Alastor buried himself in blood, in entrails, in killings, and in the sweet tang of a death released by his own hands. He had often felt jealous of other killers he'd seen appearing in the newspapers. He was not jealous of their murders — quite the contrary, he was appalled by them.
No, he saw them, and all he could think was: I can do it better. So much human life was taken and traded like flimsy collectible cards for children. The weight of the human soul was vast, terrible, and unending. Alastor was not a hypocrite, of course, he could never be against murder in itself, but he did believe that the great weight of human life should only be held and violated by equally strong hands.
The weak armed themselves with dark alleys and knives and preyed on those weaker than themselves: there was no interest in a clash of will against will, in the taking of a power that had not yet been known, of a murder of something more base than oneself. Children, for instance, Alastor veered away from entirely, only growing close to some of them by murdering their abusers. Children's souls weighed heaviest of all and had the most possibility of becoming heavier as time wore on.
He had known this from how their deaths flashed by in the eyes of their predators — taking a child's life was like an illness that never went away, chronic and endless and putrefying. There was never an excuse to kill a child, after all, but there was a great deal to murder an adult. Alastor had found, with a knowing satisfaction, since he had suspected it all along, that there were souls that, as he took them, felt not just lighter, but like they took away the weight of lesser killings.
'If you kill a killer, the amount of killers in the world stays the same', he had heard some blithering idiot or other says. What a ridiculous statement! When one could go around killing dozens of killers, and replacing the darkness they occupied in the world.
A terrible excuse to look the other way, to keep one's hands clean, all through the warped lens of some shitty morality. Alastor did not need such frivolous values. He suspected this very nature of his, his ease in killing and measuring lives, to be part of the reason he failed, on a deeper level, to connect with human beings.
This detachment and misanthropy had never bothered him, especially when he had been mostly human, in his younger years, when it never would've occurred to him to doubt his humanity truly. But as time would have it, he looked at himself in the mirror one day and wondered where his human face had gone.
It was troubling: not because he had any desire for stupid morality, but because he doubted whether he should be so upright and steadfast in his values if they did not wholly belong to a human being. He thought about what had happened with Anthony, since even through time and distance, his brain always veered back to Anthony.
Had he been more human, would he have been able to continue with him? To understand him better? Would he have been able to make better decisions, to make things turn out just right? He wondered, he worried, and in the middle he killed.
Through it all, he also flourished. Alastor was in the prime of his life, and after his little spell through the Louisiana countryside, whenever anyone met him, their eyes almost fell away from how brightly he blossomed. Yes, anyone could see Alastor was at his peak, and he was a sight to behold, he he knew it himself.
He could feel people staring even more had before, curious, itching, like he was glowing for a show. And Alastor felt about as good as he looked, too.
Or as good as anyone carrying such darkness could feel, at his heights in more ways than just one. His killings, of late, had felt purer and more unadulterated than ever, comparable in his mind only to his first kill, Carmelita's family.
They had been so satisfying to murder, because he knew how terrible they were, how much death and pain they deserved, and there wasn't a doubt in his mind, not a single shadow of hesitation. He wasn't the type of person to doubt himself, most of the time, even when he took part in smaller kills, like rapists and prostitute murderers, the satisfaction was never quite as profound as it had been that first night. Base killers wrought base feelings, they were always perverse, but not as deeply as others could be.
He found, much to his pleasure, that killing mafia bosses and their cronies was the only thing that even came close to pure killings. He looked at it in this way: sins were like spices, ingredients, that could be made to tamper a meal's taste, add to it, or subtract from it.
Contrary to what other people might've believed, the best-tasting people were those that were riddled by sin, because there was no pure flesh that was going to waste. A complex dish, a complex mind. These mafiosos had accumulated sins and unnatural violence like they were trophies, and in every single one of their skins and blood, he could feel their crimes, their monstrosities, much more unwound and unleashed than anybody else's.
The murderers he picked up off the street had the banal taste of a desperate, unfulfilled desire to control, to hurt, and it was always an uncooked feeling. These men? They had rape and murder and every terrible thing etched into their flesh and life as though they were tattoos. Alastor feasted, and his skin glowed as if he had suddenly gone on a detox diet. And detox he did. However, there was a single pesky side effect to feeling like he was also at his physical prime.
For the most part, his cannibalistic lifestyle, his magic, his secrets, and grime, had not exactly helped him in the way of physical prosperity. It wasn't that he had ever felt bad, but he certainly never felt like those people in commercials that were running around the woods after drinking a green tea looked, like the dark rotten coil in his stomach would never let him build muscle, or rest well. But he was doing both of those things, now. He had already gotten compliments on his physique, subtly enhancing it for the better.
But with great physical health, his mind annoyingly wanted to catch up. As such, every single night, even though he was sleeping quite well, Alastor was confronted with thoughts of his… feelings. Of course, he knew that he still had some of them, otherwise, he never would've been so influenced by Anthony, but to be so bombarded by them constantly was a nuisance.
He would keep on trying to get his brain to shut up, but it would stay on, pounding him with these philosophical questions as to whether he was a monster, and whether a monster was able to philosophize on humanity, at all. He frequently thought of Anthony, of how he had hurt him, of the things that he could've done differently, and how to avoid such situations in the future, even though he knew that he would never find someone like Anthony again, and had ruined his only opportunity with him.
And yet… He also thought of the girl that he had seen in his vision when he had gone to visit Adelaide. She had been so beautiful, and her expression had been so particular. Alastor had only ever seen it like in Anthony. This was not to say that Anthony and this girl were similar in any way aside from their general pallor and white-blonde hair, but that both of them had the expression of particular people.
And that was the best way that Alastor found to describe it. Very particular people, with specific types of personalities that he had never known existed before.
To him, most people existed in their shades of grey, black, and sometimes beige when they were particularly boring. But Anthony? He shone all over with his colors, pale pink, cream, frilly laces, and strawberries and champagne. He hadn't fully been able to see how this girl carried her colors, but he was certain that she did, and was striking in herself.
And yet he found that whenever he thought about this girl for a particularly long period, he almost felt guilty. It was like it betrayed Anthony. It was ridiculous, of course, because Anthony no longer cared about him, and he had been forced to give him up.
Besides, betray him in what way? Alastor guiltily thought that he knew the answer to that question, and simply didn't want to answer it. But to him, even though he had more or less resigned herself to not being with Anthony if that was what he wished, he had always understood that Anthony would be the only one.
Even if Anthony didn't believe that he was loyal to him, or that he cared about him at all, Alastor himself fully understood the depths into which his feelings ran, what he would've done for Anthony, things he would never do for anyone else.
And now a space had been opening up in his heart, for a mirage, no less — though, in its time, Anthony himself had been a mirage until he materialized in real life several years later. He felt it was treacherous like he was now truly committing a wrong towards Anthony.
He would've been fine thinking that Anthony hated him, but knowing deep down that he had taken care of him, and never betrayed him in his soul. But now it felt more like a betrayal that he was making, and it stung even deeper.
It was ridiculous, too, because he didn't know this girl, had never really seen her in his life, and when he remembered how he felt for Anthony before he met him, he knew that he would've never been able to guess what Anthony's personality was like just from the image that he had had.
So, really, what was there to feel guilty about? Still, the matter haunted him, and he felt it to be the only blemish in his otherwise perfectly, blooming garden. To make matters worse, he had no one to speak to, at least not honestly. He had no friends now that Anthony's entourage had left together with him, and even then they were always more Anthony's friends than they had ever been his.
He knew that he would never be able to pose a question like 'Do you think a monster can do good, that they can make things better?', much less a question along the lines of 'What does it mean if a drug trip shows you a person you will probably meet in the future, and now the person who holds your heart has to make space and hold it together with someone else, that probably doesn't exist yet?' It was impossible to conceive even for him.
What human friend could he possibly turn to for a matter like this? Deep down, he knew, and like any other healthy person, avoided it until it was biting at his heels. One day, he just caved in and called Adelaide. He felt silly calling her randomly for this type of thing, just to ask her about… about a heart's woe, he thought contemptuously. Especially with the intense reunion that they had had a few weeks ago, it was almost embarrassing to have to turn to her for such matters.
But that last conversation he had had with her was cemented in his mind. She had asked him, in her big house, with only the flies and the animals to take care of, whether he felt lonely. Alastor might have lived in the city, crawling with insectile human beings, but he was probably much lonelier than Adelaide and her animals, especially now with Harry gone.
Having gifted Harry to Adelaide was the only thing that consoled him to something of a right to call Adelaide now, even though he was aware she was probably always put on edge whenever she thought or interacted with him. Pacing with uncharacteristic flightiness, he held his landline to his ear and waited for Adelaide to pick up the phone.
It was truly a wonder he had been able to pay for a phone service in the middle of buttfuck-nowhere, but he had paid the tech guy extra plus a little magic to get it done. He almost wished he hadn't, and by the third ring, prayed that Adelaide would not pick up. But she did. "Hello?" Came her voice, already suspicious.
He doubted anyone other than himself called her on this phone and thought with some amusement that it probably would've been easier to just enchant two mirrors and communicate in that way.
He didn't use the landline for anyone else, either. "Adelaide," he said, perking up, a little nervous, stupidly. "Alastor," she said with a breath as if she didn't know. "How's Harry?" He asked, incapable of jumping straight to it. He could hear Adelaide's frown through the phone. "Fat. Spoiled. Did y'really call because of the cat?" She asked, evidently trying to soften her tone.
It was incredible to Alastor that despite her nature, and even though she suspected his foul activities, she still tried and maintained a certain level of empathy towards him.
But it was always hard for him to talk to her because he never knew just how far she allowed her sympathy to go. "No, I didn't," he admitted, resigned. "I didn't think so," she sighed, and there was a small silence in which she realized he was hard to get the truth out of, always had been. "I assume this the same reason you came out here t'other day?" She sounded like she had sat down, and Alastor dared himself to hope that she was lending herself to this conversation.
Perhaps, deep down, she had been expecting it from the day that he appeared on her doorstep, and was always wondering when he would have the guts to address it. "I guess," Alastor mumbled, feeling like a child again. It was ridiculous — he had been a teenager when Adelaide was a kid, but now she felt and acted older than him.
She also looked older than him, unsettlingly enough. He suspected that was one of the reasons why they had always felt a little out of place with one another they did not look at their parts. After all, Adelaide had grown and soured and Alastor had been pickled and preserved and snipped off all life in the process. "So, what is it?" Adelaide asked, sounding more like she was trying to seem annoyed, and curious. "I…" Alastor sighed, wondering at himself for gossiping on the phone with Adelaide like they were two teenage girls. "Back in the day…" he swallowed uncomfortably. "I saw someone.
In a vision, I suppose." Adelaide was silent on the other end, waiting. "And then I met them in real life, years after, and they…" "Did you break their heart, or did they break yours?" Adelaide asked, as if she understood everything perfectly from his scarce descriptions, even the time-warp part.
He supposed she had been raised around monosyllabic people, and had learned to read them quite well. "Both. I think, though, it was mostly my fault." "Hm." "And then, the other day, when I went to visit you, I saw another person." "I see," Adelaide considered for a bit. "You think you'll… also meet them, eventually?" "I have a feeling I will, and that I won't be able to stop them from influencing me as much as Anthony is influencing me right now," he blurted out thoughtlessly. He stopped.
He had said Anthony's name out loud, more than that, he had confessed both to Adelaide and himself how much of an influence he had on him, the depth of his emotion. He realized he had never spoken it out loud before, much less to another person, and the statement was so startling and so truthful it took his breath for a second.
He would've been lying if he said that he didn't fear what Adelaide thought: she was a kind person, but this was the 1920s, not exactly progressive land. But if she minded, or judged him, or thought anything strange of his deep relationship to another man, she said nothing. "You don't want 'em to influence you?" She finally asked, and her innocent question put his mind a little at ease.
He felt slightly guilty for doubting her. "I don't. But it's not something I can… control," he admitted reluctantly, "even if I wanted to." He gritted his teeth. "That's not what weighs on me." "So, what's it that's weighing on you?" He swallowed.
He thought that talking about his feelings was not the worst bit, but rather feeling himself a buffoon for being incapable of explaining them properly was. "Is it… wrong? I, I can't forget Anthony, and he's just… there.
He doesn't want anything to do with me, not anymore, but I still… but even with him there, this other person, I can feel them looming over me, inevitable, I couldn't remove them, either, even if I wanted to.
But it feels wrong, you know? Like a betrayal." He concluded, breathless. He was certain that at least half of the things that he said were incomprehensible, and that the other half were so cringy that Adelaide would simply put down the phone and decide never to talk to him again just because of how pathetic and stupid he was being.
He was not accustomed to talking about his feelings. And then, terribly, Adelaide paused before replying to him. He feared the worst, feared that she would suddenly make a mockery of him, taking his stupid words and throwing them back into his face.
But her next sentence gave him pause. "You believe in soulmates, Alastor?" "What?" "Soulmates," she repeated, annoyance finally shining through. "You believe in 'em?" "I- I don't think I've thought of the matter much," he managed to say. "I have," she said, not a trace of shame in her voice.
She spoke of the subject just as matter-of-factly as she did anything. "Lots of myths, you know, surrounding soulmates. Some say humans were once two-headed and had four arms and four legs, and then some god or other split 'em apart and left them wandering 'bout, always looking for each other. Ever hear of the red string of fate?" "I… I have," he said.
It was a fairly common tale, the red string tying to one of your fingers, the other end tied to another's. "Bunch of bullshit, seems to me," she said sighing, almost like she had been aching to tell someone her theories.
Alastor was glad her thoughts were so concocted and waited anxiously for her to impart wisdom. "Ain't nobody able to say what a soul is, Alastor, Have you ever thought about what a soul is?" "I have." "And what's your thoughts?"
He paused. "I think it's impossible to define. Each one fits and fills a person's body differently, makes them act and feel, and propels them in different ways. I don't think a soul can be taken out of a body, though. I don't think a body can be taken out of a soul." "I agree, to a point," she said thoughtfully. "That every soul is different, that ain't nobody able to define it, and nobody able to define what happens when you love someone, neither.
Seems to me that love between souls is past whatever anyone could ever understand, like taking two impossible things and being able to tell they're mixing, but never what they mixing into. You know?" "I think I understand what you mean," Alastor said cautiously, but he still failed to see how it was relevant to his predicament, precisely. "Alastor, you think your soul's dark, don't you?" She suddenly asked. Alastor looked down at his shoes, ashamed. He wished he had Harry with him.
Being with something pure always made him feel better. "Yes," he whispered into the phone. "I think mine is, too." He gave a start. Little Adelaide? "What? Adelaide, you—" "Shut it, Cormier. It's been a long time, you don't know me anymore." Silence fell over him. "I can't tell whether I'm right. No matter how convinced you are, even you can't say what your soul looks like, can you?" "I suppose not," he said.
It seemed different however, whatever Adelaide had done to make herself believe she had a rotten soul, it surely could not compare to all the things he had done. "Can't define it, can't know what it's really like, you think you can understand how it loves? Who does it choose to love? Much less whether that love is good?
Bah! I bet you can't even tell me what's good and what's bad. We all just talkin' bout some bullshit we'll never get." "I-" "You think something so vast, and ununderstandable," (he thought she meant incomprehensible, but still), "loves in just one way?
It might be love once in a lifetime, or twice, maybe an endless 'amount of times. Each might be different, each might be the same. My theory, Alastor, is that soulmates exist, and there are as many of them as there are souls, probably more. I think it's probably rare to have just one soulmate than to have two, for example.
And ain't no soul untainted, 'except maybe animals and kids, but nobody else's. But it's not just good people that make good love.
Pure love can always come out of any soul, like trees, and if you grow the two of them with care, genuine care, ain't nothing wrong with having two trees, two flowers, two loves." Alastor had forgotten to let out a breath as she spoke, forgotten to be cold, forgotten to see himself as anything other than a monster. Her words rang with truth, and he remembered the Cormiers.
They had been soul-bound, he was certain, even in the rotten corruption of the black magic they had dealt. But their love had grown strong and beautiful when it touched him. Adelaide was done with her explanation, and he could hear the hesitation in her voice, as if she was unsure whether she had managed to properly say what she thought, to express a theory she had doubtlessly thought a lot of well.
But she had reached far deeper within him than she could conceive. "I… I think I understand what you mean, Adelaide," he said softly and almost felt her relaxing on the other end of the line.
She could tell from his tone that he had felt what she'd said, entirely. "Good. I don't think I can ever say the same things twice, so I couldn't repeat it even if I wanted to." Alastor smiled a little, and let a pressure lift from his chest. "You don't have to." "If you say so. Got a gator to feed, and a pansy cat.
You needin' anything else?" She grumbled. "No, no. Thank you for…" he trailed. "Thank you, Adelaide." "Don't mention it," she said, and not as a way of speech. She hung up the phone. With her words rolling around in his stomach, settling something deep and still like a well within him, he walked over to the window, feeling that things were suddenly exceedingly clear.
He felt he didn't have to analyze and turn over every feeling, and every future phantom of a feeling, he could just feel them, and do his best with the love his soul gave him, even if it was black and rotten all over.
He hadn't asked her if a rotten tree could bear healthy fruit, but she would've just said he had no way of knowing whether his soul truly was what he thought it was, no way to know what color and purity the love that grew from it was.
The thought was disconcerting, like he would rather know for a certainty that he was a monster, rather than face the possibility of being human. He looked out his apartment window at the busy streets, thinking of the souls he had chased to hell, and the ones clambering around New Orleans. How many would be touched by him, sentenced by him?
Which one would eventually race and trace his way down to the underground? Somewhere in the city, a love that had grown from his soul twitched. Somewhere deep in hell, the seed of love also twitched, not yet forged, still uncorrupted.
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Author's note And this chapter lady and gentleman is why don't you just don't assume something about the story unless you're the author