Damien
A short story
Damien sat idle. Pasty green sofa-bed. Beige walls. Glowing screen. The news was boring him. He hated the people who read the news.
His mother had taught him never to hate anybody, but he hated people regardless. He had been born devoid of love so hatred came natural to him.
He kept watching.
The news had segued into a pseudo-documentary about overpopulation. Cityscapes panned across the screen. The narrator murdered words unconscionably. Damien hit the mute button on the remote resting on his thigh.
He sat motionless for two breaths. On the third, he raised his hand in front of him.
Four, five, he examined his palm as if it bore unintelligible truths encoded in its folds and creases.
Six, seven, an elongated eight. A sigh. A moan, almost.
He swiped the air in front of him with the back of his hand. Like swatting a fly or slapping a face. Once, twice, three times.
His mother called from downstairs. Dinner was ready. He hated dinner. He hated food. He hated his mother. She wasn’t even his real mother. Why did he still have to play along with this charade?
He extricated himself from his lassitude with a self-inflicted face slap.
He stole a glance at the television before he disappeared downstairs. The news had cut to a live helicopter feed of downtown being hit by a tidal wave with two more to follow.
Damien smirked like a demon, then bounded downstairs to play the role of human son.
Fancy another?
