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“She wasn’t his to take!” Alastor snarled, thrusting the knife down into the lifeless body beneath him. “Not his! He had no right! No goddamn right I said!” Again, the hunter’s blade was driven down with incredible force, this time hitting and shattering bone. He ripped the knife out, swinging it wildly like a madman, with an enraged scowl he flung it off into the mess of the surrounding swamp. He glared up at the moon, its rays mocking him through the twisted swamp branches, like a spotlight for his tragic performance to the powers above. “Tell God to fashion another one of his own Angels if he desires one so desperately! My wife was mine!” His bloody hands tangled themselves in his hair, his breaths came out uneven and strained, gasping. He ripped at the strands, feral eyes darting to and fro around him, as if searching for her. Half of him desperately, beggingly, believing his plea towards the heavens had been enough to convince them to return his love. He shrilled again, “She was mine!” the pain verberated in his speech, echoing in the lonely swamp around him.
His hands shook with hysteria that crawled down his body mirroring the thick, red liquid that coated him. “I’ll never see her again.” He whispered, the ghost of a whimper chasing the words as they left his throat, “I only got to have her for this lifetime, and you ripped her from me, early.”
The livid man stalked over to the mangled body, now so desecrated it was nearly unrecognizable as a person and more closely resembled a terrible mess of flesh and sinew, teeth and bone. He snatched what looked to be the remains of an arm in both hands, and with adrenaline-fueled rage he ripped it clean off, “the only person I could ever love,” he hissed. Snapping the arm and tossing it aside, “my time with her was short enough as it was. One lifetime was what I was promised when I took your Holy vows with her. Now you steal even that away from me, send her up to the Holy Gates, somewhere you knew a damned creature like me could never follow! And now…”
Again, he spun around to stare defiantly at the heavens who sneered down at him. “You torment me. Every morning, for a fleeting moment, I forget. After I open my eyes, the reality of her absence hits me anew. You return her to me, only to cruelly underscore that she's no longer mine! Every day, in every place!" His voice, hoarse with grief and strain, continued, "I glimpse her in the flowers beyond our window while sipping my coffee. She appears in the storefronts on my way to work. Her voice whispers in the breeze, and her hands lightly rest on my shoulders as I record. Yet... when I reach out to embrace her, she vanishes.”
His rage flared again, with a final cry of fury toward the sky he bellowed, “I loved her!” He raged–smiling wickedly, a wry, twisted, and terrifying sight–feral and wild. “And she loved me!”
Alastor glanced back at the mangled mess beneath him, sorrow swimming through his veins like insidious parasites. “Please… return her to me.” He whispered, “You know I cannot follow her up to where she’s gone.” And divine beings looked down at him with eerie smiles, correct he was. Alastor could never pass into the Silver City. No, not a wretched, wicked, and vile creature as he.