Author's Note: When I think back at how innocently I wrote this, I'm forced to scoff, of course my muses would reincarnate the story in a much longer and involved endeavor, nonetheless enjoy.
Disclaimer: For once, I actually own something; Damien and whatever other characters happen to appear in this story belong to me, myself and I (whoever they are).
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"Under a Amethyst Moon"
In a large clearing of the vacant park, with the full moon shining bright in the sky above, one could make out a figure, solitary in his sentry, a tall lanky man who sat quietly on the wooden park bench with his feet resting on the edge of the seat, lower body sitting on the top of the bench. His clothing was plain; nothing that could discern him from a gathered crowd.
Cerulean jeans, and a long sleeved crimson dress shirt covered his lean figure, resting in his lap was a black leather jacket, the cuffs of the piece of clothing worn from overuse. His skin was tan, even though the New York winter had been especially harsh, and the man hadn't seen any warm weather for days now, dark emerald eyes blinked and then refocused on the oddly colored moon above him.
Damien Hamilton ran a hand through his short-cropped black hair and sighed, the exhalation of breath was soft in tone, a sharp contrast to the gravelly deep voice in which he spoke. He�d come here to gain some peace of mind, and found his mind stubbornly refusing to let go of the evening's earlier events.
"It's not like I wanted to kill the guy�" His lips moved, voice ghostly in an almost inaudible whisper.
In his mind's eye, Damien was once again in the dark alley, revolver clutched tightly in near-white fingers, his eyes desperately scanned the black shadows around him hoping for some sign of the woman who�d be abducted in the nightclub. Damien's profession was of a private detective, hired for various jobs and tasks, some meaningless while others held some title of importance.
His latest client, one Seth Lincoln, had given him the task of keeping surveillance of his wife, who he suspected of infidelity, so determined to get this tedious job behind him, Damien had followed Vivian Lincoln's trail, cheap perfume and all, while observing the woman out of the corner of his eye, he�d been startled to see a tall middle aged man grab hold of Vivian and disappear into the alley behind the nightclub.
The man who had committed the transgression was a known murderer and would no doubt do away with Vivian in due time, cursing underneath his breath as Damien heard a scream, he headed the sound's way, perspiration gathering on his forehead. He turned into the street, and felt his eyes go wide as he took note of the puddles of blood littering the public sidewalk of the street.
Feeling his stomach stir, Damien paused for a moment to gather his wits, taking a deep breath, he continued, following the trail of flesh blood, was Carl Feldman wounding her as he went along just for the hell of it? He found his desired person, though she was obviously no longer capable of breath.
Vivian Lincoln had been stripped of most of her clothing, presumably ripped off while struggling and resisting Carl's assault, deep bloody lines ran in a harsh horizontal and vertical pattern down her upper chest, shredding her of sex in gruesome carnage. Her lower body was indecipherable, as it had been roughly cut and torn into pieces that barely resembled a human torso if pieced together correctly, but it was her face- it would forever haunt Damien, as the eyes was half-lidded, and glazed over in pain, he thought he could see in those depths some indescribable horror that was never meant to befall an individual.
The woman's mouth made a perfect little 'o,' and upon closer inspection, Damien could see a large sheet shoved in the cavity. Violently, he ripped the piece of paper away, crumpling the edges as his eyes fell on the blood-written words.
'Catch me if you can.'
He saw red, streaming lines of crimson that wavered before his vision, and filled his consciousness with pure white anger, the animalistic urge demanded domination of his entire body, whether his mind was willing or not.
Barely conscious of his bodily actions, he dashed out of the alleyway and scanned the residential street swiftly, Damien's gaze caught on a figure clothed in a black trench coat, and he raised his gun, targeting on the man's left leg, specifically the thigh area, as if in slow motion, the bullet blasted out of the weapon, storming upon the intended target mercilessly.
The man buckled on the ground, howling in pain as blood streamed out of his wounded thigh in small crimson lines, Damien smiled sadistically as he neared the squirming figure on the ground, wrenching the blood-coated note from his jacket pocket, he pitched it down by the man, who looked up angrily.
Carl Feldman was a broad-shouldered man, the trench coat nearly too small for his tall 6 feet, 4 inches frame, long white hair pulled into a ponytail cascaded down his back, and aged wrinkles littered his weathered face. A set of odd golden eyes glowered at Damien harshly as he made an effort to stand up; the private detective sent a foot into the middle-aged man�s ribs, emptying his chest of air.
�"Caught but about to be sent to hell.�" The words ripped through the air severely, and before Carl could draw in a breath, his body jerked back as a bullet stabbed itself into his forehead.
Damien's chest trembled as he panted, trying to regain some sense of the transgression he'd just completed, his feet, by their own accord, moved backwards, and he fell to his knees a moment later, holding a hand over his mouth, the contents of his stomach mingled with the rain puddle beneath him, and he wiped at his mouth jaggedly.
"Fuck!" The curse word tumbled out of his throat as mind came back to reattach to body. He'd killed a man, in cold blood, and hadn't felt a damn thing while doing it, just a bit of satisfaction and a sated sense of bloodthirstiness. Carl Feldman didn't warrant that punishment, no matter how gruesomely he murdered his victims!
Coming back from the past, Damien reached into his jacket pocket for his ever-present pack of cigarettes, shakily, he held the lit plastic lighter to the cancer stick, and inhaled deeply as the tip began to glow orange. His hands quivered as he made short work of the cigarette, running the past events through his mind and muttering select curse words in any and every language he could remember. English, German, Japanese...
"Merde!�" He spat out, the curse word in French coming out in an unusually coarse tone, after the second cigarette, Damien's mind began to get some resemblance of order, and he went through his day agonizingly, down to the last detail.
His morning had been uneventful, Katherine, the woman he'd met the night before had left prior to dawn, as any one-night-stand should do, breakfast had been a speedy scrambled egg, and two cups of coffee, which he'd drank like a man who'd been stuck in the desert without liquid for days on end.
After consuming the food, Damien had taken the subway to his place of work, a small corner office in a building full of private shops and other businesses, his secretary, a young college student looking for volunteer hours, had greeted him with gusto, as she usually did before telling him what the day's itinerary was.
Two meetings with clients, offering jobs which Damien had immediately turned down, one stake out for drug dealer, and a tail hadn't perked his interest whatsoever, then after dismissing the clients, he'd gone out to lunch, heading downtown to his favorite Chinese restaurant, one order of Pepper Steak, and a large Coke, which he'd consumed in under an hour.
Back at the office, he met Seth Lincoln's acquaintance, which had offered a pretty price for tailing his wife for a small number of days, interest, or greedy nature awoken, Damien had accepted the job, telling Seth he'd get right on it.
He'd started tailing the wife; a woman named Vivian, that evening, and pursued her into a popular nightclub known for its excellent music, and exotic tastes, after three hours of casual observing, she had been abducted; that incident had grabbed him by the throat and led him to murder and a guilt-ridden conscious.
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