pip? Is she your friend?" his mother asked. Her face was red with so many emotions. The main one being horror for what her son just went through, the second one being joy that he was alive, and the third was grief for the parents that were not fortunate to feel the same way about their children.
"He's just in my class."
"Is he alright?"
Damien nodded. He recalled Pip talking to a police officer, and dragging his feet in the slushy, yellow grass in front of the school. They made eye contact, then Damien jogged toward his father's car.
He heard something about Pip being in a foster home, and how they were always so late to pick him up. Sometimes one hour, sometimes three.
He finished cleaning his room that night. His mother continuously kept coming into his room and asking him how he was. His father yelled at her to leave him alone.
School was off for the rest of the week, then the next. Then it was reopened the next Tuesday.
Everyone seemed so tense, and it was obvious they were all trying too hard to act like everything was the usual. Damien didn't know what to feel. On Monday night, he had a dream that he was standing on that toilet, and he couldn't recall if Pip was there with him.
Speaking of Pip, during recess, Damien was sitting a few meters away from the goth kids against the wall. He thought about befriending them, since he usually wore all black, and his hair was naturally black as well. But he was too intimidated, and his parents wouldn't approve if they ever found out.
Pip kept looking at him, and Damien realised that the look on his eyes was desperation.
Eric Cartman farted on Damien during Wednesday morning recess. He called him Fartboy, and when he told Pip for some reason, Pip said, "Oh, good! Maybe they won't call me that anymore!"
Wednesday was full of trouble. Eric Cartman, again, called him Fartboy, and tried to fart on him again. Damien pushed him away, and told him to fuck off.
Their teacher, Mr Garrison, yelled at Damien.
"We do not use that kind of language here!"
He ignored Mr Garrison. But it seemed like Mr Garrison really had it out for him that day, per usual. He had an image in Damien in mind of a troubled delinquent boy who was to be on watch every second of the day.
"Damien, apologise to Cartman!" Mr Garrison yapped.
"He tried to fart on me! He had his butt in my face!" Damien yapped back.
That group of boys that were always giving him heck burst into giggles.
Damien stood up out of his seat. Mr Garrison's forehead creased.
Stan Marsh 'O-o'ed'.
"Oh, he's mad!" Eric Cartman commented.
Damien exploded. He spun around and picked up Cartman's bellwork.
"Take it," he said. "I'on want it?"
He ripped it in half.
"Thanks," that fat boy said.
He shoved the ripped piece of paper in his face. Cartman squirmed around, trying to get Damien's hands off of him.
"Don't touch me, Fartboy!" he squealed.
"Damien Calderone! Stop that this instant!"
He slapped Cartman in the face, and tried to make him eat his bellwork.
Cartman got out of his seat and grabbed a fistfull of Damien's hair. Stan Marsh joined the fight, and ripped Damien away from Cartman, then threw him to the ground. Cartman stomped on Damien's face.
"Stop it!" Mr Garrison screamed. He broke through Marsh and Cartman and pulled the sobbing Damien off the floor.
He opened his eyes, and saw the frightened faces of one of the girls. Bebe, most likely.
Mr Garrison walked Damien out of the classroom and told him to go to the nurse's.
"Don't call my dad," Damien cried.
"I won't. Just go," Mr Garrison instructed.
Damien walked himself down to the nurse.
Down the hall, he heard:
"He's fine, Pip, go back to your seat– No, don't go with him."
The nurse had a facial deformity. It was terrible, but all of the kids were scared of her. She had pink hair, that made her more fun.
Damien's mom was called, the nurse only told her that he needed a trip to the dentist. Damien flipped out and cried even more.
The rest of the week, it somehow happened. Pip became his closest friend.
He assumed it happened because one day, when he was playing by himself in the woods, he heard Pip singing some stupid British song.
His heart dropped, had he heard Damien playing? Did he just hear Damien saying 'bow down to the son of Satan'?
He followed the sound of Pip singing.
"And when they were up, they were up
And when they were down, they were down
And when they were only half-way up…"
He didn't have the most pleasant voice.
Pip was crouched down by a deer skull.
"And they were neither up nor down, doo doo doo…"
He picked it up and flipped it over. Bugs and dirt fell onto his sleeve and he dropped the skull and wiped his sleeve. He was wearing a scout's uniform.
"Ew," he said to himself, examining his hand.
Damien ran off. He had no idea if Pip knew he was there that evening, and he never asked.
Then they were eating lunch together. Pip told Damien plenty of stories about his time living in his home, London. He was in a graveyard and met an escaping inmate named Magwitch. He knew a boy who was called Pocket, and a girl who he liked and her name was Estella.
Damien listened, and gave a bit of commentary here and there.
Pip was strange, to say the least. Damien knew why the other kids always told him to shut up whenever he spoke. He loved to rhyme words.
"Lunchie munchies, mmm?"
They would ride their bikes together after school. They'd go to the gas station together a lot. Months passed, and they called each other best friends. Pip started hanging out with a boy named Butters Stotch as well, and a little ginger boy that Damien never met before.
But Damien only had Pip, and that was completely fine with him. Pip knew all about Damien's imaginary world where he was the son of Satan and his name was Damien Thorn. He was from the seventh circle of Dante's Inferno. Violence.
Pip was really Christian, so all of Damien's demonic talk gave him the heebie jeebies.
He started saying 'righto' like Pip.
His mother was always asking about his little friend Pip. His father's only thought about Pip was that his hair made him look like a little girl.
"He doesn't look like a girl, he looks like a Brit!"
"Don't be mean to your little friend."
He learned that while Pip didn't have any friends, he spent a lot of time talking to the school chef, who was just referred to as Chef.
Damien spoke a lot to Chef, and he found him to be pleasantly strange. Neither him or Pip got his dirty jokes that slipped out sometimes.
He was really close to the four insufferable boys, so Damien didn't stick around to talk to him during lunch.
One morning, it was Saturday, and Damien was planning on staying home all day.
The doorbell rang around ten.
"Oh, hello there!" his mother said loudly. "Come on in! Damien might be sleeping."
He wasn't sleeping, but he was in his pyjamas on the floor reading a Sonic Archie comic.
He stood up and took out a pair of jeans and black sweater. While he was throwing his sweater on, someone knocked on his door.
"You can go in," his mother said, and opened the door.
"Ello, Damien," Pip said. He was wearing a green jacket. "I came over because Laura kicked me out of the house."
"Okay," Damien replied. "What do you want to do?"
Damien's mother put her hand on Pip's back and edged him into Damien's room. It was a little untidy.
"You've got a cool room!" Pip commented. Damien said thanks.
"You boys have fun. Leave the door open!"
She left them alone. It was really awkward. Pip was sitting on his unmade bed, looking around at his room. Damien was sitting on the floor by his dresser.
Pip sighed and laid down.
"Laura is so crabby," he said.
"Who's Laura?" Damien asked.
"The woman who's been fostering me. Her husband's name is Pete. They make me do all their daughter's chores."
He took note that Pip seemed a little frustrated at the mention of chores.
"That's no fun. Why don't you tell their daughter to do her own chores?"
Pip just hummed.
There was silence. Then Damien said, "Hey, Pip, why don't you cut your hair?"
He sat up and looked at Damien. "Why should I?"
"My dad thinks you look like a girl."
Pip scrunched his eyebrows. "I think your dad looks like the–" He looked away. "I'm not gonna say that," he said softly.
"Let's go into the backyard," Damien said.
"Righto!"
Damien didn't have much in his backyard, so they walked down the sidewalk to the park.
There, Damien and Pip got into a fight. He couldn't remember what it was about, but Pip was agitated in general that day. He shoved Pip on the sidewalk, and an old woman walked by on the grass and gasped, but didn't intervene.
Pip burst into tears. He picked himself up and ran the rest of the way to the park. He nearly knocked over a woman with a baby stroller.
Damien jogged after him, not too angry with him but he still felt the need to argue.
He found Pip underneath the slide, still crying.
Damien tried to argue with him, but Pip told him, "Just shut up! Shut up you wanker! Shut up!"
"Okay! Jeez, stop crying."
"Why's everyone so mean to me?" Pip sobbed. "What did I do wrong? I'm nice to everybody, and when the children tell me I'm a Frenchie, or they tell me I'm a faggot, I just say 'Righto'! I try my best to not get angry, I just say 'Righto'--" he sniffled. "But it doesn't do me any good! No good at all!"
Damien didn't know what to say to this unexpected vent.
"I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!"
Damien sat down in front of Pip under the slide. He didn't know what to do. He wanted to cry with Pip. The guilt was overwhelming. Why did he feel the need to push Pip? He really hadn't ever done anything wrong.
Once Pip's sobbing had subsided, Damien pat Pip on the head as if he were a cat. Pip looked up at him, eyebrows scrunched and face puffy.
Damien's freak outs at school had subsided with the presence of his new best friend. But he started flipping out on behalf of Pip. He'd correct everyone who called him a Frenchie, and he snapped at people who told him to shut up when he was just being friendly. It brought down Pip's reputation even more than it already was. Cartman said a few times that Damien was sucking Pip's dick, and Damien just called him a hippo. A big, lazy hippo.
Pip didn't mind, he didn't notice his reputation tank even more, he just didn't want anyone to punch his friend in the face.
He defended Damien anytime someone called him emo. He would say, "He's goth!" when in reality he wasn't goth either.
It broke him in half when Damien had to move.
He would finish fourth grade at South Park Elementary, but he wouldn't be returning for the fifth grade. Pip was devastated.
"What am I going to do without you?" he asked.
"Hang out with Butters?" Damien offered.
"But– Mm…" Pip rolled his eyes.
They watched Sesame Street and ate pizza during class. And during recess Pip and Damien played with chalk, along with Butters and that tiny ginger boy.
It was really sunny out.
When everyone was packing up their stuff, Pip hugged Damien and cried a bit.
"I'm gonna miss you!"
Damien patted his back.
Butters said, "Goodbye, Damien!"
"Bye."
Once most of the kids had already left the building, Pip made Damien wait.
There was chatter going on down the hall, and Mr Garrison was talking to another teacher. Pip was looking down at his fingers.
"I love you," he said.
Damien's cheeks turned pink. "What? I'm not like that–"
"As a friend! As a friend!" Pip exclaimed.
Mr Garrison was looking at them.
"I love you too," Damien replied. And they hugged again. The tenderness was cheesy, and Damien desperately wanted it to be over. He had learned during the duration of his friendship with that little British boy that he wasn't much for physical affection. But he was grateful that he had someone giving him so many hugs, because that someone cared deeply for him.
In a way that his father, who was driving the truck from Colorado to Oklahoma, would never care for him.
In a way that his mother, who was reading a magazine in the hotel room now, would never care for him.
In a way that he would never find again. No one was giving him hugs anymore, no one was listening to him ramble anymore, and no one's name was Pip anymore.
He returned to Colorado once, and was met with a bitter daydream of little Pip talking to the school chef, on a crisp December day. He left as soon as he came, unable to bear the weight.