(Alastor x Vox) Knife Through the Heart

Chapter 10

I am so, so sorry. Also, looks like I'll be seeing all of you in therapy.

Content Warnings: Suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, attempted murder, PTSD, Vox does not respect boundaries. This chapter deals with very heavy emotions & is very bleak, overall.

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At first, Alastor isn't sure if he's awake, if he ever even fell asleep at all. He certainly doesn't feel well-rested, and his mind is all fuzzy. Static rings in his ears, but it's not the pleasant melody of his trusty microphone, nestled atop his bedside table, and nor is it the familiar imprint of his shadows upon tacky patterned walls that Charlie thought were oh-so-quaint.

He's oddly reminded of long winters spent back at home, when he still lived in a tiny, isolated, but homey log cabin with his mother. The winters were long and dark, but very peaceful. Somehow, it feels like he's running a fever. But that's impossible.

When was the last time he even caught a cold? It must've been when he was still alive.

Though, a traitorous part of his mind chastises him for such a sentiment. Afterall, he was sliced nearly clean through two months ago, and that never happened before. But somehow, a mere stab wound was enough to destroy everything that he had worked so hard for.

Alastor sighs, placing an arm over his weary eyes. He doesn't want to sleep, but he doesn't want to wake up, either.

The pain in his bandaged chest is pleasantly bearable. It's still excruciating, but...less-so. At the very least, Alastor doesn't feel like he's being stabbed straight in the heart over and over and over again. Compared to the agony of reliving that moment for two entire days, this sensation is practically numbing.

His sense of control is gone, slipping away from him like loose grains of sand on a beach. But that can't be entirely right...he's still here, afterall. Not dead, unless Vox did kill him, and this is an even more fucked up version of hell.

Honestly, Alastor can't even believe that little fairytale.

He's certain he'd feel a lot more hurt if that was the case. The air here is ridiculously frigid, and at first, Alastor isn't entirely sure if that's because he might be sick. As Alastor slowly becomes oriented, his ears catch the faint sound of an A.C. on full-blast.

Alastor merely scoffs at this. Vox must keep these in every room to keep his CPU from overheating.

But then he immediately jolts up from bed, panic and fear and anger and self-loathing vying for attention as memories from the previous days flood back into the forefront of his mind. He glances at his suit—nothing is amiss. Good. But... there was a hand wrapped around his neck, his waist, around his wrist, a soft touch to his face, so gentle that Alastor must have been imagining it. If only Vox made it hurt, then Alastor could understand Vox's angle.

With how Vox has been acting, it's as if Alastor's back at the hotel. But...it's not like he's friends with Vox. Not like they were ever really 'friends.' He was merely entertainment like Charlie and the others. Alastor has never grown attached to anyone. Not in life, and certainly not in death.