Post by нαℓƒ~мσση on Mar 26, 2014 16:09:25 GMT -5
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It all started when he was young. Temper tantrums would result in broken windows or shattered vases. At first, his parents brushed it off. It was an accident, they'd say. It wasn't possible for a two-year old child to shatter an entire window. They turned to logic and reason, shut off their minds to the "impossible".
The fires started when he was five. He'd been playing in the backyard, throwing a plastic ball around for the dog to catch. His mother was back and forth from the house to the garden, keeping an eye on him while she chatted to an old friend on the phone. She went inside to make lunch, his favorite of grilled cheese and ham. He hadn't initially wanted to set the shed on fire, but when his ball got stuck on the roof, he wanted to get it down. He came to one conclusion: get the shed out of the way. The flames leaped to life, the heat so surprisingly strong that he'd taken a step back. How his mother had screamed when she came back outside.
Things only became worse from then on. He became curious of this ability, with all of his abilities. His parents seemed scared all of the time- was it of him? He never hurt them. He broke things, burned them, made them do what he wanted, but it never hurt anyone. The day that he dropped a knife on his dog broke his mother's heart. She moped around the house after that, refused to look at him or play. He was nine.
He thought that he could remedy the situation. So, he went out back where the dog was buried beneath the large oak tree and dug the Doberman up. The dog had only been dead for a day, so he was not so bad off. He pressed his hands against the animal's chest and the dog burst into flames. But this time, he wasn't burning. Instead, the dog rose, looking more alive than it had two minutes prior. Proud of himself, the boy took the dog back inside to show his mother.
"He's alive!"
His mother's reaction wasn't quite as enthusiastic. She screamed and screamed until the neighbors called the police. He remembered sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around the resurrected dog's neck, watching two strange men try and calm his mother down. She kept screaming about the Devil's Spawn and that he wasn't her son. It confused him.
She was taken away, his father was called home from work, and he was sent to his room with the dog. The house was a flurry of activities that day, so many strangers around him. He didn't like it, stopped talking to them. He wanted to see his mother. Wanted to see her smile- that's why he'd brought the dog inside. But everyone seemed concerned or angry or upset with him.
He lived with just his father for three more years. He always asked where Mama was, but his father told him that Mama was sick and wouldn't be back for a while. When she finally did come back, he was sent away to live with his grandparents. His mother and father visited him once a week.
☓☓☓
Now, at fifteen years old, Daemon Agnito was still living with his grandparents. They were nice folk, kind enough to him as they could be. He lived in the suburbs, in a small rancher at the end of the road. School was rough- not many people talked to him. They knew what happened to his mother three years prior and he could hear them whisper behind his back. Daemon was withdrawn now, barely speaking to anyone. If he was out, he always had the Doberman by his side. There was something off with the dog, but no one ever knew why.
He ran a hand through his curly black hair, the locks flopping back into his face. He wasn't a bad looking individual, attractive and fresh-faced. Daemon's eyes were as blue as the sky and his skin was pale. He looked much like an angel, solemn and cut-off from his peers. He was walking home in the afternoon, scuffed up Converse sneakers quiet against the pavement.
It all started when he was young. Temper tantrums would result in broken windows or shattered vases. At first, his parents brushed it off. It was an accident, they'd say. It wasn't possible for a two-year old child to shatter an entire window. They turned to logic and reason, shut off their minds to the "impossible".
The fires started when he was five. He'd been playing in the backyard, throwing a plastic ball around for the dog to catch. His mother was back and forth from the house to the garden, keeping an eye on him while she chatted to an old friend on the phone. She went inside to make lunch, his favorite of grilled cheese and ham. He hadn't initially wanted to set the shed on fire, but when his ball got stuck on the roof, he wanted to get it down. He came to one conclusion: get the shed out of the way. The flames leaped to life, the heat so surprisingly strong that he'd taken a step back. How his mother had screamed when she came back outside.
Things only became worse from then on. He became curious of this ability, with all of his abilities. His parents seemed scared all of the time- was it of him? He never hurt them. He broke things, burned them, made them do what he wanted, but it never hurt anyone. The day that he dropped a knife on his dog broke his mother's heart. She moped around the house after that, refused to look at him or play. He was nine.
He thought that he could remedy the situation. So, he went out back where the dog was buried beneath the large oak tree and dug the Doberman up. The dog had only been dead for a day, so he was not so bad off. He pressed his hands against the animal's chest and the dog burst into flames. But this time, he wasn't burning. Instead, the dog rose, looking more alive than it had two minutes prior. Proud of himself, the boy took the dog back inside to show his mother.
"He's alive!"
His mother's reaction wasn't quite as enthusiastic. She screamed and screamed until the neighbors called the police. He remembered sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around the resurrected dog's neck, watching two strange men try and calm his mother down. She kept screaming about the Devil's Spawn and that he wasn't her son. It confused him.
She was taken away, his father was called home from work, and he was sent to his room with the dog. The house was a flurry of activities that day, so many strangers around him. He didn't like it, stopped talking to them. He wanted to see his mother. Wanted to see her smile- that's why he'd brought the dog inside. But everyone seemed concerned or angry or upset with him.
He lived with just his father for three more years. He always asked where Mama was, but his father told him that Mama was sick and wouldn't be back for a while. When she finally did come back, he was sent away to live with his grandparents. His mother and father visited him once a week.
☓☓☓
Now, at fifteen years old, Daemon Agnito was still living with his grandparents. They were nice folk, kind enough to him as they could be. He lived in the suburbs, in a small rancher at the end of the road. School was rough- not many people talked to him. They knew what happened to his mother three years prior and he could hear them whisper behind his back. Daemon was withdrawn now, barely speaking to anyone. If he was out, he always had the Doberman by his side. There was something off with the dog, but no one ever knew why.
He ran a hand through his curly black hair, the locks flopping back into his face. He wasn't a bad looking individual, attractive and fresh-faced. Daemon's eyes were as blue as the sky and his skin was pale. He looked much like an angel, solemn and cut-off from his peers. He was walking home in the afternoon, scuffed up Converse sneakers quiet against the pavement.
