Chapter Text
Alastor was desperate.
If he hadn't lost count, he had been locked in his little house for more than two years now. His legs were still shaking every time he approached the front door with the intention of leaving and his hands were sweating so much that he was not even able to turn the knob, things that ended up making him decide once again that it was not yet time to face society.
But if it wasn't yesterday, or today, then when would be the day he could do it?
He sighed heavily, sticking his back to the wall as he hugged himself in search of some comfort. Autumn had already arrived but he wasn't able to observe the seasonal change more closely other than through the chill that crept in through one of the windows that he only left half open during the mornings as, in reality, each and every one of his windows remained strictly closed during the course of the day. He had realized, as time went by, that keeping everything closed took away some of the anxiety that had been tormenting him since what had happened.
Just thinking about it sent a shiver down his spine, causing the urge to burst into tears and curse the world to return exponentially even though he refused to be weak again. Enough tears he had been shedding all those nights. And he was more than sure that not even dropping the rivers that were accumulating in his eyes nor getting into the shower to take his sixth bath of the day was going to totally culminate those miserable feelings pounding in his chest and head.
He unconsciously crossed his legs again as he placed a hand on his lower belly.
And without being able to help it, the tears fell unceasingly.
Shit, shit, shit!
Why did he have to cry like this over things that had stopped being worthwhile a long time ago? Why did he have to let his weaker side come out when he was ridiculous in so many ways? Why couldn't he just forget and move on like other people?
The answers were clear, but he still didn't want to be fully aware of them.
He looked at the shotgun in one of the corners of the room. It had accumulated quite a bit of dust due to its lack of use.
He sighed again.
A few years ago, Alastor had put his father's old gun to good use. And a very good one at that.
He was never a lover of weapons and much less of sport hunting to the chagrin of his father who had tried by all possible means to teach it to him and make him see it as if it was one of the best hobbies in life when the only thing it always ended up causing him was a deep anguish that he would unload in the form of tears while hugging his mother's long legs in search of support. Of course, his father was saddened to see this but kept trying anyway, perhaps, in the hope that on one of his visits to the forest those missing desires would arise so that Alastor could join the practice body and soul, and perhaps, so that they could both kill some animal whose head or fur would be used as a trophy decoration for the living room.
It should be noted that this was accomplished to some extent.
Indeed, Alastor had managed to kill more than one animal in the forest and for the last months of his father's life, he brought him the head of a deer that they both proudly hung above the fireplace while his mother smiled in relief.
A few months after the wake, he continued with his life, leaving aside everything that concerned hunting. He dedicated himself to working with great energy and determination on his radio program, which led him to move away from his mother's house, although they never lost communication, in fact, he visited her every day in the afternoons and they would talk about a wide variety of topics until it was time to return. They also went to church together, even though they belonged to a very different religious and spiritual practice, which they had promised each other not to talk about out loud unless they were alone. Something that anyone would understand considering that cultural discrimination towards natives of this belief was still very latent among the masses.
But as his mother used to say: "Better to remain unnoticed on the outside and be proud of who they are and what they do on the inside".
And so they did until...
Alastor found a taste for human slaughter.
It's not as if it happened overnight. At first, he had only wanted to go back to practicing shooting with one of his rifles, however, the revelation of a nefarious scene of attempted sexual abuse by a group of alphas against a girl no more than twelve years old had made him pull the trigger on more than one occasion that afternoon. It should be noted that he had been deeply shocked when he thought back on his actions and realized that in a short period of time he had taken the lives of seven people.
Seven people.
Damn, seven people but....
They were also disgusting people.
Yes, disgusting people. People who deserved absolutely nothing.
And it was that thought that led him to unleash the series of murders that had made Louisiana news. It made people fearful and made it necessary for them not to leave their homes at certain times, and even to follow the recommendations to avoid the woods as much as possible. Although, as expected, not all citizens were willing to follow the advice, in fact, they preferred to go against it to demonstrate not only an act of pure rebellion, but also that they could take care of themselves from whatever was out there committing slaughter left and right.
Of course, those same people then became corpses.
As the months went by, Alastor had increased the number of his victims, and with that, the implementation of other techniques to get rid of evidence such as cannibalism had taken place in his life in an unexpectedly pleasant way for him. And to all this, his mother had never suspected or doubted about it, she had even asked him to be careful every time he went out and not to go into the forest for anything in the world, even though it was in front of their house and the sounds coming from it were much clearer than in other places. And he listened to her. Up to a point.
After her death, things changed course a bit as deep sadness consumed him on many occasions, and more so because his mother had not been able to fulfill her dream of seeing him start a family. And it was that same dream that prompted him to put aside his new hobby and try to create as normal a life as possible.
Until it all went down the drain that fateful day.
Alastor had left the radio station later than usual after delivering the news and playing one of the music charts of the moment for thirty minutes. Everything went smoothly and he even felt extremely proud of his performance, so much so that he planned to compensate himself with a nice glass of one of his older wines once he was home and sitting on the sofa next to his record player but the whole plan was interrupted when in the middle of his way back he was violently intercepted and dragged into the depths of the forest.
He didn't know what was happening until he came to his senses and realized that this was no simple mugging that would end with him arriving home without his belongings. No, this was something more carnal. And he caught a glimpse of it the instant his assailant's eyes came into view thanks to the moonlight. He was eager and horny, so much so that she could even imagine him grunting and sputtering. Almost like an animal frantic to devour its prey.
It tried to escape. It tried to harm him. He even tried to call for help but all to no avail.
That night he had not only lost his virginity in the worst way, he had also lost his reproductive capacity given that the aggressor, surely very tired of not being able to enjoy in tranquility his body due to his frantic kicking in search of freedom, pulled out a knife that he stuck without any pity in his lower abdomen, and not only that, the fucker had twisted it in such a way that he not only felt how the thick and hot blood gushed with more force from inside him but in turn he could experience the terrible pain of the organs being slaughtered with slowness.
At some point he fainted, perhaps from the harshness of the act or from the loss of blood, and was only aware that he was still alive when he awoke in the middle of the road thanks to the fact that the doctor from the neighboring town, who was returning home in the wee hours of the morning after a long day at the hospital, saw him and immediately got out of his car to help him and check if he was still breathing.
After that, he remained in the hospital for a long time until he was discharged. And of course, to top it all off, he found out that the doctor's wife had been in charge of letting everyone know in detail what had happened to him, triggering the undisguised murmurs in the streets directed at him and the comments about how funny or sad his current situation was.
And he... he just went about ignoring until his own demons succeeded in making him never leave his house again.
He no longer felt safe outside. He could no longer breathe calmly without feeling that he was being watched and analyzed in every direction. He could no longer sit like a normal person without having the need to cross his legs tightly as if he could erase the traces of his stolen innocence. He could no longer walk the streets without staring at some children's store with the bitter taste that he would never be able to get in to buy something.
Shit, he had never thought so deeply about the idea of having children until he was no longer able to. And the wonderful images of those couples going to pick up their kids from school were not something that comforted him at all.
He had once overheard the fishmonger's wife tell her friends that he was one of those "dry-bellied" people and that she didn't understand how he kept living with the fact that no one would want him because of his condition. Of course, that same night he had burst into tears amidst sarcastic laughter as he rubbed hard at the invisible marks on his body. And as always, he only saw the water in his bathtub turn red but not take his sorrows down the drain.
Had he thought about death all that time? He would be lying if he said no, however, he had not envisioned it as an option he could take just because, rather he considered it the end or the consequence of life itself. Something that eventually everyone would come to and know at some point. And it was for that reason that he had decided to let the clock run down naturally.
He wasn't going to look ahead of time for something he knew for sure would find. The bad thing is that this thought did not appease the enormous desire to end it all once and for all.
He sighed heavily. He could almost hear Ligoria's voice (a half-Italian woman who was a friend of his mother's in life and who had been in charge of sending him groceries since he locked himself in his home) telling him in that sing-songy, good-vibe-laden tone of voice the myriad reasons there were to stop thinking about the end of life itself and focus on the future with great ambition.
Mmh, if only he had ambition. Or at least a little hope....
Well, actually he did have hope but it was pinned on something else.
He looked closely at the pentagram drawn in chalk on the floor, as well as the medium-sized candles strategically placed at each of the points. The wooden bowl of blood on his left wrist rested at his side and the large hardback occult book he had acquired from his father's collection of old and strange things lay open in front of him revealing the yellowed, dusty pages where the instructions to perform the ritual were laid out in fine, elegant handwriting.
Did he have a motive for such an action? Not really. Nor was he sure why he had been driven to do so, let alone what he would do if it turned out that it was all a lie, which he was more than sure of but... his need for answers and his feeling of loneliness were much stronger than him and any reasoning.
Well, if things didn't turn out he would just feel a little foolish and disappointed but if it turned out to be the opposite? Ok, maybe he would be screwed, however, he was already starting to not give a damn about it all because of the point he was at.
After all, it's not like he really had anything to lose.
Though that thought changed drastically when he lit the candles and recited the words slowly and without equivocation, as he hadn't expected the room to suddenly change temperature until he felt like he was experiencing firsthand the stifling, searing heat of hell itself and the flames of the candles rose to form a hurricane of fire from which came screams and other sounds of torment. In shock, he had crawled swiftly to stick his back against the nearest wall, trying to get away from it and seek shelter. He had even covered himself with his thin arms and closed his eyes tightly.
And perhaps, he would have remained in that position had it not been for a masculine voice echoing in the room with a clear request to look at him.
Alastor hesitated at first, but gradually uncovered himself until his gaze fell on the image of that magnificent being... and the small, smiling girl on his shoulder.