Chapter Text
It wasn't even a particularly weird antique store. No weird owner talking about how the wares came with a price, no sudden appearance, no feeling of being watched when you stepped inside on a whim.
Well except for one thing. One thing in that dusty old store made you feel watched: A ventriloquist's dummy, a puppet, with a backwards hat, a gold tooth, and a snazzy little bowtie. He looked like he was made for you. His shirt read ‘Cal’, which you correctly assumed was his name, and his eyes- you made the mistake of looking into his eyes.
You saw… you saw...
An eternal, burning stage, an infinite cast all speaking at once, their strings rising up past the blinding lights. You didn't look at any of them. You were one of them, and you looked past them, to someone sitting, watching. Dark green like rot and decay, he noticed you.The puppet is- was the fourth wall. You didn't realize there were consequences for locking eyes with the audience. Your strings snapped somewhere high above you, and fell directly into that waiting hand in the seats.
You paid for Cal, and when he walked you out of the store, you were not yourself. You doubted you ever really would be.
Your days became whirlwinds of stumbling through the same, tired routines again, and again. You don’t know why or for what purpose, but what little you make out through the cacophonous laughter that fills your mind is that he has a plan, and you are going to help with that.
So you worked, you exercised, you ate and slept and silently screamed in your own unmoving body as the days passed you by. You were never a social butterfly, but what few relationships you had withered in a month when you stopped engaging. Almost no one bothered to check in. Probably for their best.
Because someone did.
She was an old friend from uni, she texted to see how you’ve been one day, half a year after you lost yourself, and… Cal let you respond. You didn’t get to say anything about him, but the smallest bit of autonomy was so intoxicating that you dropped your guard, enjoying the few hours a week where you got to feel your fingers move across the keyboard of your own volition again.
You should’ve known better. You remembered that she had a thing for you, nothing major, and you didn’t feel the same. She wasn’t your type. Cal didn’t care. When she offered to meet up in person, he made you say yes. It was a date. No one noticed anything wrong with you, least of all her, no matter how much you screeched in your head. Just a boy and a girl at a cafe. Could he make it any more obvious?
She only needs to be strung along for a few weeks before you wind up in bed together, and by then, you already know why you’re there.
It hurts for her, it hurts for you, no one ends up happy it happened. Except Cal. You convince her to keep it, because you don't want to have to do it again. You make her stop drinking, because you don't know what that might do to the baby. Your relationship dies, because she's right to kill it, and she doesn't deserve to deal with either of you.
By the time it’s over she’s gone, the shattered glass from her thrown bottles still on the floor and the echoes of her hatred still reverberating through the halls. And you’re left sitting on the couch, holding the baby.
He's got a fuzz of pale blond hair on his head, and he's disconcertingly quiet for a newborn. She named him Dave, and you aren't sure if she understood the biblical implications of what had happened, or if she just couldn't be bothered to come up with something unique. He's swaddled in your arms, and when he finally opens his eyes, they are bright, burning red.
The Antichrist has been born. He's your son. You already know you're not going to be allowed to raise him right.
Dave’s flashstepping around like you at the age of three. Objects burn to ash when he’s upset by four. He starts talking to the crows outside the apartment when he's five. It's silent, but it's talking. He stares at them out of an open window, and they'll fly to rest in his palm or on his head, and the windowsill is always covered in little trinkets: small toys Cal doesn't let you buy him, silver jewelry that helps you cover expenses. That sort of thing.
It's good that he gets to be a kid like that at least, he might as well have no parents at all with how much you're allowed to interact. Other than sitting him in front of the TV to learn to read and speak, you're a shadow with a plush face on your shoulder who stares at him from the hallway when he wakes up, or from the door when you come home from a gig.
He's scared of you. You can tell even though he knows better than to show it. You wonder if a shit upbringing is required to bring about the end times. Or if that's even what the kid’s for. Either way, he's nervous just being near you. Even when Cal lets up, allows you to be around him, to talk or eat or watch TV whatever it is as long as you don't touch. Dave still fidgets imperceptibly, he stutters, dust in the air burns filling the room with the smell of brimstone… he's never burned you, even though he'd be right to.
He's too kind for this, for his nature.
Poor little Dave.
It's his seventh birthday when Cal is unusually, uncomfortably clear with you. This is the last day you'll ever get as yourself. Dave is going to be learning the blade from your body from now on. Whatever kindness you've given him, whatever you give him now, will turn to misery in his brain once you make him draw blood.
Figures it would be something like that.
You still try. You gift him your old mixer, a new set of drawing paper, and a little trilobite you managed to nab. You get him a cupcake, a fresh jug of his favorite apple juice, and let him pick what you watch until it's night.
You lead him onto the roof to stare at the sky in silence, waiting for the day to tick over into the next. You let your legs dangle over the edge and pretend you don't notice Dave fidgeting closer, and closer, until your knees are mere inches apart.
It's quiet. So quiet. Even with the cars honking below and the birds that love to flock around your apartment, as you stare up at the cosmos you feel your ears ring until you hear nothing but silence.
They're pretty, the stars. You're going to miss seeing them. You're going to miss a lot of things.
One of them streaks across the sky, brilliant and shining gold, and you take a risk: you nudge Dave's leg with yours. He flinches at the touch, and your body feels warm where it connects.
“Make a wish kid, it's your birthday after all.” You grunt at him.
“Why?” Dave asks slowly, like you're trying to trick him.
“Shooting stars are for wishing. Everyone knows that.” You snort. “You're supposed to do one when you blow out your birthday candle, but I couldn't get one. Just don't do it outloud, if your wish isn't a secret it won't come true.”
Dave looks away, watching the star as it trails through the sky. He closes his eyes behind his own pair of shades, and brings his small hands up, clasped in front of his chest. He's wishing, praying maybe.
To who? Who would answer him? You lazily trail your sightline behind the trail of the comet, and you feel when midnight hits, your body slumping over and your eyes locking just as you see the star falling… falling… it almost looks… like it hits the park…
And then you're gone.