5. DAMIAN

Chapter five

DAMIAN

F lashes of the images from my dream reappeared in my mind: her soft face, her velvety clothes, her perfectly black hair blowing into the wind. I remembered the day that she begged me to go to the beach with her. She was lying down in her beautiful turquoise bathing suit. She talked about how she lived for the sun and the sounds of the waves on the beach. I missed her laugh. I missed her flowy hair. I missed waking up to her by my side. Now, I only wake up to an empty bed, with her scent still engraved on my mind. No matter how many times I had pushed it away, her coconut fragrance wouldn't leave, only staying to torment me and what I lost.

The shack that I lived in was starting to break down board by board. Paneling planks were plastered up to shield the wind from the shattered windows, but it would only do so much. The wooden roof was dispersed with uneven holes, leaking water wherever there was a storm from the beach or when the sky decided to cry.

Only so much as my bed would fit in the small area, and a small timbered chest filled with the remaining items. The rest were lost in the fire.

The air was musty, a feral and soiled scent reminding me of the robbery in the slums and how the town had given up any trace of hope or life after what had happened. The thought of her kept creeping into my mind. I had to get out. The need to escape the thoughts of her scraped like glass shards in my chest.

What I'd done also rang through my ears.

I'd killed.

I was a murderer.

At least that was what I turned to after her death.

I was sick of not feeling anything, and when an opportunity came up to feel something , I grabbed it and held on tight.

A bar titled Squench was located on the East side of town and sounded perfect to wash away the awakened feelings.

I grabbed one of my black jackets to cover my dark tattoos and to soothe my frozen skin, left my shack, and headed to the bar. The night wind rushed past my face. I already knew that I looked bad. I hadn't shaved in weeks and hadn't washed in even longer. I couldn't get myself to do anything. The only thoughts that filled my head were those about her, and the people that I had killed to forget the pain.

Music pounded my ears as I met the bar. It was lively, with drunks lining the tables on the inside, sharing secrets and booze. It was lit up by a few luminescent sconces surrounding the area. In one of the corners near red velvet seats battered with age and spilled alcohol, a fight broke out between a scraggly old man who raised his fist, his long gray hair whipping to the side as his knuckles met the cheek of a young fella with a fine linen suit.

Beer splattered from wall to wall, covering it with a sticky residue. My boots stuck to the floor, and I knew it was also a result of others also drowning themselves in alcohol.

I approached the counter, where a man with olive-toned skin and hair as dark as the night meticulously poured liquid into the wooden mugs. He had a faded red bandana tied around the collar of his shirt and as he smiled, only a few teeth appeared.

"What can I getcha? You be looking like ya need something strong, aye?" he asked, his words slurring, almost unrecognizable.

I nodded. "Get me the strongest you got," I said back to him, leaning over the counter with my hands in fists.

"Aye, aye, gotcha." He turned around and started pumping a thick brown liquid into the stiff cup as he held the splintered handle. When he finished, he slid it across the table, the drink sloshing from side to side. I grabbed the wood-grained grip and drank it down. It oozed past my lips and struggled to make it past my throat, burning in the process. The man handed me a cup of water, and I drank it faster than the goop to help with the burn.

"Thanks," I said, not wanting to look him in the eyes.

"Tell me, kid, what's on ya mind?" His eyes flickered with tints of auburn and seemed inviting. He must be able to tell from how I hadn't cleaned in weeks and how quickly I chugged his strongest drink that something was wrong.

Between exhaustion, the alcohol, and the sadness eating me alive, I shared, "My fiancée… She died a couple of months ago." I wasn't sure why I was telling a complete stranger this, but it felt nice to get off my chest. I had no parents and no family, so no one knew. The secret remained with me, burning my heart to ash as each day passed by.

"I'm sorry, fella. What're ya willin' to do to get're back?" he asked, his words slurring, his eyes darting from side to side, glancing to see who might be listening.

"Anything," I choked out, making eye contact with him. Our eyes locked in an intense exchange. The pause in his response and the subtle shift of his gaze hinted that he knew something. What secrets was he hiding? Shifting, he leaned in close enough that I could smell his sour breath.

"There's a sorcerer. He has been comin' in here nightly. I heard he makes deals with those who need something. I heard a man last night who stole the Sardan king's crown, and in return, the sorcerer granted him a never-ending supply of gold coins in his jacket pocket. He showed me himself. It's da truth." His breath reeked of alcohol as he whispered into my face.

The familiar idea of someone making deals for others to get what they wanted made me wonder if this sorcerer was linked with the tasks showing up at my door. Could he be the mastermind behind my killing? Would he also be able to rescue Sebastia from the clutches of death? Either way, I had grown to be a part of it. It had merged into me like a virus that could never be removed.

"Where is this man? This sorcerer?" My words laced with a mix of yearning and desperation. His scrutinizing stare bore into me, and I knew that I was going to be lonely for the rest of my life. Lately, I hunted down feelings with a knife to someone's throat, or with alcohol spewing down my own. I refused to find love again. Sebastia's velvety laugh screamed in my head. She was the only one who breathed life into my soul with the very stroke of her thin fingers. Without her, I was no more than a breeze in the wind, brushing death upon those unfortunate enough to cross my path.

There was an ache, a void that I longed to fill, a longing to feel some semblance of life again.

"I was told that if you say three words and stay in one spot, he will find you." His eyes gleamed deeper into my soul. I didn't know whether to trust him, but I would do anything to get Sebastia back. I was nothing without her. And I found that my kills have only made the ache for her worse.

"Tell me. What are the words?" The plea was evident with the tremor in my voice. He grimaced, grabbed a paper and pen, and wrote them down, handing me the parchment. I looked down at the paper, anticipation growing as I saw the three words, Tybalt Abaris Claudion.