in the flesh, eddie brock

𝐈𝐕. 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

 

CHAPTER FOUR:
A SOUL THAT NEEDS SAVING

━━★━━

Damon wakes the next day with a pain in his neck and a blanket draped over him, much to his confusion. He faintly remembers speaking to Jane, hearing her voice drown out, and everything after that feels like a blur. In a haze, he pushes himself off the couch and finds his frayed duffel bag next to the front door of the dingy suite, a note attached to its fore.

He tries to ignore the ache in his neck as he bends down and snatches the torn piece of paper, reading its contents in an uninterested voice: "Probably won't be back till later tonight. Don't call this number unless it's an emergency, and don't wait up." He sighs and shakes his head. "Great."

Crumbling the note in his hand, he grabs his duffel bag in the other and makes his way to the only other empty room in the suite, save for Jane's, and drops it on the bed. Cobwebs adorn the sides of his furniture and he scrunches his nose up in distaste, quickly reminding himself that it's better than nothing.

He zips open the bag to reveal the sad quantity of clothes in it: a handful of shirts, majority torn, and two pairs of jeans. He makes himself a mental reminder to go shopping—but first, to find himself a good enough job to fund his shopping—and doesn't bother looking any longer after he pulls out a random V-neck.

Not bothering to close the door, as no one is going to enter the house any time soon, he peels off his grimy white shirt and groans at the soreness of both his neck and shoulders. Either he's had a bad night's sleep or this is a physical reminder from his body never to sleep on the couch again. Whichever one it is, Damon knows for a fact that he doesn't have to worry about the latter anymore.

A mirror conveniently set in front of him, on the sliding doors of the closet, comes into view and he can't help but frown at the sight of himself.

His ribs are barely visible but can be felt when he brings his hand to his diaphragm, the hollowness between his bones holding a stark contrast to his towering height. He has little to no fat on him, and forget muscles. He's as strong as a twig in the middle of a hurricane—even that's saying too much in his favor, 'cause at least a twig would hold on for a second or two.

Then his eyes trail to the middle of his chest and his frown deepens. A constant reminder of his cursed birth, a pentagram-shaped birthmark welcomes him. He can feel his heart from below it when he puts his hand over it, and he almost laughs at the irony of a barely beating heart being found under the image of Hell. A part of him believes it was burned into his skin as a sort of brand like he's an animal waiting to be slaughtered, but the rational part of him tells him not to think of his ill-fated birthmark this way.

He clears his throat to rid himself of these thoughts, throws the gray V-neck on at last, and walks out of the room. He decides in tawdry fashion that he will soon either cover his mirror or change with his back to it from now on.

There's nothing in the kitchen besides a couple apples and a packet of oatmeal, he also mentally notes. He takes an apple, gives it a quick wash, and takes a bite out of it to soothe his empty stomach. With a phantasmic smile, he manages to lift his spirits by reminding himself that pretty soon his stomach will no longer be a thin veil hindering him from being truly healthy.

            Glancing off to the side, he notices a single key in a bowl next to the front door and walks over to it, examining it closely.

It's silver, as a standard key should be, and he furrows his brows when he sees his initials expertly carved into it: D.H., clear as day. He then chooses to think nothing of it, supposing Jane got it made sometime after he fell asleep, and gently holds it in his hand before leaving the apartment.

He passes the same little girl that gave him this now-imprinted key, her now found with her mother, and gives her a small wave as he strolls by. She offers him a toothy grin and he feels a weight being lifted off his chest for some reason, as if her presence is the antidote to the troubles in his heart.

Seeing a happy kid in person will do that to you, he thinks to himself, considering he doesn't remember a single time he smiled at her age.

He doesn't remember exactly how long he's been walking for—it's been around six minutes, give or take—but he stops in front of a church. It glares at him with angry eyes and he stares right back at them, mosaic murals of the Virgin Mary burning his brain.

Damon has never been the religious type, he admits. He's never thought of Buddha or Allah or Jesus in any significant light, and he's not going to start now. The thought of religion muddles in his mind as a jumble of notions that lead to divide and war—he supposes most of this is drastically wrong—and he doesn't see himself praying to anything anytime soon.

Still, for some odd reason, he feels himself drawn to the church.

It's a curious premonition he sees before him in that moment: a man with a pentagram for a birthmark, the mark of the Devil himself, finds himself standing on the steps of a church a day after he enters San Francisco. He never would've thought this city, of all cities, would have a church so close to an apartment like the one he was in, but he supposes it all adds onto its charm.

A man wearing the colors of a priest steps out of the door just then and offers him a wrinkled smile, calling out, "Well, son, are you going to come in? Or are you just going to stand there?"

Damon takes a deep breath, doesn't give him a straight answer, and walks the other way.