Nowhere is Final: Damien (2021)

Chapter 7

Damien's fingers fumbled on the bathroom doorknob. He finally slid the lock into place and let himself sink onto the freezing tiled floor. This was it. She'd come knocking in a moment and tell him he had to go. That he was a freak and a liar and that this wasn't happening anymore. He was hollow inside.

He found himself scrunching up against the door smothered in ancient white paint, his spine pressed against it and his knee stabbing through with pain. But at least it was something to feel. His sister was dead, his life tumbling around him, and the icy chill of the bathroom tiles permeated through him. As it should.

What the fuck was he going to do? Moving back in with his parents aside, what was he going to do without Robyn? Without her bright laugh, her small, amused smile, her unending patience with him – she was the bright light in his darkness, the face he wanted to see at the end of the day, and now she was going to go. Hot tears leaked onto his cheeks, and he reached up to wipe them away with numb fingers.

A gentle knock tapped at the door. "Damien?" Robyn's soft voice trembled through. He leant his head back against the door, savouring it for just another moment. "Are you okay?"

The tears were getting ugly. He could feel them streaming down his nose, making him sniff, and his breaths were wobbling. He could hear her hand on the doorknob, twisting at it. "Damien? Damien, did you get hurt? D'you need help?" She must've thought he'd fallen or something.

He forced a deep breath, praying that his voice could stay steady long enough to speak. "N-no." It did tremble, and he cleared his throat. "No, I'm okay." That was a bit better.

He could hear her sigh of relief, muffled a little by the wood. "Thank goodness." A short silence, while she shifted her weight on the creaky floorboards. "What was that? Some kind of earthquake?"

So she hadn't realised. Of course she hadn't realised. Whose first thought was that they were living with Jean Grey? He wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand and forced another deep breath down into his chest. He could lie, but it felt like the game was already up. And she deserved so much better than this. "No."

Another short pause. "No?" Her voice had slid up half an octave in surprise. "What – what d'you think it was, then?" The doorknob rattled again. "Are you sure you're okay? Can you let me in?"

This was it. The words were caught in his throat, but he needed to spit them out. This woman had been his sun, his refuge, but she was right. She deserved honesty. Even if it killed him. "No. It was me. I – I did it."

He could almost hear the gears turning in her mind. It must have sounded so outlandish – no, who was he kidding, it was outlandish. If he'd told his mam then she'd have already have been on the phone to the doctors, wanting to know what pills would make it stop. But it couldn't have been a figment of his imagination, not now Robyn had seen it.

"You...did it?" While he waited for her to catch up, he tried to stretch his leg out. A stabbing pain lanced through his kneecap. It sent more tears dribbling down his cheeks, and again he wiped them away. There was a pretty good chance he'd screwed it for the next couple of days, at least. And what was his physio going to say? The mundane train of thought was at least something to distract him, and he clung to it, thinking through what he might have done.

Robyn's voice came from the other side of the door again, a little unsure. "Damien, I – I think you need to explain. Can you open the door for me?" She was rattling the doorknob once more. He glanced up at it and dragged a deep breath through gritted teeth. He'd have to get up.

"Give me a sec," he muttered, starting to shuffle over the icy tiles to the toilet. He'd fallen more than once in his first few weeks living with Robyn, so he knew what to do when he reached up for the bowl of the porcelain sink with one hand, the other resting on the toilet seat lid. With one great heave, he got his good leg under him, and then he was landing on the loo seat lid, arms aching. He let himself take a couple of moments to breathe, to feel the ache in his biceps and fingers, and then he shoved himself to his feet. Well, foot. His good leg had to take all his weight as he weakly hopped to the door, one hand on the cracked tile wall, and started to fumble with the lock.