Alastor faded back awake from his doze. He must have been out for much longer than he'd thought, since the chirping frogs of dusk had given way to the buzzing of cicadas. Even with eyes closed the bright sunlight was blinding streaming in through the open windows. A gentle humid breeze flowed through the room, carrying on it the smell of the water and balmy summer air. The sheer beige-white curtains danced on the air currents. Somewhere in the back of Alastor's mind this all struck him as odd, but at the same time it all felt so right--like finally waking up from a bizarre dream.
As he lay there trying to piece things back together and pull his mind back to wakefulness, a new sound came into audible range: a woman's gentle humming. Alastor sat up in the bed as the brass doorknob to the wooden door on the other side of the room began to twist and a tall slender woman wearing a layered mauve colored dress entered carrying a tray with a number of various objects. She supported the tray with her hip while she closed the door behind her, her calm melodic voice almost intoxicating in Alastor's mind as she finished humming. The sunlight streaming in through the windows around her and dancing on the particles of dust that floated in the air almost seemed to give her a sparkling effect. She paused and smiled at Alastor, a look which made his chest feel like it was fit to burst. "Look who finally decided to come home," she quipped good-naturedly.
"Ma...!" Alastor cried, throwing off the coverlet as he went to stand up but his mother stopped him with a jab of her finger.
"Ah-ah! Don't you dare try getting up, Young Man." She scolded, stepping out of the light in the window and over toward Alastor. Her flowing lacey dress swirled up the sparkling particles from the rough hardwood like magic dust as she glided across the floor and her features gradually came into clearer view. Her thick dark curls, pulled back neatly as always, aside from the few strands that never seemed to fit where they belonged, glistened like waves of the sea in the moonlight. She set the tray down on the end table nearby and continued speaking. "I find you up here, sick as a dog, no telegram, no note... bless my soul, what would you have done if I hadn't happened to hear someone in your room, hmm?" She sat on the edge of the bed next to Alastor taking his face in her slender velvet hands and checking him all over. She sighed, her dark eyes conveying a type of worry that only a mother can conjure up. "How many times have I warned you about mucking around in those woods?" She asked pleadingly. "What is it this time? Snakebite? Gunshot? Malaria?"
Alastor just sat there, staring at her, unable to reply. The lump in his throat choked him. "Ma..." he was only able to mouth as tears welled up in his eyes before he could even fathom their presence, forming and falling without but hardly touching his cheek.
His mother softened, hushing him as she brushed the droplets away. Then she gently laid the back of her fingers against his brow. "Well mercy me...you must be feeling awful poorly if you're this worked up..."
Alastor didn't at all acknowledge what she said, but fell into her arms, burying his face into her neck. There the tears came freely. He quivered as he grasped onto her, afraid that if he loosened his grip for even a moment she would be gone again. His mother went silent and wrapped both arms around her grown son, rocking and soothing him no differently than when he was a child.
After some minutes Alastor had finally calmed down a bit. His desperate grip laxed and his mother sat him back up. She wiped the dark tear stains from under his eyes, "There, now that's better, isn't it?" She asked delicately.
Alastor choked out a small laugh that came out more like a final sob. "I just missed you so much..." he replied quietly, not even bothering to hide the crack in his voice. His trained transatlantic accent slipped, allowing his natural creole to show through.
His mother smiled warmly, "Well maybe you'll come by more often then," she said, playfully tapping the tip of his nose with one smooth perfectly manicured nail. "Now, are you going to tell me what's wrong, or do I have to try to figure it out for myself."
Alastor was about to reply when he suddenly felt disturbed to realize he couldn't even remember how he'd gotten there. His eyes darkened as he tried to recall anything. "I...I'm not sure..." he finally answered.
His mother shrugged one shoulder dismissively, "So I'm playing detective, I see," she replied without even a twitch to her own smile. "Wouldn't be the first time, won't be the last, I'm sure. Let's look you over then."
Her hand fell from Alastor's face as she pulled out the undone bow tie still held fast by his stiff shirt collar. She folded it neatly and set it aside on the nightstand as she then set to work undoing the buttons along the front of his deep reddish brown vest. Alastor winced as her hands brushed against the skin on his torso, sending a sharp stabbing pain through his whole body. His mother noticed. "Well, I do say it looks as though we are on the right track," she said, hurrying her fingers to undo the clasps but taking much more care in doing so. She helped him out of the vest and after hanging it carefully on the corner of the bedpost, she turned back and pulled open the front of his white dress shirt.
Her expression twisted into horror as her eyes followed the deep gash from his chest all the way down to his waist. "Al..." she whispered, her voice taking on a tone that Alastor rarely heard. "Did they do this...?" Alastor looked down at the wound across his chest. Somehow he felt like he knew how he'd gotten it, but that, along with everything prior to waking up some minutes ago was a vague quickly-fading blur. His mother grabbed his face forcing him to look back up at her. "Alastor, answer me," she insisted, her voice bordering hysteria. "Did they catch you again?"
The images flashed through Alastor's mind like horrible snapshots. It had been decades and the memories were fuzzy from age, but some things still stood out vivid as ever...figures standing in the shadows of the woods, with hidden faces and long white cloaks billowing, making them appear like ghosts in the fading light. Alastor felt his heart quiver a little at the recollection but somehow he knew that this wasn't what had happened. "No, Ma, it wasn't...it wasn't them."
His mother's eyes grew dark, a maternal rage building. "Are you sure? Because I swear if they touched my boy again--"
"No, Ma, I promise, it wasn't them," Alastor assured her. "I can't really remember what happened right now but I know it wasn't...that."
His mother gave him an unconvinced side-eye look, but let the issue drop for the moment. "Well, when you do remember who did this then you let me know and I'll be sure to give them a right piece of my mind." She patted his cheek gently. "But in the meantime, you're safe. Let's get this cleaned and patch you up."
Alastor helped her maneuver his shirt off. She hung it with his vest on the corner of the bedpost. Then she reached over to the tray she had set on the endtable. "You're lucky I packed for all your usual ailments," she quipped, giving Alastor a faux-annoyed glare, but then she undercut it with a wink as she picked up a small cotton bandage. She soaked it in a homemade alcohol mixture, then began cleaning the injury. It burned like Hell, and Alastor couldn't help feeling a strange sense of deja-vu. But as he had before he simply bit his tongue and endured it.
After his mother finished cleaning the wound, she sat back and looked over the wound more closely. "Hmm, you should thank your lucky stars, Boy...somehow whoever did this missed everything too important," she said, clicking her tongue at Alastor disapprovingly. She wagged a finger at him. "That luck is going to run out sooner or later; you better be more careful, you hear?"
He chuckled nervously but still shrunk back a little under her lecture. "Yes'm."
She gently gave Alastor's shoulder a push to get him to lie down. After he'd complied she handed him a clean roll of cotton. "Come now, you know how this goes," she said as she dipped a sewing needle tied in black thread into the alcohol mixture.
Alastor shuttered in the anxious anticipation, but obediently took the small roll of cloth and placed it in his mouth, biting down on it as his mother began stitching. Fifty times she went in and out of his skin, tying each time off with a dainty knot. Finally she finished and set the remaining needle and thread aside. "Alright, all done. You can sit up now, let's get you bandaged," she said, patting the uninjured part of Alastor's chest.
Alastor obeyed, removing the wad of cotton from his mouth and looking down at the perfectly placed even stitches down his body as his mother collected some rolls of bandages. "I say, you always will be better at suturing than I," Alastor said, somewhat wistfully.
"Well, the only way to get better is to practice," his mother replied. "It is somewhat an art form after all."
"You won't let me practice!" Alastor objected with a chuckle.
His mother looked thoughtful for a moment. "You're right, I won't," she replied, pinching Alastor's cheek playfully. "I'll always prefer to be looking after you then you goin' and runnin' off on your own. How else am I gonna make sure you keep coming around?"
"Ma...!" Alastor objected, pushing her hand away with a laugh.
His mother just smiled. "Come now, let's get you bandaged up before you start bleeding." Alastor sat perfectly still as his mother wrapped the layers of bandages around his waist, chest, and shoulder. Again the feeling that this had all just happened tickled in the back of Alastor's mind, but he brushed it away as nonsense.
His mother finished the task and sat back. "There, now that that main issue has been dealt with, any other pains or ailments I should know about?"
Alastor paused for a moment. "No, nothing comes to mind."
His mother planted a kiss on his forehead. "Good. Then I'm going to head down and put supper on; since you're feeling better, would you be so kind and go to the garden to get something to make with it?"
Alastor smiled back at her. "Yes'm." As she stood up and headed back down the stairs to the kitchen, Alastor stood up after her and began pulling his shirt back on over the bandages.
Once he had himself looking presentable again he headed down the stairs and out the back door. He stopped for a moment on the back stoop, soaking in the brilliant sunlight. It felt like ages since he'd felt its warm caress. Pollen floated on the breeze, giving the air a sweet fragrance. Alastor stepped off the stoop and headed out to where his mother had always kept her small herb, vegetable, and majiks garden. Alastor walked through the furrows, stopping every so often to pick a few things that were ripe, when the unmistakable sound of a rifle blast exploded through the air sending flocks of birds flying out in the distance. Alastor's darkened skin immediately drained starch white--the subtle deja-vu whisper now a blaring siren in his head. He immediately dropped the vegetables he was holding and bolted back toward the house in a panic. "MA!"
Alastor crashed through the back door, his eyes almost instinctively finding the heap of mauve colored fabric on the kitchen floor. Then that voice--saying the line that had haunted every dream of his for over the past hundred years. "Fuck you, you ni*r witch! I hope you and that bastard son of yours burn in Hell!"
Alastor's eyes snapped up to the open front door across the kitchen as the figure could be seen bolting away from the house. An inhuman rage overtook him, and he flew over the tiled flooring and out onto the front stoop, his left hand wrapping around his own hunting rifle that was leaned against the doorframe as he passed. The figure was already almost at the tree line--there was no way Alastor would ever be able to catch up to him. In one smooth motion he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, lining up the sights like on so many hunts before. He closed one eye, and when he was sure he had a clean shot, exhaled as his hand squeezed around the trigger.
"Al!" The sudden but familiar sweet voice jarred him awake.
Alastor's eyes burst open. At first startled and confused, staring at the young blond woman kneeling in front of him, soon the rest of his senses caught up. The pungent sour smell of sulfur that was an ever-present in this place hit his nose, underlined by the odor of old wood, dust, and a very mild hint of what could have been mildew. The last few words echoed in Alastor's head, a cruel prophecy, "I hope you burn in Hell...burn in Hell...burn in Hell..." Alastor's breathing finally started to slow as the harsh realization settled in. This was his reality now. There was no going back, no waking up from the bizarre dream. This was it.
Alastor struggled to sit up, the old bed creaking painfully as he shifted on it. Beads of sweat rolled down his face but it seemed to do little if anything to cool the blazing heat radiating from his skin. He paused for a moment on the edge of the bed, leaning his head in his hands to try to get his bearings back.
Charlie reached out to lay a hand on his knee before remembering his aversion to being touched, so just laid her hand next to him on the bed. "Al, I'm really worried...you aren't looking so good..."
"And this is why I don't sleep..." Alastor mumbled aloud to himself.
"...What?" Charlie asked in confusion. Alastor didn't elaborate or even acknowledge her, but just took his microphone staff from the side of his bed and used it to help pull himself up to his feet. Charlie tried to stop him, "Alastor, no, you shouldn't be trying to get up...!" But Alastor was already pushing past her as he stumbled over toward his coat laying over the back of the chair.
He held himself up against the table with the hand holding his microphone, while the other dug around for the pocket underneath his lapel. Finally finding what he'd been searching for he pulled it out and looked down at it. As he did, Charlie watched his already pale skin drain of any remaining color as he slowly sank into the chair. He set his microphone down on the table and his head fell into his hand with a defeated sigh.
She stood up and walked over, "What's the matter?" She started to ask, but cut herself off with the answer to her own question. In Alastor's hand he clutched a small white handkerchief--or at least one that had been white at one time. Now about half of it had been dyed a deep crimson with quickly drying blood. The tiny black hand-embroidered letters of his name were almost indiscernible from their now dark backdrop.
Alastor gripped this small memento so tightly that his hand quivered. It was a wonder that his claws didn't dig in and cut the skin of his palm. But after a moment his grip loosened. "It's of no consequence," he said quietly with a shaky sigh. He set the kerchief down on the table as he struggled to stand back up. "There is little point in being sentimental or nostalgic in this place anyway."
Charlie watched as he made his way over toward the large oak bookshelf on the opposite wall. Pushing aside the displayed alligator skull in the way, he reached in and pulled out the crystal decanter that had been pushed to the back from decades of disuse. After pulling the plunger he flipped over one of the matching glasses sitting near it and poured a splash of the strong smelling auburn liquid into it. After swirling it once, he threw the liquor to the back of his mouth. The spirits burned his tongue and seared his throat as he swallowed; the taste sent a shudder up his body. Ordinarily he preferred his whiskey on the rocks, warm liquor was for drunks and degenerates, but right now he just needed something to ease this horrible pain in his chest--pain that didn't even seem to be stemming from the wound. The shot hit his stomach and sent a warm tingling rush to his limbs. He looked down at the elaborate glass in his hand as the memories played again--his mother, lying in a heap on the floor, blood pooling under her from the hole in the back of her head and soaking into the wooden floorboards in a black stain that for the rest of Alastor's life would never come out. A black stain that now he would have to relive every day for the rest of eternity, thanks to his own incompetence. Why, why did he still keep that kerchief in his coat pocket and why had he not taken it out to keep somewhere safe?! He'd known even when his mother had gifted it to him that he would never need it for its intended purpose--he was never going to find a girl to gift it to in courtship--but after she'd died he kept it with him always. It had become almost a compulsion. And now, thanks to this compulsion and his own inability to stitch injuries, this last gift from his mother and the only thing he'd been allowed to bring from his life into Hell was now destroyed with an uncleanable stain--the same kind of stain that tarnished his last memory of her.
Alastor's fingers clenched around the sides of the glass in his hand. His shoulder twitched with the temptation to chuck it at the wall and let it explode into a shower of glass shards but he stopped himself and set it delicately back on its shelf, following it with the decanter of whiskey after he had recorked the bottle.
Charlie walked over and gently laid a hand on his arm. His skin was on fire. "Alastor, I really think you should lie back down...that wound on your chest is starting to bleed through the bandages. You might need to see a doctor--"
Alastor clenched his jaw and clamped his eyes shut, for once entirely dropping the showmanship. "With all due respect, Your Highness, I ask you: how the fuck am I supposed to see a doctor when sinners can't leave the Pride Ring?" He snapped in annoyance.
Charlie pulled back her hand, a bit surprised by the outburst but remained resolute. "Well, we have to do something!" She objected. "I can't just sit here and watch you bleed to death!"
Alastor huffed and waved her off. "My dear, it's already far too late for that. I bled to death a century ago." He pushed past her but as he started to walk away he collapsed.
Charlie grabbed hold of his arm, catching him before he fell all the way to the ground. His head lolled forward and she had to drop to her knee, lest she fall on top of him. Her long reg horns sprouted from her hairline as she struggled to hold him up. "Come on, Alastor, I'm serious!" Charlie insisted again.
Alastor managed to crack his eyes open and stared at Charlie. Her eyes glowed brilliantly with her demonic form. An aura of power surrounded her and in Alastor's fevered mind hit him with an astounding sense of awe. A voice--what sounded like his mother's voice--echoed in his head, "Come now, what are you causing such trouble for? I raised you better than that."
He sighed and finally relented. "Yes, of course. My apologies. I seem to not be in my right mind."
"It's alright," Charlie assured him, not realizing he hadn't actually been talking to her. "Let's just get you back to bed and we'll go from there."
Charlie guided him back over to his bed, helping him lie down onto the thick hunting blanket over the mattress. A new sheen of sweat covered his skin. The short walk from the bookshelf on one side of the room back to his bed on the other had been exhausting. Alastor lay there trying to catch his breath and subdue the pulsing in his head when Charlie spoke up again, "I'm going to go get the first aid kit and rebandage that injury. Are you going to be okay for a few minutes?"
Alastor nodded subtly without saying anything. Charlie's horns retracted and she hurried out of the room, quietly closing Alastor's door as she left.
After she was gone Alastor finally let his guard fall away, relaxing and sinking into the thin mattress, uncomfortable as it was. His whole body ached. Breathing alone took exorbitant effort, not even taking into account that every time his chest expanded the gash across his torso would start to throb and would send a stab of pain through his ribs and directly up his spine. The wound itself burned. It felt noticeably hotter than the rest of Alastor's body, which in itself already felt like it was broiling. Alastor was sure that had there been a mirror nearby, he would have been able to see steam rising off his skin like the lake on a cool spring morning. He would never admit it while Charlie was in the room, but he felt absolutely miserable. Even though in his head he knew that Charlie--bless her heart--in her perfect delicate naïveté would never purposefully do anything to hurt even so much as a roach, the instinct to keep his guard up with anyone around was still ever present. There was a reason he was so good at making these soul contracts--poke about, feel for any vulnerability, prod at it a bit, get under their skin, then once the target is emotionally open, strike hard and fast and just like that they'll be trapped in the palm of your hand. Hundreds, if not thousands of times he'd done this flawlessly, a record that even put his actual hunting score to shame. But with this skill set also came the inherent knowledge of how easy it was to be manipulated, and if he was going to be stuck in Hell for the rest of eternity, he would give no one the satisfaction of seeing any vulnerability from the great Radio Demon. If that meant constantly wearing that smile and keeping everyone else at arm's length then so be it.