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All Trevor Belmont wanted was silence of the mind.
A time when he didn't hear the screams. A time when he could forget exactly what it sounded like when his brothers and sisters' screams went from terrified pleading to shrieks of agony. Could forget the roar and crackle of the fire that consumed his home, his family, their servants. Could forget when the screaming stopped and the only noise was the fire and the jeering mob that started it.
He wanted to forget the sight, pretend like that the blaze of yellow, white, and blue wasn't burned into his mind like a brand. Pretend he hadn't caught a glimpse of someone – possibly his mother or one of his sisters or maybe even one of the servants – wreathed in flames, mouth open in a scream, body contorting in a twisted parody of a dance. Wished he could forget the faces of the mob that burned them. Those smug, pleased faces, so happy to watch people being burned alive. So happy to watch him cry, scream himself hoarse, and beg them not to do this.
So happy to inform him that once his family was dead, he was next. He could still hear the plans being made for his execution. They hadn't made up their minds before he had gotten away from them but all were in favor of something just as torturous and slow as the fire that killed his family. Not fire. They had seen fire. Him, they would see bleed.
He wished he could forget the smell. The stench of the smoke – sometimes even just a whiff of someone else's or his own fire was enough to fill his sleep with the roar of flames and agonized screams. Or the equally terrible stench of burning flesh. He has lost track of the number of times that someone simply cooking meat has made him vomit when the present smell shifted into the past smell.
He wanted time where he didn't hurt. When he didn't feel like someone had ripped chunks out of his heart and soul. Time when he could remember his father, his mother, his sisters, his brothers, the servants without also remembering their screams. Time when he didn't wish he had been home that terrible day so he could have died with them. Time when he didn't curse his own survival instincts and the trained martial prowess that allowed him to get away from his would-be murderers.
He wanted time when he didn't seethe with rage. Rage that wanted the entire world to burn, to hurt as badly as he did. Rage that wanted to hunt down his family's killers and see how they liked watching everyone they loved die. And not die cleanly either. In his darkest and most rage filled moments, he wanted those deaths to be as agonizing as the one they sentenced his family to. He wanted them to know what it was like to beg for the lives of their loved ones only to have that pleading cruelly ignored.
Fighting helped, especially fighting monsters. Monsters required more concentration and focus for him to beat than men. So much so that his mind couldn't focus on anything else. He could simply live in that moment. And he was allowed to kill monsters. It felt nice to be able to vent his fury, his pain on something.
But fighting wasn't enough. He never had trouble finding monsters to hunt, even when he wasn't looking for them. He also had regular encounters with thieves and murderers as well as the drunk and belligerent. But not regularly enough to keep his mind silent of the screams.
Alcohol could drown out the screams. It numbed the pain, muted the rage. Provided he got drunk enough. Which he couldn't always. The Belmont tolerance for alcohol was nearly as legendary as their battle prowess. Trevor had discovered he was no exception. It took either a lot or very strong alcohol to get him more than tipsy. Which often cost more coin than he was willing to spend.
Fortunately, he didn't always have to get completely drunk to get the silence he craved. He just needed to drink enough that either the tavern patrons decided to pick a fight with him or whatever monster was infesting this particular village decided he would be easy prey. Or he decided to pick a fight with something or someone.
He tried not to do the last one very often. Partially drunk him thought wrestling a werewolf was a good idea. It was not a good idea. He had won but he had also gotten pretty chewed up. Good thing Father's promise that as a Belmont, Trevor was immune to such curses, proved to be true. He didn't know why. It was something that Father was going to explain when he was older. Maybe he planned to explain it when Trevor returned from his first solo hunting mission.
Except by the time I returned from that mission, Father was dead or dying, Trevor thought. He grimaced and signaled for another drink. He had clearly not drunk enough if thoughts like that were parading around his head.