Chapter Text
Disclaimer: This story explores raw themes and is told in the first person from the perspective of Damiano, a deeply broken young man. In this tale, we will explore his thoughts, his vices, and his demons. Enter at your own risk.
My name is Damiano. I am thirty-one years old. And I'm a chronic jerk-off.
Like all losers, I was considered a child prodigy. A brilliant mind, from whom everyone expected great things. For the adults, there was only one "minor" problem: I was considered too shy and sensitive.
"He'll grow out of it," they used to say.
Or at least, that's what everyone thought.
The truth is, I just didn't speak. Beneath that mild-mannered surface, the overwhelming sense of discomfort, anxiety, and loneliness I felt every minute of my life definitely didn't show. It was a constant buzzing, a frequency only I could hear. I couldn't even explain to myself why I felt that way. I simply thought I was born wrong.
And I still do.
In middle school, my submissive nature didn't go unnoticed by my classmates. And, needless to say, I was bullied. By boys and girls alike. While the guys were more violent, physical, and direct, the girls' cruelty was more refined, psychological. And in some ways, it hurt even more; it dug deeper. My grades started to suffer. Studying, which used to come naturally to me, had become a burden—just another source of anxiety to add to the pile. To my parents' great disappointment, of course.
I was thirteen—I remember it perfectly, a late September day—when my dad first brought the internet into our house. It was still the era of 56k modems, with that screeching, alien noise that announced your connection to the world.
Back then, the main search engine wasn't Google yet, with its sterile, white screen. There were tons of browsers, each more cluttered and chaotic than the last. I wasn't allowed to surf the web alone; my dad was always there, watching over my shoulder. But no matter how careful he was, he couldn't prevent the unexpected.
As we scrolled through the browser, a thumbnail image of a famous TV showgirl popped up front and center. With one small, yet massive, difference: she was completely naked.
"Check out XXX's new Calendar" the caption read.
The image loaded in jerky, agonizingly slow lines, revealing inch after inch of forbidden skin. My dad was quick to scroll past it, cursing under his breath. But that first, fleeting visual contact was an electric shock that shot up from the base of my spine straight to my brain.
I played it cool; I faked indifference. But from that day on, curiosity hit me like a tidal wave. The downward spiral had just begun.
In the years that followed, I started living a double life.
In the mornings, I was the submissive high school student, dragging myself through most days until the final bell rang. Yet, that apathy alternated with moments of unpredictable, violent outbursts. Once, over one insult too many, I suddenly punched a classmate—a lawyer's kid—knocking out his lip piercing. I can still remember the metallic clink of the jewelry hitting the floor and the blood staining his chin.
I certainly wasn't considered a stable individual.
At night, however, in the dark of my room, the ritual took place: a hand down my pants and that was it. It was the only medicine I knew.
I managed to graduate without being held back, more out of inertia than actual merit. College was a different story. I spent seven years trying to get a three-year bachelor's degree in biology. Then I had a nervous breakdown and dropped out completely.
My dad still rubs all the money he wasted on me in my face. He's right, obviously. But what can I do about it? I'm a failure, a slave to self-pleasure.
Oh, and it goes without saying that all that "indirect" experience did absolutely nothing for me with real women. I've miraculously managed to kiss a couple of them, but I could never maintain a relationship. Let alone sleep with them.
And my relationship with God? Well... I wasn't really mad at Him. I knew I was simply garbage in His eyes. I tried to resist, but I never had any real motivation to stop. After a few days, or at most a few weeks of heroic resistance, the emptiness would return, and I'd go back to jerking off more than before. I made countless attempts, whispered a shitload of prayers in the dark. Then, after yet another failure, I simply accepted the idea that I was a good-for-nothing.
It happened on a morning.
I had just stepped out of the ground-floor apartment where I lived; it was my grandmother's old grocery store, now renovated and converted into a home. I hated going out, hated being around people, but I had to buy something to eat with the few coins I had in my pocket.
I was walking, head down, as usual. I had my earbuds in, blasting at max volume.
Saints in Hell by Judas Priest drowned out any external noise. Rob Halford's voice screaming about saints and flames was the perfect soundtrack for my dark mood.
I crossed the street absentmindedly, isolated in my heavy metal bubble.
I noticed the shadow stretching across the asphalt too late. I turned and saw the grille of the truck barreling toward me at full speed. There was no screeching of brakes, only the roar of the engine blending with the guitars in my ears.
The thing that terrified me, though, wasn't the vehicle itself, but who was driving it.
Through the windshield, I saw the driver: he looked human, but his face was horrifying. There was something wrong, something distorted about him, as if his skin was a mask slipping off, and his eyes were locked onto me with a malice that didn't belong to this world.
He wasn't trying to swerve. He was aiming right at me.
I was hit head-on. I felt my bones give way and the world flip upside down.
That was the day I died.
