"Are you hungry, Damien?" Iris' eyes lingered on me. She looked so soft and fragile, dressed in a light white shirt and short jeans. Red hair, so contrasting, was loosely tied in a small bun on the top, with some locks left down to frame her delicate features. God gave her his best one when he designed her face.
"......"
"Damien?"
"I could use a protein shake right about now."
It's part of the gym's sacred scriptures to drink your bodyweight in the magical drink shortly after leaving the premises. At least, I believe this to be one of their secret wisdoms.
"We don't have proteins... or shakes..."
My younger sister squinted in confusion. She probably had no idea what a protein powder shake even was, a term not heard enough at this house.
"Umh, I can make you a fruit juice, if you like?"
I mentally pressed F for my gains. "Sure. I'll go up for a quick shower in the meantime."
"I'll make it for you!" Ivy immediately said, her face brightening at the thought of being of use to me. Her happiness was so fragile. She looked like she'd explode from joy if I gave her a small peck on the cheek.
She'd probably find a way to frame it, hang it on her wall, and kiss it every night before going to bed. Maybe even write a diary entry about it. 'My brother kissed me on the cheek today! Best day of my life!'
God, I really wondered what was really the bottom line here. Did I ever even kiss someone from my family? No memories. My brain was a clean slate. Maybe it was common, maybe it wasn't common for me, specifically. I figured it wouldn't be wise to test out those budding theories anytime soon.
"Wait, Ivy! Let me do it." Iris lightly grabbed her sister's wrist and shot a discreet glance my way. "Ah, can you please go shower first? I'll bring it to you as soon as it's done."
Ivy squirmed in her older sister's grasp, trying to pry her fingers away in a futile struggle. "No! I should—I should..." Then trailed off when Iris gave the youngest one positively creepy death glare.
"... okay."
I decided to escape up the stairs while their strange conflict played out.
Freya was casually leaning by the stairway, arms crossed as she stared down at me with her luscious wine-colored lips twisting upward slightly. As if silently asking, 'So? How did the workout go, handsome?'
I gave her a benign smile. "Auntie."
"Well hello, Daimy boy."
"Daimy boy."
I didn't know how to feel about that.
"... can't be worse than Dami or Demi, right."
"......"
Right.
I sighed.
"Did you have fun?"
There was no doubt that she must've already overheard some bits of the conversation between the rest.
Willow surely had clued her in on some of the specifics already. Or maybe not, my mother could've waited till dinner time, until everyone would be together to spread out all her worries, I wasn't sure.
"Quite alright." I replied. "Got some good tips and I didn't collapse after the first day. Win."
"Not quite what I'd ask, but fair." She tilted her head. "I've heard you've made a little friend?"
"Ah, that. Yeah, sort of." I decided to play it down. "She said something about chicken wings, I think. If I flail them. Helped me quite a bit with training."
She nodded non-committally. "And that's all she did, right?"
It was getting a little heavy this interrogation thing. Was everyone here so possessive or just the women, or were they collectively trained to behave this way whenever a man's safety was at stake, no matter how tiny it may be, always expecting the worst from outside the safe perimeter?
Should I expect them, at some point, to raid the gym with pitchforks and torches, shouting, "Bring out the men-eater"?
"It was all very appropriate, Aunt Freya." I calmly told her, so there wasn't the faintest of doubt in the air. "I know what you're thinking, and nothing of that sort of happened."
She nodded with a serene expression. "I don't mean to pry into your life, Damien. And for the record, I trust you have some degree of self-preservation instinct, but I'd like to think of myself as an ally who will step in if the situation requires. You may not realize this yet, because you're coming out on your own right now, but you'll soon learn that women can be quite... relentless when it comes to men. Particularly a man like you."
I knew there was a degree of truth in what she said, but the more they tried to contain me inside a cage, the more I'd have to break free.
And Freya, as perceptive as she could be, must've seen that in my eyes.
"No, I understand... I just want a little freedom of choice, is that too much to ask?" I quietly muttered, looking up at her.
"Believe me, Damien. It's all for your safety..." She seemed genuinely compassionate in her tone, which didn't take away from the overall nagging feeling, from everyone, that I wasn't capable enough to think and act by myself, to navigate my environment without an escort at hand. “Forgive us… if sometimes we say or do things you can’t comprehend, but just know that they’re not out of malice.”
Freya wouldn't admit, not directly, that men needed women to babysit them; or at the bare minimum, women who were supposedly 'able' to do it.
That was why I wasn't really enthused about being in this world.
This overprotective atmosphere. While, objectively, it was fair and justified, given the scarcity and rarity of male human beings, I'd prefer to be a normal man who wasn't treated like a test tube child that needs extra security.
At the same time, it was rather presumptuous that they could project all those awful future outcomes onto me as if it was an inevitable fate. Perhaps there was a case of men simply not attempting, but as someone with my... advantage, well, I'd make my own path regardless.
She was staring at my back as I took the stairs up to the second floor and, most likely, then up the next flight of steps up to my bedroom.
...
As usual, I stared at myself in the mirror right after showering.
'Am I becoming a narcissist?'
Probably. Though in fairness, if you woke up one day inside a face like this, you'd stare too. It was less vanity and more appreciation, in a way. But there was a slight dose of self-interested admiration as well.
I toweled off, changed, and headed back to my room. Iris was taking a surprising amount of time down there in the kitchen making that drink. So either she was concocting the finest nutrient-infused liquid refreshment ever brewed or Ivy managed to win the conflict, somehow, and did that part.
It was still bright out, and it was still unreal to me to sit at home. To do nothing, after I had spent so long working overtime, neglecting myself and sleep, and going all over the place without a clear destination.
But, given that it was a good time, I might as well work out some of those lingering curiosity points while they still burned in my mind.
I quietly walked around, revisiting my room to acquaint myself with whatever else I found. I sifted through all the collections of books and magazines. Usually, in movies, a guy around Damien's age would likely hide a porno somewhere underneath the mattress or other similarly pathetic attempts, but nope.
I doubted this kid was the type to jerk it to regular women's pictures, anyway. I doubted he'd even jerk at all.
Still, I managed to find more music books. Scattered music sheets, handwritten lyrics and annotations. I took one to read it as I settled on the bed. A neat handwriting. Some of the lyrics were complete, some not. A lot of crossed-out lines. A lot of question marks at the end of phrases.
I flipped through slowly, tilting my head at times, frowning slightly at others, humming quietly to try to identify the missing beats to better comprehend what Damien was going for.
I saw nothing that revealed to me what his muse was. Or who his inspiration came from.
Could've been anyone, really.
It didn't look as if it was supposed to be an application anywhere or an attempt at composing an audition piece or for an award competition, to me. A scribble of words, incomplete and perhaps not even really committed to, random stuff jotted down. A practice, some experimentation?
Was this a hobby? A genuine attempt at forming a musical career of any sort?
You'd think his music would be along the lines of heartbreak, maybe a love song, a dedicated piece for a girlfriend, a sweet voice pleading for the relationship's continuation or salvation, at least. That was probably what I expected. At least, that was what trended.
However, his lyrics had nothing to do with love or women. If anything, his theme was somewhat edgy, confrontational, a challenge, and there were things in there I couldn't decipher at all, metaphorical and in symbolisms. I had to do a little search here and there, in order to get at least an idea of what his references could be.
The overall vibes I picked up were strangely rebellious. Not angry per-say. Not very bitter either, as you might expect from a guy potentially dealing with depression and social issues.
This could just as likely be a journey to self-awareness.
While I could agree that it was well-written and thoughtful, at the same time it wasn't what I'd go for. Still, I neatly placed the notebooks aside; I wouldn't throw them away, in respect for OG Damien.
I picked up the guitar, held it there idly, plucked at the strings gently, and tried to see if anything would come out of this experiment.
The more I played it, the more I became used to it.
'What now?'
The notes were flowing through, effortlessly. Sometimes, I stuttered a little, not knowing which direction to take.
'And isn't this the part where, technically, I'm supposed to sing?'
It's funny to consider, but it was always such a hard thing. I couldn't force myself to do it, as it was a mental barrier that was extremely tough to break. There'd been some notable, rare exceptions that could also be due to drunkenness, but this sober and clear-minded...
I opened my mouth, trying to at least make some noise that would go well with my plucking and chording. An open-mouthed humming. I controlled my vocal cords, pushing them out softly. I wouldn't scream my lungs out here, or sing for attention or loud for everyone downstairs to hear.
A very faint, hesitant hum started. I slowly, slowly tested my capabilities.
Eyes closed. My fingers moved naturally, or more accurately, as I recalled a certain combination of rhythms I liked. Something I had listened to countless of times as my own past obsession.
I couldn't possibly replicate the exact sounds and patterns in the heat of the moment, but I tried.
A hesitant humming slowly got louder, so smooth and clear. What was my vocal range? How deep was I comfortable taking it to?
This wasn't necessarily meant to be a performance piece. However, I wasn't at all inclined to slacken any quality of my output or control it through mere emotionless calculation. It was always better with feeling and sensation, which in this case meant a bit of unpracticed improvisation, of letting myself be guided and be surprised.
My eyes were half open as I watched my fingers deftly switch through the notes and strumming sequences. I wondered in amazement, even though my new body could probably, objectively, be more dexterous than my old one, it still felt out of the world for someone who hadn't properly touched an instrument, ever.
I closed my eyes, letting the melody flood me.
I tried to vocalize without the awkwardness in my voice. Tried to make this sound natural, without any signs that I was struggling with each syllable or tone and note, and was so dissatisfied that there weren't any lyrics written for this song.
My voice, even in its controlled volume, went low and high, and each time I found myself slightly mesmerized by the sheer quality I was able to produce.
Could it be that OG Damien, whoever he was in his former life, had been a real vocalist prodigy?
I couldn't expertly tell what level I was at, and I'd need a third party opinion to compare with, but just with this, it made me want to see what I was fully capable of doing here.
Just as I was about to actually try out some lyrics...
A soft knocking echoed out.
"Damien? I've brought your juice!"
Iris spoke loudly from behind the door.