Night.
Damon felt at peace. The night air was cool on his bare skin. He sat on the balcony of his mansion, his chair tilted precariously back, his world in perfect, silent order.
His gaze rested on the large, human-sized cage in front of him. It was a new acquisition, and he was quite pleased with it. The man inside was a dull, uninteresting thing. Stripped naked, his mouth knitted shut, his limbs bloodied, he had given up. He just sat there, staring at the floor of the cage.
Damon found the whole situation deeply, profoundly entertaining.
"That was entertaining, wasn't it?" he said to the night. He wasn't speaking to the man. The man was no longer part of the conversation; he was the _subject_ of it.
The man didn't look up, and this small act of defiance, this last shred of dignity, began to annoy Damon. The silence was fine, but the _disrespect_ was not.
Damon smiled, letting the chair tip forward onto all four legs. He raised his voice, just enough. "Look at me..." He waited. The man didn't move. "...Pest."
The word felt good. It was so small, so insignificant. A thing you crushed without thought.
Damon burst out laughing, a full, genuine laugh that echoed in the dark. He flopped forward and then backward in his chair, overcome with the hilarity of it. This creature, who had thought himself important, was now a _pest_ in a cage.
"How was my insult, mom?"
He leaned back, looking over his shoulder. She was there. She was always there when he needed her.
His mother stood right behind him, her form a familiar, comforting distortion in the darkness. Her shape shifted slightly, like a heat haze, but her presence was solid, a warm, approving blanket. She was his audience, the only one who ever mattered, the only one who truly _understood_ the work he did.
She nodded, her distorted face expressing approval.
Damon felt a swell of pride. He turned back to the cage, pointing a finger at the broken man, showing off for her. _See, mom? See what I've done? See how strong I am?_
"Look at him, mom," he said, his voice rising with a sick, enthusiastic depravity. "So pathetic. He can't even show his face to you."
The caged man flinched at his voice but still didn't look up.
Damon looked back at his mother as the shifting figure knelt behind him, a conspirator in the dark. Her face was level with his. He leaned into her presence, waiting for her judgment, his smile frozen in anticipation. She pointed a wavering finger at the caged man.
"He..." she said.
A pause. Damon waited, giddy.
"Has a small cock."
The crudeness of it, the absolute, simple, reductive _perfection_ of the insult, sent Damon into fresh peals of laughter. It was exactly their humor. It was a joke just for them. He looked from his mother's laughing, shifting face to the man in the cage and back again, tears of mirth in his eyes.
He forced his own laughter to quiet, just so he could listen to hers. It was a shrill, distorted sound that seemed to come from all around him, the sound of pure validation. He looked at her, basking in her approval, his heart swelling with a feeling so pure, so _real_ to him, it was almost painful. This was love. This was his truth. This bond, forged in a shared, gleeful cruelty, was the only real love he had ever known.
"I love you, mom," he whispered, his voice brimming with a childlike sincerity that was utterly terrifying.
His mother's laugh got louder, a triumphant, shrieking sound that filled his head, drowning out the man's silent suffering and the entire world beyond the balcony.