Chapter Text
It really was shitty, Damien had long ago decided, that your world could come to an end and everyone else’s could just keep moving on.
A metaphorical meteor could turn your life into a smoking crater and people will just step over and around you, maybe sparing the occasional glance at whatever’s left with a mixture of pity and vague disgust. The kind of look that makes you wish you still had it in you to tell them to mind their business so you can smolder undisturbed.
That was how it felt in the beginning. No ability, no direction, nowhere to go and nobody to talk to. The last three conditions weren’t unfamiliar. But leaning how to navigate without his ability felt like trying to maneuver around in the dark. Like losing one of his senses.
It was like being in a hotel room when the air conditioning or heat suddenly shut off. That was the only thing he could compare it to at first. That sudden extra layer of quiet. He might have gone all night without noticing the sound and its sudden absence was disorienting.
Now the “sound” of other people’s minds was gone. A hum that was more sensation than noise; like the low buzzing of feedback from a speaker at a concert he could feel at the base of his skull. People’s minds, their wants, the lose threads he used to be able to pull at without even the conscious desire to do so. Gone like turning off a light switch.
For the first few weeks after the AM, he swore there was something wrong with his ears. Noises seemed so much louder, and silences felt so heavy. It took him a while to put together what he was missing. He was so used to the company of other people’s minds inside his own that being without them….
“It feels lonely.” Was what he told Mark. And he hadn’t yet come up with a better way of putting it, as much as he’d like to.
It was, to put it lightly and with the least amount of profanity possible, incredibly shitty. He used to believe he was cursed, or born with bad luck, or maybe the universe just hated him personally. These days he was beginning to suspect that maybe it didn’t hate him at all. It just found watching him struggle really, really funny and didn’t want to stop laughing any time soon.
He tried making a life for himself in this new normal. Really, he did. Not that anyone would believe that, or would think too much of what he had to show for it.
He worked sporadically here and there, mostly at restaurants and other places that didn’t check backgrounds too closely or care very much about experience. He got kicked out of one apartment, and then another before one finally stuck. He learned how to take a bus and learned how much he hated taking the bus. And along the way, he developed a deep-seated hatred for thin walls and people who had the energy to start loud arguments with their roommates or partners after midnight.
It was actually his neighbors fighting that drove him out of the apartment at around 11pm one night. He'd given up on trying to sleep until they quieted down and stepped outside just to get away from the noise that was starting to give him a headache.
It was still early September. So, theoretically it shouldn't have been too cold. September was all pretty trees and warm afternoons according to books and tv. In reality, he was freezing his ass off the moment he stepped out in his oversized sweatpants and hoodie; his shoes half shoved on in his haste to get out. It was also raining. Not a pretty little misting of water, but the kind of torrential downpour only shown in apocalyptic movies. He briefly hoped it would wash the whole damn city away, then broke off those pleasant thoughts to mutter a string of curses when he stepped in a puddle and soaked through one of his socks.
I used to like cities.
The thought came with a wave of melancholy nostalgia. The only kind he seemed to be capable of. Back when he had his ability, cities were easy. It was easy to get lost in the crowd, easy to slip by unnoticed, easy to disappear. Now they just felt entirely too big and weirdly empty in spite of all the people. And disappearing in the mix was somehow even more lonely.
Mark mentioned wanting to live in a big city once. Like New York or L.A. He said he liked the idea of having something to do all the time; new people to talk to, shops popping in and out, a constant rotation of artists and musicians. Damien had no idea if this city had any of those things. Hadn’t had the time or energy to seek them out. Crowds made him nervous long before he lost his ability and that certainly hadn't improved how he felt about them. As far as he’d seen, this place was just a lot of cars and faceless buisnesses.
You’d probably hate it here. He thought. Another entry in an endless, one-sided conversation that was the one constant in his life. An extension of all those embarrassing, shitty letters crammed into his backpack that he could never actually bring himself to throw away.
Damien sighed and leaned his head back against the cold, wet brick. He’d just closed his eyes and was starting to let his mind drift to all the places he’d be better off not drifting to when he heard a noise that sounded like a long, low wail.
His eyes snapped open and he looked around the alley. He couldn’t see anyone but himself, and there was nothing else out here but the dumpsters along the far wall overflowing with plastic bags. The streetlights to his left and the greenish bulb glowing on the outside of whatever building he was living next to cast a sickly, dim glow over the narrow space. It was eerie on a good day. And as he was just beginning to consider maybe sitting through another argument from his neighbors was better than whatever was out here, he heard it again. Another heartrending wail coming from the bank of dumpsters.
It didn’t sound much like a person. Person-adjacent maybe. It was hard to tell with all the cars rushing by on the street and that damn buzzing light.
Am I about to be the person who dies in the first five minutes of a horror movie?
Well, at least then he wouldn’t have to go into work tomorrow. Never let anyone say he didn’t know how to look on the bright side.
He wondered if this was one of those situations where he was supposed to pretend not to hear anything. Investigating certainly didn’t sound like a good idea. But the thought of turning his back to go inside right now didn’t really appeal to him either.
“If anyone’s planning on stabbing me tonight can we please get this over with?” he groaned with what he hoped was enough exhaustion behind his words to convince any curious lurkers to move on. Maybe if he could convey how shitty his life was in a single sentence he could make any potential murderers see that they would be wasting their time on him.
Still. He waited with his breath catching in the back of his throat until several tense seconds had passed.
You’re a paranoid idiot. He told himself. Then nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt something cold and wet brush against his leg.
Damien had never gotten his door open so quickly and he’d closed it again before giving himself time to figure out just what had touched him.
What the hell kind of murderer grabs someone’s ankles?
He decided that weirder things had happened and slid the little metal lock into place. Not that it looked like it would do much against someone who really wanted to get in. Damien was pretty sure a determined rat could break the whole door down with enough momentum.
“Well that was fucking weird,” he said aloud to himself. Wishing, not for the first and probably not the last time, that he didn’t live alone. His heart was still pounding and he was sure the whole situation would have been more funny than creepy if he had someone to commiserate with. Someone to make fun of him for being scared by literally nothing so he could stop thinking about how useless the lock was.
A little comfort would be nice too. Maybe just a brief squeeze of a shoulder or someone asking sincerely if he was okay. He’d brush it off and say he was fine, yeah, but it was about the asking more than the answer.
Instead, he had himself. And that eternally critical voice in the back of his head that loved to remind him how bad he was at being a person, telling him that it was really embarrassing to start whining about being lonely because he got a little spooked.
He ran his fingers back through his damp hair and sat down on the floor; the universal sign of giving up that he was very familiar with. Too tired to drag himself to bed, he drew up his knees and dropped his face onto them, letting out a sigh he was sure would be heard through the paper-thin walls.
Hey Mark. Your city idea blows. In case you were wondering. And I wish you were here so I could tell you that to your stupid face .
He did his best to think about it angrily. And to not dwell on the fact that he could just hear him laughing at the whole situation. Making light of it all. Responding with a teasing, “Aww. Poor baby.” that would make him want to gag. Because if he thought about that for too long it would start to make his ribs ache and the apartment would seem more empty than it already was.
Damien let out another sigh, one that shook far more than the one before it. Which, he told himself, was only a result of the cold. He was just starting to repeat it to himself, (Because he was not going to cry on the floor for the second time in a week.) when something butted against his arm.
Damien jerked back from it so hard that he would have fallen on his ass if he wasn’t already sitting on the floor. His heart lodged itself somewhere in the back of his mouth, and though he’d somehow managed to avoid actually letting out any noise, he came pretty close when he saw a pair of eyes staring at him from the hallway. Until he realized they were too small and close to the ground to be human. And probably too big for a rat.
Did I let a fucking possum inside?
That was something he’d actually done once back in Nebraska. Possums were decently amiable; or were at least willing to act like it in exchange for food. He’d never been good at making friends his own age even before his ability made that pretty much impossible, but he’d found animals to be pretty judgment-free as a rule. There wasn’t anything non-human he didn’t at least try to approach in his younger years even when his parents tried to discourage the habit. Once they were gone and he stopped going to school, there really was nobody there to stop him from making nice with the local vermin around his house.
The possum was part of the collection of squirrels and birds he’d share his leftovers or failed baking projects with. His mom would be horrified, but he had a pretty decent crowd going that would wait out on the porch for his evening offerings. Damien actually got it to the point where the possum in question would take food right out of his hands. A point of personal pride.
One afternoon he left the side door open. And it just came waddling into the kitchen like it owned the place. Damien remembered walking around the corner, locking eyes with it, then panicking after a moment’s mutual confusion.
His brilliant solution had been to try and pick it up so he could set it back outside. He was a very lonely, stupid kid who was thinking in terms of pets, not wild animals. And in exchange for his moment of stupidity, he ended up getting bitten.
Luckily it was nothing serious. It hardly broke the skin but the shock and sight of blood made him call for his mom.
It was just habit. A reflex like pulling your fingers back from a hot stove. He tried to pretend he hadn’t done it the moment the word left his mouth, but the ringing silence that followed the little animal scampering out of the house was still deafening.
Nobody wants you. Even animals know there’s something wrong with you .
He was probably being dramatic. It still didn’t feel any less real. So he’d done his best to keep his distance from wildlife after that. Until it decided to come to him and take up residence in his hallway.
Much like the possum, for several moments they just stared at each other. Then as he laid there on the shitty carpet, the thing he’d let into his apartment poked its head out a little further.
It was a cat. Probably. Its fur was so wet and dirty that it could have been just a very, very big rat. It was impossible to guess what color it was under the grime, but it had green eyes. Huge, luminous green eyes.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
It chittered at him. Like he was a damn bird.
“Absolutely not.” Damien stood up and opened his door. Then pointed toward the alley outside to reinforce his point. “Out. This isn’t a hotel.”
The fucking creature that had somehow slipped inside continued to stare at him. It looked at the door. Then back at him. Then made a noise very similar to the one he’d heard wailing out by the dumpster.
“Hey- don’t give me that shit. Your issues are not my problem.”
Okay. That sounded a little too familiar.
“I’m not your owner,” he amended. “Go bother them.”
The cat got up, wandered a bit closer, and Damien thought it was actually going to go out. Then it veered off course and decided to wind around his legs, feeling very much like whatever had grabbed his ankle.
You little bastard.
He was standing right in the doorway. It would have been easy to use his foot to nudge it out, and he was about to do just that when he glanced back at the alley. It was still pouring; maybe harder than before. His breath was coming out in misty clouds, and the overhead light in his apartment made it seem even darker out there by contrast. From what he could see, there was nothing out there but the garbage, a busy road, and a dozen other doors shut for the night. With their residents probably sleeping, given it was nearly midnight on a Tuesday.
Damien looked back down at the ugly little thing pressing up against his sweatpants. It blinked at him, and he decided that even if he was heartless, he just didn’t have it in him to be quite that cruel.
It wasn’t his problem. But it had to be someone’s.
“Ugh. Fine,” he groaned, letting the door slam shut. “One night. Sleep it off, and in the morning you’re out. Got it?”
It didn’t even wait for him to stop talking. The moment the door shut it detached itself from him and scampered off, managing somehow to disappear in the small, nearly empty apartment. Not that he spent much time looking for it as he finally managed to drag himself to bed. After shucking off his sweatpants that were freshly streaked with dumpster residue, courtesy of his unwelcome guest, that is.
He did wonder if he’d need to worry about it crawling up to chew on his face in the brief moments before he finally passed out. But in the few seconds he listened for the sound of paws on the mattress, it hardly occurred to him that he’d stopped worrying about the lock on the door.