Chapter Text
On the cold, early morning of October 31, 1902, Alastor Louis Bechard is born to Mr. and Mrs. Marius and Genevieve Bechard of New Orleans, Louisiana, taking his first breath as those around him die from the last waves of Yellow Fever.
Surrounded by death, the nurse clocks his time of birth at 3:33 a.m., as unfortunate of a time as the day itself that he was born, and records it for his birth records before continuing his examination. His birth is nothing of special note, and though he only weighs in at a feeble 5 pounds and 3 ounces, he has no birth defects or birthmarks, and still appears to be a healthy child despite this. When he cries, his lungs empty themselves of fluid like any other baby, and when then placed into his mother's labor-weakened arms, he falls soundly asleep all the same. The nurse marks down the dark brown hair he had from his mother, and notably frowns at his small face as she watches his eyes shift in the dim light from what appeared at first to be hazel, but upon further inspection is recorded to contain a similar blue to his father's eyes. She congratulates the couple on the birth of their new bundle of joy before whisking him away for his first bath, immune by now to the sounds of suffering and labored breaths echoing up from the rooms beyond. The night transitions into day like all before it, and the sun rises to shine it's light upon yet another normal day in the Crescent City; But, unbeknownst to all, this day marks the beginning of an indescribably dark chapter in New Orleans' history, as this particular bundle of joy would grow into something that would prove to be anything but.
While also being a day of birth, October 31st, 1902 was the day that nearly 200 people would unknowingly begin the rapidly declining countdown to their untimely and gruesome demises.
The first time Alastor held a hunting rifle was when he was 10 years of age.
His father, a man who would rather spend his time at the bottom of a bottle than with his family, had a rare moment of sobriety and decided to take his eldest son out on their land to show him how to run the family business. The Bechard men were butchers, and always had been as far back in their family history that could be documented. Due to this, the land Marius had inherited from his father was rife with deer, having been picked out and bought for this very reason over a century ago by his own grandfather to begin their family's life when they had immigrated from France. As a result of this, the family butcher shop's well-known specialty was fresh venison, and due to the Bechard mens' specific and skillful way of preparing the meat, they had earned themselves a large and loyal customer base whose money kept the family business thriving. Now, combined with the work Genevieve Bechard did as a stenographer, Alastor's parents earned their family more than enough money to live comfortably off of... But while live they did, comfortably so they did not.
On this warm Saturday morning, the air thick with the sound of screaming cicadas in the trees around them, Alastor has a rifle unceremoniously deposited into his hands.
"One day you'll be the man of the house," Marius tells him as he motions to their home behind them, his breath stale with the scent of liquor from the night prior. "And you'll need to know how to hunt and provide food for your mother and brother if I'm not around." He begins to adjust the gun against Alastor's shoulder, aiming it at the trees. "Now with deer, there are a few rules you'll have to follow. For example: Always leave the young ones alive, especially if they're with their mothers. What you really need to look for are the-"
Alastor's eyes drift off to the side as his father explains the ins and outs of hunting, settling instead on his mother's form through the house's back windows as she rocks back and forth in her rocking chair while nursing his brother. Every day at the same time before Edward was born, she had sat at the piano to play, filling their house with the gentle melody of her music. With dark brown eyes, dark chestnut curls, and lovingly sun-kissed skin though she spent most of her time indoors, Genevieve Bechard was a small thing at only a meek 4'10 in height. Though small as she was, she always took the heavier end of his father's drunken violence, attempting to always take his attention off of Alastor whenever he arrived back home in one of his particularly foul moods. She was soft spoken yet firm, and despite the violent hands she was made to endure, she always had a loving touch, being the only one that Alastor had ever known. In the moments his father was out hunting and left them alone, and whenever Alastor wasn't in school, he had loved nothing more than to sit beside her on the bench and listen to her play until her belly grew too large to play over. Those precious moments were also the only times that he ever truly saw her lose her almost permanent smile, trading it in for a look of pure, relaxed serenity as the music flowed through her and poured out into the ivory keys.
Despite the many dark, near ever-present bruises that frequently blossomed across her skin like spilled ink on a page, his mother would always remind him to smile; lest his father see a frown and find another reason to take his blind rage out on them. One thing Marius Bechard never tolerated in his house was visible negativity, which only proved to make his volatile mood even worse, and when they were in public his rule was even stricter, commanding his family to be the picture of happiness even if their life at home was anything but. They were to appear picture perfect, as to him, appearances were everything; appearances were all that mattered.
"Smile, my love," Genevieve had whispered to him one night, gently wiping the rapidly streaming tears from his cheeks as he shook in fear of his father's angry yelling and crashing about in the next room over. "Remember, you're never fully dressed without one-"
"Are you listening boy?" Marius gives Alastor a rough shake, snapping him back to the present.
"Yessir." He hadn't been, but admitting as much would have lead to a beating. The bruises from the last time he'd upset his father had just begun to fade, the yellow blotches that were finally evening out beneath the cover of his white shirt having been the result of Alastor simply dodging his father's attempt at grabbing him one night during one of his drunken tyrades over a wet spot that he had missed while cleaning the kitchen floors. He had quickly learned from that experience that it was better to get it over with than to try to avoid his wrath. Being forced to cover them up all week at school had been too nerve-wracking of an endeavor to risk again, and he was glad that that painfully familiar phase of healing was nearly over.
Marius Bechard was a mountain of a man, and at his height of 6'4, he was an undoubtable force to be reckoned with. With broad shoulders, sun-darkened skin from his constant exposure, and eyes as hard as ice -with a personality not too much further off from it- Alastor frequently found himself wishing that he hadn't inherited anything from him at all, as despite him having taken more after his mother with his wiry frame and dark hair, Alastor had a touch of his father's eyes within his own and borrowed dimples that pocked his cheeks whenever he smiled. Though a bit of his mother had come through in the starburst of warm hazel surrounding his pupils, sometimes when he looked in the mirror all he could see was the ghostly blue of the very man he had grown to fear looking back at him....
And it scared him.
"Next Saturday morning I'll be taking you out with me on my early hunt then," Marius continues, filling Alastor with relief that he hadn't chosen to push him on what he'd heard, as he often did. "Be ready after breakfast."
"Yessir."
As the months pass by from that point on, instead of regaining those Saturday and Sunday mornings with his mother at the piano once she began to play again, Alastor begins hunting and butchering lessons with his father. He balances school throughout the week with this nearly unsuccessfully, fighting the urge to fall asleep at his desk every Monday morning more often than not from the over exertion of the days prior, and then gives his weekends to his father, leaving no room for what he himself wished to do. Gone were the moments with his mother, of which he could only faintly hear as he left each morning to either school or the woods, and in response to this, a heavy weight settles into his chest as he slowly begins to accept his new reality.
The months quickly bleed into years, and before he knows it, at the age of newly 14 he's even more skilled of a hunter than his father. The only thing he had yet to perfect, however, was his family's signature way of preparing the meat, which was frequently brought to his attention through quick smacks to the head and harsh words of displeasure thrown his way when he was being taught and tested. Yes, although his hunting skills had greatly improved as the time had progressed, his relationship with his father had not; In fact, as the years had gone by, his father had taken to hitting the bottle harder than ever, turning his already volatile mood into an everpresent anger that made him more prone to fits of violence without warning. Their trips to town had decreased in response, as his mother's face often betrayed the secret that his father tried too hard to hide for them to continue the charade that was a happy family, and she was made to quit her job as a result. The only time any members of the family were truly seen after this were rare moments when they were allowed to be next door at the building they used as their butcher shop.
It wasn't until one night that Alastor lay in bed, listening to the sound of his mother crying after one particularly bad fight over the sudden death of his younger brother, did Alastor realize that the fear he had for his father had begun to morph into something darker.
Something deadly.
With every single ounce of his being, he realized in that very moment that he no longer feared his father, but that he hated the man; Deeply.
His father had blamed his mother for Edward's death, saying she hadn't nursed him enough in his infancy, and that she'd spent too much time on her piano instead of feeding him. Due to this claim, he'd taken a sledgehammer from the tool shed to the wooden instrument, reducing it to pieces of broken keys, strings, and splintered wood on the living room floor as Alastor and his mother could only stand aside and watch helplessly. Influenza was what had taken Edward, but even trying to remind his father of that had earned Alastor a punch in the mouth, from which the taste of blood from his busted lips still lingered even now, salty and almost metallic in his mouth as he lay there in bed, growing more and more angry as the seconds ticked by. He could feel the rage that had been building for years inside him begin to bubble over, reaching a boiling point where he could no longer ignore it...
...And it was then that the voices began.
The first little problematic trickle of intrusive thoughts clouding his head until they were all that he could hear; all that he could think.
What if I killed him?
I could follow him out into the woods one day and put him down like the deer he taught me to slaughter.
One quick bullet through his head and we'd be free of him.
He slaps his hands over his ears, shutting his eyes tight against the barrage of violent thoughts as if it would do him any good, but despite this the thoughts still persist. In his mind he could see his father in place of the corpse of a deer, laying across the butchering table as his cold, dead eyes stared up at nothing; his hands still, never to leave bruises or draw blood from either Alastor or his mother ever again. The thoughts become more violent, kicked up like a furious whirlwind of carnage that threatened to rip him apart as they tore though his mind. The longer this went on, with his thoughts growing rapidly beyond his control no matter what he did to try to stop them...
The more welcome they started to become.
Surrendering himself to the dark fantasies after fighting them for days on end, he slowly finds himself beginning to smile a lot more, his mind almost completely occupied by violent scenes that otherwise would have made him sick. The idea of being truly free had given him an almost full-blown feeling of elation that lasted through each passing day, and no matter how violent the scenario that he envisioned, this feeling far overtook any of guilt or disgust. Even during the random beatings he was forced to endure for as little as frowning, he would smile through the tears, refusing to allow it to break him further, and he finally understood why his mother could smile despite the abuse she herself was made to endure: It was because she knew one day she'd be free from it. His father had even said that one day he wouldn't be around, leaving Alastor to be the man of the house in his absence, and that only further convinced him that they didn't need his father. His time was limited as it was... so what could it hurt to expedite the end result?
It wasn't as if he were doing anything Alastor himself couldn't do now, as he had seen to it himself that his son could pull the same weight he could. So, perhaps these urging voices were right...
Maybe he should listen.
His feelings only continue to grow and change as time passes from that moment on, ultimately forcing him to give in to the urges and begin plotting to accompany his father on one last hunting trip into the deep Louisiana woods. Days trickle by as he bides his time, until finally, the fateful day had nearly arrived. To his surprise, he finds himself to be excited for it; he was more nervous than afraid, and more excited than hesitant, and as he sat across the table from his father the day before their hunting trip, he couldn't do anything but grin.
And then, almost too soon, it was time, and Alastor was more than ready.
The air outside was thick and humid, the buzz of mosquitos loud around them even while the sun above was still barely bright enough to light their surroundings to see by. The two begin to walk deeper and deeper into the forest, the loudest sound being the quiet crunch of the dead leaves below their feet. Alastor loads his gun and cocks it, watching his father ahead of him quietly stalk a buck they'd seen a few days prior, completely unaware that it wasn't the prey Alastor had in his sights on this morning. With his mind set, his plan unfolding before his very eyes, he had expected to at least feel a small tug of... hesitation, maybe, as he aimed the shotgun that he had concealed within his rifle bag the night prior at the back of his father's head. He expected to possibly feel sadness at the idea of killing the man that'd helped create him; but even when his father unexpectedly turns to speak to him and instead finds himself staring down the barrel of his son's gun, meeting his fearful eyes did nothing but fill him with more excitement.
Marking the end of silence forever within his own mind, the voices in his head begin to scream at him, for the first time rising from their nearly ever-present whispering to a cacophony of hellish wails:
"Do it."
"DO it."
"DO IṪ̶̜͂̃́͂̉͛̃̚."
"Ḓ̸͙͎̮͔͔̘̳̅͊̒͛̐̂ͅÖ̷̢̮͙̩̣̋̾͛̕ ̶̹̱̐̋Ì̵̡͓͙̪̲͓̪̝͉͉͋͗̎̒͋̓̈́̚͝Ţ̶̮̪̣̝̩͍̠͆̏̐̐̍̓̊̋̕͜͝.̸̧̢̰̲̺̖͎͓͂͒ ̷̛̪͔͈̭̣͇̰̯̋̐͆͗̓̏̓̈̄ͅḐ̵͉̗͎͗O̶̬͉̮͛̑̒̌͝-̶̧̧̭͚̻̈̏̽"
BLAM!
...And then all at once... The voices in his head that had plagued him for weeks...
s
t
o
p.
And in their place, a mind-numbing wash of unfiltered euphoria washes through his body.
Everything around him goes silent for several beats, eventually giving way to a high pitched ringing that slowly begins to grow in his ears as Alastor watches his father's body tumble to the ground in slow motion, bits of brain matter, skin, and teeth spattered across the tree he'd been using as cover only moments earlier. He drops his gun, now staring down at the mess of blood and gore around him, painting the green foliage a brilliant crimson red. His first though is that it was... messier than he'd expected it to be, the shot having been taken at a closer range than he had originally planned. Though, there wasn't much he could do about that now, as it was the only real option he'd had. The buck they'd been tracking crashes off into the forest, startled by the sound of the gunshot so close by, but lucky to live another day.
Then comes the laughter. It starts off quiet at first, almost like a nervous tic that begins to punch through the loud, pitched ringing in his ears, but it quickly progresses into full-on hysterics; tears and sweat mixing together as they run down his face, blurring his vision as he falls to his knees, clutching his sides when they begin to throb in pain from the lack of air. He can feel the blood start to soak through the knees of his trousers, but all he can do is fall forward onto his hands, trying to force himself to take in some air before he passed out. The world tilts sideways for a moment, threatening to topple him over and send him tumbling rapidly into the darkness of unconsciousness, but before it can, he manages to pull a deep gasp of hot, humid air into his lungs.
He takes another.
Then another.
And finally steadying himself, he sits back on his knees, staring down now at his reddened hands, coated in wet, sticky blood, crushed leaves, and dirt. But even with the horrendous sight before him, all he can do is smile.
It was over.
It was finally over.
He continues to smile, too, all while cutting the body in front of him into pieces on the forest floor with his sharpest hunting knife. He shuts his brain off as his does so, burying his father's clothing beneath a shrub and shoving all the rest of what he can into the bag he'd been carrying. The small pieces of meat and broken bone fit easier than he expected them to, but the overwhelming amount of blood is more... inconvenient, than he'd realized it would be; while deer bled a fair amount, it was nothing compared to a human body, he finds. He messily cuts open the chest, turning the torso onto it's side to drain as much blood as possible, before severing the head from it and digging a hole to bury it in.
He never wanted to see his father's face again, and this way he wouldn't ever have to.
It takes a couple hours for the scene of his crime to be clean enough for him after he's done, and he leaves his father's gun where it had fallen beneath the same tree that was still spotted with blood he couldn't clean. It was no inconvenience, however, with the threat of rain from the dark, heavy clouds that had grown in the sky looming above him. Once he tightens the strings of his bag and tosses it over his shoulder, his slender frame almost bucking from the weight, he begins the long trek through the forest to his father's shop, where he picks out all the leftover bone that he can before he feeds the meat into the grinder. The wet crunch and squelching from the meat falling into the bin below slows as the input lessens, specks of blood spotting the floor below as it drips from the now empty bag resting on the table. Once he's through it all, he packages up the output and stores it for later in the ice chest...
...Or, most of it, at least.
Giving into one last impulsive and intrusive urge, Alastor cooks a piece of it over an open fire in the back before popping the roasted meat into his mouth, and though the flavor isn't even remotely similar to a deer's...
Somehow, it still tasted all the more sweet.