One Year (DISCONTINUED)

Vern Casey walked out of the expensive luxury flat, box in his arms, bags hanging from his wrists.

Dumping them down he searched for the keys to his car, his little, bashed up, scratched, dented, car.

One of the few things he still owned.

Throwing the boxes and bags into the boot he looked up.

The face of his ex Damien Fenn looked down at him from the first floor window, grinning, raising a glass of champagne, happy that he'd destroyed yet another life, destroyed yet another young man, destroyed someones confidence, again.

With no emotion crossing his face Vern looked away as Damien laughed behind the glass, opened the drivers door and squeezed his ample body into the seat, clicking the seatbelt into place, his slightly squishy belly divided by the tightness.

With not one sound, except that of his even breathing Vern turned the key, the old engine struggling to life as he pressed the accelerator, engaged the clutch, persuaded the gearbox to select first, then crawled the aging motor out of the gated car park.

Home.

He was going home.

Back to his mother, back to his father, back to his childhood bedroom, back to a job at his fathers small printing firm, back to a life he'd once thought he'd escaped.

Damien Fenn watched with twisted satisfaction as the tubby blonde man he'd just destroyed drove slowly away, the old car shuddering as the clutch disengaged and the car groaned into second gear then disappeared up the road.

“Stupid little fat bastard.”

Damien turned with an evil smug look on his rather handsome (shame his personality didn't match) face, his friend Dean Whittaker shooting him a disapproving look.

“You're a bastard Damien, why do you keep doing this.”?

Dean rose from his seat on the leather sofa that had probably cost more than he himself earned in a month, setting down his glass, looking over towards the glass dish smashed on the kitchen floor, the remains of the carefully and lovingly crafted dinner Damiens now ex, had slaved over that afternoon.

The dinner he'd crafted from scratch, the dinner he'd gone out and spent the last of his money on fresh ingredients to make when he'd heard that Damien, his lover, was bringing his friend Dean over for dinner.

Excited by the promise of the ‘important announcement’ Damien wanted to make, and have Dean witness, Vern had thought, hoped, wished, for Damien to ask him to marry him, only to be dumped, without ceremony, casserole in hand fresh from the oven, the minute Damien had walked in the door.

No pretence, no warning, just a hard face, an unforgiving tone and ‘you're dumped, pack your stuff and get out’.

“Because I can Deano, because I can.”

Damien turned with a flourish, raising his champagne glass once again as Dean turned to leave.

“Where are you going?, tonight we celebrate getting rid of another gold digger my friend” Damien laughed as if he had no care in the world.

Dean turned back, his face no longer straight but etched with anger.

“Since when was Vern a gold digger.”?

Dean walked back towards his ‘friend’, the friend he'd known since they were kids.

The friend who had grown up with privilege, got everything he wanted from his all too often absent parents, had been given anything he desired to compensate for their lack of time, presence, and energy throughout his young life.

The friend he used to respect.

Finding that respect though had become harder and harder to do, watching young man after young man get sucked into Damiens rich lifestyle, then spat out after exactly one year.

For one year Damien would play the game, play the devoted boyfriend, shower them with gifts, money, make them leave their jobs, make them dependent on him, then strip them of everything in just a few minutes, reveling in their shock and hurt as their world collapsed around them.

Perverse pleasure was his fuel, power was his tool, the power to make and break anyone he so wished.

Was Damien hurt by someone and exacting revenge on any other young man that came his way?, no, Damien was the one that always did the hurting, for no other reason than that he enjoyed it, he liked it, got off on it.

“What”.?

Damien set down his glass and flopped into the huge plush armchair by the ornate but useless fireplace, built for show in his ridiculously expensive flat in a converted mill in what was once the industrial end of town, but was now filled with spoilt rich kids living off their parents money.

“I said, when did Vern ever take a penny from you”? Dean raised a brow, “yeah, you paid the bills, you bought the food, but when did he ever ask for anything”? Dean raised his voice.

“He asked nothing of you, he did everything around here, he cooked, he cleaned, he cleared up your puke and bathed you when you came home drunk, you clicked your fingers and he lay back for you, even when you forced him he never complained, he took everything you threw at him with such grace Damien, he never took a penny from you, not one.”

Damien frowned as his friends words struck a nerve.

Dean was right, Vern had asked for nothing but his devotion, hadn't even asked for new clothes, a hair cut, yet had always been immaculate, tidy, well dressed, pleased with his lot in life.

Damien had tried to give him money, had even set up an account in his name and filled it with thousands, expecting Vern to shop until he dropped as others had, but Vern hadn't touched it, not a penny.

“He's fat.”

Damien spat the words out, annoyed that his friend had rattled him, looking for a justifiable excuse.

“Fat.”?

Dean raised his voice again.

“Is that it?, your justification?, he's a little tubby, so what?, you're sick Damien, sick in the head” Dean shook his head as Damien simply watched him with mild amusement.

His friend always did this, always got angry at him, every year when this happened, but by the next day it would all blow over.

Something was different this time though, beneath his smug smirk Damien felt something shift between him and his childhood friend.

“Do you know what”? Dean frowned deeply, meeting his amused gaze that dulled instantly as he saw it, that look.

"I'm done with you Damien, I'm done, I've had it.”

Dean grabbed his coat, stooping to pick up the largest pieces of the broken glass dish and set them aside he stepped over the remnants of what looked like an extremely nice dinner now melded with the carpet.

“I'm done Damien, I'm done watching you destroy people, I'm done with the whole, privileged bastard that treats people like shit thing, even when we were kids you did this, pulled in friends then threw them away, I'm surprised you kept me around this long……” he paused, “.....it's over, find yourself another wing man.”

Throwing open the door he stepped through, not looking back as it closed heavily behind him.

“You'll be back.”

Damien looked troubled for a moment then forced a grin at the closed door, reached over and grabbed his phone from the coffee table, scrolled through and selected a number.

“Hey beautiful” he simpered as yet another conquest answered eagerly.

“What's with all the traffic.”?

Dean eased his car out of the gated car park, joining a long line of impatient drivers just wanting to get home at the end of the work day, raising his hand in acknowledgment of the flash of lights from the car to his right, giving him space to slide into position in the queue.

Crawling along, sirens wailed suddenly, the double line of cars parting in frenzied jerky movements as best they could as an ambulance edged through, blues and twos lighting up the semi dark October street.

More sirens, more vehicles, then smoke, acrid, thick, black.

Edging towards the scene Dean frowned.

A small, battered, dented car, embedded in a crash barrier, engulfed in flames, lights, noise, water, shouting, orders being yelled, a body being dragged from the drivers seat, a shock of blonde hair.

Deans world silenced around him as his gaze drifted towards the faded blue vehicle beneath the inferno.

The car, the number plate, ER6….. the rest was blocked by black soot, but he'd seen enough.

“No.”

Dean pulled over as soon as he could, swerving carelessly into a side road, throwing open his door, stumbling through the gridlock.

“No.”

His brown eyes searched.

One glimpse of a blonde curl was all it took, one glimpse and he knew.

Stumbling back to his car in shock, throwing up what little was in his stomach on a traffic island, Dean slumped back into his car, drawing in deep breaths he reached for his phone.

“Hey Deano, knew you wouldn't stay away long, you never do.”

The cocky voice of Damien Fenn greeted him.

“He's dead.”

Dean breathed in and out heavily.

“I hope you're happy now, he's dead.”

“What the fuck are you on about.”?

Damien laughed down the line, sitting in his plush armchair waiting for his next victim to arrive.

“Vern….is…….dead.”

Dean shut the phone off.

“What.”?

Damien dropped his champagne flute, the delicate glass shattering at his feet.

“Dean……. DEAN.”????

The line was dead.

Frantically calling his friend back Damien stood up abruptly, glass crunching underfoot.

‘The number you have called has not been recognised,’ the arrogant female voice announced.

That was the last time Damien Fenn heard from his friend.