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Alastor would be coming soon.
They just knew it.
Or at least he better be.
The corner of their eye twitched as they glanced to the side, the clock telling them jeeringly that the man was uncharacteristically late. They weren’t sure exactly what was occurring with their best friend, but lately he’d been acting… odd. Or, well, weirder than usual. At least, around them.
Ever since that night where they’d danced drunkenly, each whispering sweet compliments in the other's ear– leaning closer than friends should– he’d been different. That night wasn’t their proudest moment. Nothing like that night had happened before, even while influenced by the slow buzz of alcohol, and they had almost said something so inappropriately close to affection– something loving– before they had stopped themselves. Yes… not their proudest moment. Embarrassing, really.
But now he was peculiarly distant with them. He avoided physical contact with them in subtle ways which they wouldn’t have noticed had they not known him so well. He had this new uneasy air around him that only seemed present when in their proximity. He carefully avoided eye contact too, choosing instead to gaze at some unidentifiable point behind them. And when Al did choose to finally look at them, it was with this unnerving stare that made them think he was attempting to decipher an incredibly frustrating puzzle and they were a piece that didn’t quite fit.
It made Y/N restless– all these new strange changes to the friend they’d known for years. Whenever they endeavored to pry some sort of answer out of him for this change, he expertly steered the conversation away. The irritating man. Always knew how to distract them.
But he couldn’t run now. They’d asked him yesterday afternoon to stop by for breakfast the next day and he’d agreed. And, of course Alastor would never go back on his word— especially to them.
Their hands, clasped on their table, shook a moment before they stilled them. Once again, they glanced at their damn clock, mockingly proclaiming once again that he was rather late. Their lips twitched down with a touch of a frown. The faint jazz from their radio on their kitchen counter swirled through the air, peaceful in the quiet. Their eyes stubbornly continued to stare toward their front door.
He would be coming. He was their best friend. He wouldn’t just… abandon them.
It’s happened before, their treacherous mind murmured.
Nostrils flaring, they tightened their grip on their hands. Their eyes narrowed and they refused to look back at the clock instead of the door they knew he would be walking through. Any minute now he’d slam the door open and dramatically proclaim his arrival, all while lifting his arms wide in a theatrical fashion, as if he were declaring the entrance of a king. Any minute now…
Jazz fluttered around them like chattering birds, demanding their attention much in the same way he did. They persisted with studying their birch wood door. The wood was looking a bit dim, dull, as if it needed a shine. Absentmindedly, they noted the need to polish their door.
Any minute now…
Sudden static burst through the silence and startled them, causing them to snap their head toward the small radio. A second later, a man’s grating voice cut in:
“Breaking news! A new body has been found within the shadowy depths of the bayou!”
They perked up and instantly shifted their body away from the door and toward the side, to where the radio was placed on their kitchen counter.
The serial killer haunting New Orleans had been on a bit of a murder spree lately. There was no telling what the murderer was thinking, in his twisted, sick mind, but the new murders had been more brutal than usual. And, despite being horrified by the actions of the monster, Y/N couldn’t help but wonder why. When commenting about that to Alastor, he’d merely mumbled something about how “perhaps the fellow simply has a lot on his mind” before downing his coffee, lighting a cigarette, and promptly changing the topic.
He’d been drinking a lot more coffee and smoking recently. Now that they thought about it, they hoped he wasn’t sick… he looked so exhausted these days.
“We believe the body is that of the killer himself!”
Gasping in disbelief, they shot up from their chair, hands slapping down on their table. Their eyes widened as their thoughts began to race.
The serial killer? Killed? But he seemed to be so careful! In fact, the only thing the damn useless police had been smart enough to glean was that the serial killer was male. Just how in the world was such a skilled murderer killed?
“A local hunter and his dogs mistook him for a deer and shot him down while he’d been disposing of a new victim,” the man went on, voice an irritating trill that did not at all sound as pleasant as Alastor’s was when he was on air.
Good riddance, they scoffed, settling back slowly on their chair. The serial killer had caused nothing but paranoia and anxiety for them. Mostly they’d been concerned about their best friend. The man certainly seemed to enjoy being out late for whatever reason. It was why they usually took to accompanying him. Though… now he politely rejected their offers of companionship.
With a sigh, they placed their chin on their palm, elbow propping them up. What had Al so on edge? They were best friends– joined at the hip ever since they’d boldly punched him for calling them a crumb when they first officially met.
A slow, fond smile crept its way onto their lips at the memory. He’d looked so shocked, affronted even, as if no one had the audacity to lay a hand on him in such a way before. Stumbling back, clutching his stomach, his round glasses askew, he’d stared at them– wheezing– eyes wide in utter astonishment and, surprisingly, fascination.
They couldn’t help but think, for the hundredth time– each time their inner voice becoming more and more soft: what an unusual man.
They snuck a glance back at their door. Then at their increasingly taunting clock. Then sighed once again. A breeze of heat suddenly swept through their window, warning them of the impending New Orleans blaze.
“The body of the killer has since been identified as one Alastor– the famous radio host.”
Their blood turned to ice.
“It was turned into the police station by the heroic Mr. Lliam, the hunter, last night.”
Their breath vanished.
“Investigators have since identified the body as Mr. Alastor and have also searched his residence in town.”
Their hands tightly gripped their hair, knuckles turning white, face turning an even more ghostly, sick shade.
“They have found several of the murder weapons used on various victims in the past within a safe found in his house.”
A scream was trapped in their throat– caged deep within them with no hopes of escaping. Panicked short gasps escaped their lips, chest heaving; rapidly, they stood up and felt the increasing urge to vomit, head dizzy. Their eyes were so wide a small part of them worried they were going to pop out and fall onto the floor; tears were streaming so quickly they felt they would drown in them.
They slammed their fists down on the table, making it shudder. Cold agony ripped through their fists at the rough, painful motion. They banged their fists onto it again, harder, abruptly wishing to smash the entire furniture to pieces. Hot fury suddenly rippled through them and they hurled their chair away from them. It emitted a deafening crash as it connected heavily with the wall.
The scream finally wrenched itself free and tore through their kitchen, echoing into the deep corners of their house that they knew they’d never be as familiar with as the ones in Alastor’s home.
With a sickening thud, they fell to the floor, staring, dazed up at the ceiling.
Alastor.
The serial killer.
Their best friend.
Dead.
A serial killer– the serial killer. The one who’d been terrorizing New Orleans. Killed.
He was the one who struck down and murdered all those people. Covered his tracks in the bayou while expertly avoiding the authorities. He was the one who stabbed poor Johnny. Who dismembered miserable Harry. Who slammed an axe into unfortunate Peter. Who–
They took a shuddering breath, feeling their shoulders shake.
Alastor.
The same man who had reached out to the eccentric person who asked too many questions. The man who smiled so brightly and laughed goodnaturally at their frustration. Who could distract them with ease yet answer their strangest musings with warmth. Who engaged with their hobby of cooking despite the bittersweetness they knew he felt due to his mother. The man who didn’t hesitate to assure them that he didn’t mind their unconventional mind– who asked them to never change their loquaciousness. Who defended them with a fiery protectiveness. The same man who held them as they danced and whispered sweet praises and endearments to their name.
Alastor.
He… wasn’t coming.
Blankly, expression empty and dead, they turned to once again look at their birch door. Then at their clock.
He was never coming.
The radio, which had muffled into the background, suddenly cut out, the man’s aggravating voice silencing. A second later, the sound of smooth, elegant jazz drifted into the heavily soundless air.
It was so jarring, so wrong to hear the music simply… begin. There had been no pleasant hum of an enthusiastic man explaining the song with his smooth transatlantic accent. No bubbly laugh as the radio host once again apologized for being too passionate and keeping his beloved listeners from hearing the tune themselves. It was… empty. There was no heart. There was no soul. It was… it was horribly wrong.
Like a zombie, they slowly stood up. Their legs shook as they took several steps forward. Something seemed to squeeze at their insides viciously, but they ignored it.
Their hands were steady as they gripped their radio. They drifted to their front door, unwavering. With a calm determination, they twisted the door knob, face eerily serene. Then, with all their heart, all their strength, they flung the radio out the door.
The music warped with the quick movement. The jazz morphed into something distorted. The cheerful tune suddenly came to an abrupt stop as it hit the floor. They watched as it shattered. Listened to it break. Stared as it lay there, unfixable, on the pavement.
Lifeless, it stayed there. In pieces. Completely silent and broken.