The Crow

Chapter 6 (Alastor's story)

Alastor was born with blue eyes. They were the most beautiful blue he had ever seen. When his mother was dying, she told him that it would be okay, that he could look after her, because she loved him very much.

“We will go home soon,” she promised. She took his hand and squeezed it tight. “Your father and I will take care of you. We love you very much, my son.”
He smiled. Her skin felt warm and moist against his own cold palms. And then suddenly she died.
The last thing his father ever said to him was this: I love you. And then she was gone.

Alastor remembers every single detail. He remembers his father telling him stories of his family. How wonderful it was. How much they loved him. But Alastor was different.
Sometimes he couldn't sleep.

Sometimes he would wake up screaming, clutching at imaginary arms that didn't exist, crying out for help he could no longer hear. Other times, he would lie in bed wide awake for hours at a time, staring up at the ceiling until he fell asleep and dreamed. Dreams filled with blood and screams. Dreams of his father being shot dead. Dreams filled with people he'd never met. Dreams of a world where his mother was alive and well and living their life together, without ever having to worry about anything or anyone else except them. Dreams where Alastor never needed to kill anyone ever again.

He always woke up feeling scared. But sometimes, on particularly sleepless nights, he would sit in front of the mirror, tracing the patterns on his hands, trying to make sense of everything he saw there, trying to remember everything his mother used to tell him, try to imagine his parents sitting together on the couch, sharing a cup of tea and a piece of cake. Trying to understand what had happened, what had changed in this world. Trying to understand how he himself fitted into that world. Trying, desperately, to believe that maybe it was real.

But most of all, trying desperately not to let these thoughts take hold of him. This is the worst kind of torture for a young child. To wake up and know that things are not what they once were. That there's no way out of this. No escape.

But somehow, through those dreams, he got through it. Somehow, he became stronger, became capable of taking control of this nightmare, of keeping his heart beating and his breathing under control and not letting anything show on his face.
In a way, he thought, this was what he was meant to do. To survive. To thrive. So he pushed away all the pain.

Until now, of course. Until now, when he is faced with the reality of what has happened, of what he is. He doesn’t regret it. In fact, he welcomes it. But he also hates himself for it. And he fears what’s to come.