(Alastor x Vox) Knife Through the Heart

Chapter 6

Alastor is five when he realizes, much to his dismay, that nothing lives forever. It'll be a good few years before that dismay turns into morbid fascination, and another decade or so before he acts upon those urges. And it won't be until he's long buried in the ground, throat brutalized and bloodied, spilling with raw meat that he realizes that people do, in-fact, live forever.

But that earth-shattering revelation won't be happening anytime soon.

For now, he's still five, buried ankle length in the dirt as he helps dig out a grave with his mother. There was a cat who used to stop by their house. A scruffy little calico cat with piercing golden eyes, and a penchant for sunbathing on their roof. Alastor was the one to find that cat, or rather, what was left of it.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Alastor scooped up that little calico cat and ran out of the garden, excitedly calling out for his mother. His mind had conjured up fantastical tales about how this cat had gone on an adventure, and he was more than content to believe the stray was merely asleep. It was a smart, albeit grumpy cat, and Alastor was very smart, of course! He was five and already knew how to hide whenever that man who looked a lot like him came to visit.

Alastor was happy to share the exciting news about his beloved cat friend with his mother.

He found her seated upon a rocking chair, jazz music playing on the scrap radio they unearthed at the junkyard. Dressed in a maroon dress and white apron, mother had set aside her knitting project when she spotted Alastor and his friend.

She pulled the cat away from him, gently telling him that the cat wasn't returning, but that all of the good memories shared with the cat will remain in his heart.

It wasn't until a good ten years later when Alastor realized what his mother had meant.

And it wouldn't be until he was twenty, elbows deep into the gaping, bloodied wound in a corpse that he knew what his mother had meant. There was a sickening, squelching sound as he pulled out a heart dripping with fresh blood. He must've looked demented back then, cackling as mad as a hatter as he repeatedly stabbed a knife into the man's torso.

No one would care about him.

Afterall, it was just some lowlife that constantly harassed the girls at the local tavern. Mimzy had been going on and on about him, so out of misplaced curiosity and nothing more, Alastor trailed the guy for a few days, only intervening when he saw him sneak something into a woman's drink.

Alastor was five when the illusion that people could live forever had wavered, but he knew how unfair life was, long before that.

There's a hand pressed over his forehead, and he instinctively leans towards it. He feels cold, and he's dead certain he'll never be warm again. Not with this hollow in his chest, and maybe his time has come. Perhaps there's another cannibal out there who desires his own heart. Alastor hopes it's tasty.

But his surroundings shift, and it's not fair. He's long past the age of complaining over the trivialities of life. Afterall, Alastor's been dead for far longer than he's been alive, but somehow, he knows that if he leaves this place, he'll just open himself up for more pain and heartbreak and confusion and he can't...he can't...he's not ready. Not now, not ever. What will be left of him once this illusion shatters?