Do I want to die?

The question had never crossed Damien's mind before. He had no desire to die. He had never been capable of feeling that way. He had made dumb mistakes, bad miscalculations, and poor decisions before, but never with the intent, even subconsciously, to end his own life. Even with all of the people he killed, he never even considered it. His inherent desire, inherent need, to kill people wasn't rooted in self-hate or self-harm. Killing people simply made him feel more alive. He always felt that way.

But the way he was feeling now, it felt like dangerous territory. It started with deciding not to murder someone. Then kissing him soon after threatening him. Then spending many nights making him come endlessly. Then telling him his deepest and darkest secrets. Then holding him and asking him not to leave. Were these not suicidal feelings? Was this not a death wish? What could it possibly mean, to willingly let himself be destroyed by his own actions and not fucking care about it?

***

The past few weeks were fucking unbearable.

Mornings were particularly egregious, with Damien waking up almost every morning to the frustrated sighs and steps of Luke pacing around the bedroom.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" Damien sometimes asked.

"Uh, no," Luke usually answered. "But I did some cleaning."

Damien would then glare disapprovingly at whatever Luke tried to clean. Sometimes it was the floors, sometimes it was the dishes, sometimes it was the laundry. Damien especially hated it when Luke tried to fold the clothes because he didn't like how Luke folded them. But, Damien could easily fix it later, and also, it didn't fucking matter. What mattered was that Luke was constantly waking up Damien far too early in the morning with his maniacal pacing.

You should kill him.

No, no, Damien wasn't going to kill him over something as dumb as that. He never killed anyone for dumb reasons. But maybe Luke could be the exception. Maybe he could grab the shitty lamp on their makeshift nightstand and slam it against Luke's head and watch the blood seep out of his cracked skull and stain the floor Luke desperately tried to clean a few nights ago. But no, Damien wasn't going to do that. He probably just needed coffee.

***

Breakfasts weren't nearly as irritating, but they were still unnecessarily chaotic.

Nearly every breakfast involved Damien making the coffee and food while Luke lingered impatiently by the table. Damien roughly had a minute to beat the coffee machine, a minute to toast some bread and fry some eggs and pile them on a plate and shove them at Luke before he could walk away with his heavily sweetened and highly caffeinated coffee.

"Eat some food," Damien sometimes demanded.

Luke usually didn't reply, but sometimes he nodded and took a bite out of the toast.

Sometimes Damien would watch him eat breakfast. Something about the pathetic way Luke hunched over his mug and picked at his food made him feel guilty. Maybe because it reminded him of the way Luke clutched onto him and sobbed until he couldn't breathe any more. Maybe because it reminded him of the way Luke pushed himself away and pretended that his life wasn't ruined by Damien. It almost made Damien feel sick. It almost made Damien grab the closest knife. But Damien would disregard those feelings and return to what he was doing. He didn't want to ruin the most important meal of the day.

***

Afternoons offered some respite, depending on the day of the week. On the days he worked, he focused on work. On the days he was at home, he focused on chores. Either way, he tried to not focus too much on Luke and Helen's daily walks. He wasn't necessarily opposed to these walks—they were the easiest way for Luke to expend his nervous energy—but he was very much opposed to Helen interacting with Luke.

Sometimes after their walks, they would return to the apartment, laughing and giggling about some dumb joke. Then Helen would head back to her bedroom to get ready for work and Luke would stand awkwardly in the living room as if he had something to say to Damien.

"Do you need something?" Damien would usually ask.

"Oh, uh, no," Luke would mutter back.

Sometimes the conversation would end there. But most times, Luke would continue the conversation by asking if Damien needed help. Damien rarely needed help, but he knew that Luke needed to do something. So with an exasperated sigh, Damien would give Luke a simple task, like getting gas for the car or picking up some groceries, just to give Luke something to do. And with an awkward grin, Luke would leave the house with a renewed sense of purpose.

These afternoon conversations often ended with Damien wondering how different things would be if he had killed Luke. He wouldn't have to worry about him. He wouldn't have to worry about murdering people. He wouldn't have to fucking worry about Helen anymore. He would be living a simpler life. But simpler didn't necessarily mean better. And it was that thought that would pull Damien's focus back to his work. He still had a long day ahead of him.

***

Evenings felt deceiving. It seemed like everything would start to settle down. It even seemed like Luke would start to settle down. After spending all night and day pacing and sulking around, Luke would usually start the evening with a long, hot shower. It irritated Damien because their water bill wasn't getting any cheaper. But maybe it was worth it, if it meant that Luke would walk out looking somewhat at ease.

When Damien occasionally caught a glimpse of Luke post-shower, he would always notice the rawness of his skin. So pink and raw, a gentle nudge of a fingernail could pierce his skin and draw blood. And then he would always recall the last time he touched Luke, the last time he made him bleed. The memory of it made Damien's hands twitch. Maybe all he needed to do was touch Luke, to brush his hand across his warm skin, run his fingers through his wet hair. But he was never sure if touching Luke would relieve the desire or intensify it.

Sometimes Luke would look at Damien and smirk, as if he knew exactly what was running through his mind. "What?" he would ask.

And then Damien would look away and shake his head. God, he wanted to touch Luke one more time, even if it hurt him, even if it killed him. And then Damien would get up and move to a different room. He needed to settle down his own thoughts.

***

Dinners felt like a fever dream. Luke had established a horrible new tradition—family dinner—and picked up a terrible new hobby—cooking. The dinners always felt bizarre and the cooking never improved, but this was the only time Luke was distracted enough from his own thoughts. Between reading and re-reading the recipe on his phone and digging through cabinets and drawers and scouring the fridge and pantry for ingredients and setting up timers and turning on kitchen appliances, he simply didn't have the time to dwell on any other thought.

Once dinner was ready, Luke would drag Damien and Helen to the kitchen table to try his latest attempt at cooking. Sometimes Damien could only focus on the confusing aroma of spices in the air or the variety of crumbs covering the floor or the questionable stains splattered on the walls. But eventually, his focus would shift back to the concoction sitting on the plate in front of him. After a lot of hesitation and reluctance, Damien and Helen would finally try the food. And this was always followed by a scathing remark from Damien, a dumb joke from Helen, a self-deprecating comment from Luke, and several seconds of forced laughter. And then this would repeat throughout the rest of dinner. By the end of it, Luke would have a small, satisfactory grin on his face and Damien would have a bad aftertaste lingering in his mouth. It never seemed worth it, but maybe this was what Luke needed. Maybe, for once, Luke needed Damien to be the victim of his madness.

***

Nights were depressing, to say the least. Whatever Luke had tried to suppress or ignore or forget would come crashing down the moment he fell onto the bed. Sometimes it involved constant tossing and turning in bed. Sometimes it involved an endless stifling of tears. Sometimes it involved jumping out of bed and pacing around the room for several hours. Whatever it was he did, it always disturbed Damien's sleep at some point in the night. And it happened every fucking night.

And then one night, after a long series of sleepless nights, Luke start mumbling to himself, "What are we gonna do? What are we gonna do?"

"I don't know," Damien replied, glaring at the ceiling. "What are we gonna do?".

Luke jolted at the sound of Damien's voice and turned away from him.

"Are you gonna get any sleep tonight?" Damien asked.

"What do you think?"

Damien stayed silent for several moments before asking, "What do you want to do?"

Luke also stayed silent for several moments before answering. "I want to . . . go back to school. I want to learn how to cook. I want to have friends. I want to be normal."

"That's all you want?"

Luke sighed. "I also want to stop caring and accept who you are."

"Why do you want that?"

Luke finally turned around to face Damien. "Isn't that what you want? For me to accept, even encourage, your behavior?"

Damien sighed out heavily, already hating his answer. "I want things to be better for you, but . . . I don't want things to change for me."

Luke placed his hand on Damien's cheek. "What are we gonna do?" he asked again, his voice coarse and shaky and desperate. It bothered Damien more than it should've.

Damien held onto Luke's hand and held his gaze. "We can move to another city. We can start over. We can try again."

"How?" His voice was quieter, maybe even more desperate. It continued to bother Damien more than it should've.

"I don't know, we get 9-to-5 jobs and buy a house and raise a family and start a 401k. What the fuck else do you want?"

Damien watched Luke's face, waiting for a reaction that would never come. Luke simply stared at him, his eyes blank, his expression defeated.

Then Damien frowned and moved Luke's hand away from his face. "We're not gonna do anything. We're gonna fuck each other over until there's nothing left."

After a tense moment of silence, Damien turned away from Luke and forced himself to fall asleep. For once, he was able to fall asleep without interruption.

***

The past few weeks were fucking unbearable, but they were also enlightening. With each day that passed in those few weeks, it became increasingly clear to Damien that the best solution to his problems was the one he hated the most: Run away.

Damien had never felt less enthused about running away. The amount of times, places, people he had run away from was almost exhausting to count. From family, strangers, cops, criminals, the list was ongoing. And the newest addition to this list was going to be Luke.

But Luke wasn't just another item on the list. He was an unexpected variable that severely complicated Damien's plans. Every time he tried to figure out one aspect of his plan—when to go, where to go, how to go—his mind always reverted back to Luke—how to deal with Luke, how to tell Luke, how to leave Luke.

After days of brainstorming, he still couldn't come up with a decent plan. But he was able to come up with a decent way to tell Luke. He was going to, at the very least, write him a note. A long note, probably. He had a lot to say to Luke, but he didn't have the time to say it to his face. Or maybe he didn't have the courage. Whatever the reason, he was at least going to write a note for Luke.

But then what? How could he write a run away note if he didn't know how he was gonna fucking run away? How could he do anything if he was just gonna question every fucking thing he could possibly do?

And then he finally, finally reminded himself of the rules: Be thorough, be patient, don't be picky, don't get comfy.

He repeated these rules in his head, constantly, endlessly, obsessively, until they drowned out the questions, the doubts, the worries. He repeated and repeated and repeated these rules until there was only one thought in his mind: Run away.

***

It was his last day in the shitty apartment. Luke had gone shopping for the next few hours. Helen had gone to work for the rest of the day. He had the perfect amount of time to clean, pack, and leave. Or he thought he did.

Several minutes after he started packing, he heard the front door creaking open followed by Helen's obnoxious boots stomping down the hallway. He briefly considered throwing his bag into the closet and hiding any evidence of him leaving, but he realized that it didn't matter anymore. He was going to leave no matter what.

Be fucking thorough.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Minding my own business."

"It looks like you're packing."

"It looks like none of your business."

He sighed when she scoffed. And then he started throwing items into his bag when she started stepping further into the room.

Be fucking patient.

"Are we going somewhere? Or are you and Luke going somewhere? A road trip? A romantic getaway? A little honeymoon?"

She punctuated every question with a step closer and closer to him until she was practically breathing in his ear.

"Where are you going?!" she demanded.

"What did I say about minding your business?" he snapped.

Damien sent her a harsh glare before yanking his bag closed and tossing it over his shoulder. He moved towards the door but paused when Helen leaped back and stretched out her limbs until she was completely blocking the doorway. He rolled his eyes and then shoved her aside and headed to the bathroom.

Don't be fucking picky.

"Why are you leaving us?" she asked.

"Because I want to."

"You should at least take me with you."

"Why the fuck would I take you with me?"

"Because we're a good team."

"You're the reason why we ended up in this shit."

She paused. He could practically hear the gears turning in her head but he focused on grabbing his things from under the sink instead.

"Okay, fair enough," she replied. "I think you should stay though."

"I don't give a shit about what you think."

Damien finally grabbed his last bag of things, but before he could stand up and walk out, Helen rushed into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

Don't get fucking comfortable.

"What does Luke think about this?"

"I don't know."

"He doesn't know that you're leaving?"

She gaped at him with a look of shock that seemed disingenous, almost mocking.

"You can't leave him now!" she exclaimed. "He's been doing so much better!"

He frowned at her, thinking of Luke's constant sighs and tears and pacing.

"Better?" he sneered. "That's fucking bullshit."

"How would you know? You don't even talk to him."

"I just know."

She glanced around the room, as if looking for a reason to convince him to stay, but he had already decided that he was going to leave.

"Do you know what's gonna happen when you leave?" she asked.

"I leave, you move on."

"No. You know Luke won't be able to move on."

"He won't have a choice."

She then stared at him with a challenging frown. He stared back with a glowering one.

"You'll ruin him," she said.

"I've already ruined him."

"So you're just gonna leave him?"

"He can't get hurt if I'm gone."

She smirked. "And you think I won't hurt him, Dam?"

Fuck this.

Damien grabbed Helen's neck and yanked her onto the floor. A shocked expression crossed her face as she reached for his arms, but she couldn't move quick enough. He considered holding her like this, until her face turned purple, until her eyes rolled back, until her mouth went silent, but that would've taken too long. With one hand still gripping her throat, he used his other hand to grab the top of her head and slam it against the linoleum floor. A pathetic burst of air escaped from her mouth, but she couldn't scream anymore. He watched her with a small grin as she clawed at his arms and dug her fingernails into his skin because it already was already too late for her.

Again, he clenched the top of her head and slammed it against the floor. Her eyes instantly lost focus and her grip completely loosened. Again, he slammed her head against the floor and a loud CRACK filled the air. Again, he slammed her head, and again, and again, until cracking turned into squelching, until beige flooring turned red. He stared at the mess he made for a few seconds, his hands still gripped around her head, before finally pulling his hands back and stepping away from Helen's body.

His mind circled back to the same obnoxious questions he had been asking himself recently. And then his mind returned to one specific question he had never really considered before, but already kind of knew the answer to.

Do I want to live?