A Deer in Headlights || Alastor the Radio Demon

A Deer in Headlights

Prologue

The first thing she felt was the cold, metal tip of the gun pressed against the back of her head. She heard the words 'don't move,' but her body was already frozen like a deer in headlights.

Move! Run! She screamed at herself, but she couldn't even if she tried. Why was she frozen? Why couldn't she react? It seemed that the only thing she could do was stand there, like a deer, waiting to be hit by the speeding car.

"I— if you move," the gunman stuttered, "I— I— I'll shoot you. Under— understand?" His voice shook with apprehension, and so did the heavy tip of the gun. "Don't... don't make this harder than it has to be..."

"I don't have money," was the first thing to leave (Y/n)'s mouth as she raised her hands as slow as she could, "I'm only here to drop off my mail. My- my wallet is at home. I— I could— I could go get it for you if you want-"

"That's not what I'm here for," the gunman cried. He almost sounded choked up—like tears were welling in his eyes. "I have to do this," he stressed with a trembling quiver in his voice.

It was then that it clicked for (Y/n): the man wasn't there to rob her or mug her or assault her. He was there to kill her. But why? She couldn't help but wonder. What had she done?

"My name is (Y/n) (L/n)," she suddenly spat out. The gunman mumbled in confusion, but (Y/n) knew she couldn't stop. "I own a tailor shop on Johnson street. I-it's the one with the broken awning. I've been meaning to fix it, but I haven't had the money to recently."

She felt the gunman falter for a second as he screamed at her, "What are you- what are you talking about?!" The tip of his gun had lost contact with her skull for just a moment before it pushed it back onto her.

"My-my favorite color is red," she continued, speaking so fast she wasn't even sure if her words were coherent, "I like apple-red more than burgundy, but burgundy more than crimson."

It was then that the gunman realized what she was doing, and it hit him like a freight train. She was trying to humanize herself in his eyes. And it was working. "Stop it," he nearly begged.

"Can you tell the difference, sir? Between the reds?"

Despite her frozen, petrified body, the only thing that could move was her mouth as she spoke to save her life.

"Stop it."

"I think that crimson is a nice color, but much too dark, like blood-"

"Shut it!" the gunman screamed at her, throwing her to the ground, hoping it would shut her up. But it didn't. In fact, it only made things worse; for he could now see her face as she looked up at him with a petrified gaze.

"My name is (Y/n) (L/n)!" she cried, trying to inch her way away from him, but it was no use. She could see him now, just as he could see her. Despite his tall height, he looked boyish—young. He couldn't have been older than 19. He was scrawny and thin, like if he were to fire that gun, he'd fly away. (Y/n) couldn't help but wonder, why was a boy like him doing this? "I live in my tailor shop on Johnson street," she cried out to him, hoping that he heard her pleas, "I live alone. I have no husband, no kids... no family... nobody..." She trailed off, almost getting lost in her own sadness and almost forgetting her fear.

"Please, stop," cried the gunman. His voice broke and cracked alongside his heart with every word she uttered. He glanced at her face for only a moment before gritting his teeth. She had such a sweet face. A face so sweet, so caring, the gunman dared to say it rivaled his very own twin sister's.

"I— I have a pet pig at home," (Y/n) exclaimed, tears nearly welling in her eyes at the thought of not returning home to him, "My neighbors gave him to me last year before they moved away. They— they told me his name was Gordito. It means little fatty in Spanish, but I've been calling him Fat Nuggets!"

Watching the gunman choke back tears, (Y/n) knew he no longer saw her as prey, but human now. "Stop!" he desperately and hoarsely begged with painful tears pooling his in guilt-ridden eyes. His voice ran across every wall of the night's empty town, but alas, no one heard a thing.

"Just let me see my pig! Please!" she begged.

"I— I have to do this!" he argued.

"I need to go home and feed him! Please, let me go home to feed him!"

"Shut up!"

"Please! He is my only family, I—!"

"SHUT UP!"

A gun shot rang out across the town, the sound bouncing off each and every building which surrounded them, yet nobody awoke from their deep, deep slumber.

(Y/n) was dead before her head hit the ground. Crimson colored blood leaked from the gaping hole between her glossy eyes which stared up into the night's sky until someone would close them for her.

The gunman was frozen in place. Every muscle in his body had turned to stone and he could not move. It was his turn to be petrified. His ears rang from the sound. Even the loudest howl of the wind could not penetrate the ringing. The smoke from the gun had long blown out before he finally came to and realized what he'd done. "Fuck! No, no, no... I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," he sobbed as his legs crumbled beneath him, "I didn't want to, I promise! I had to. I had to. I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry..." He could no longer bear to stand.

From behind a nearby building, a man stepped out followed by several men. He wore a suit, one so expensive that only the highest class individuals could afford. And when he spoke, his Italian accent leaked through every word. "Attaboy, Anthony," he praised with a smirk.

But the gunman, Anthony, could not hear any of the words coming out from that man's mouth. All of that for an initiation? Sure, his father was proud, but was he?

He watched his father's men drag the poor woman's limp body before chucking her into a dumpster. Her blood stained the sidewalk, but he knew that by the time the sun rose, someone would have taken care of it by then.

As Anthony stared daggers into the dumpster, only two words repeated in his mind: Johnson Street.

She lived on Johnson Street. In the tailor with the broken awning.

Anthony found the building easily. There were suits and dresses in the window of the darkened business, but that was about as much life as he could see inside. He tried the doorknob and, to his surprise, it was unlocked. Though, it really shouldn't have surprised him. She was only dropping off her mail; she expected to be back within ten minutes.

He could see everything playing out in her tailor as if it were a silent film. Each imperfection was a glimpse into her life: the unfinished dress pinned together on a mannequin beside her sewing machine, the pencil that laid on the desk just an inch away from the pencil cup, and, of course, the broken awning outfront. 

There was a bell that rang loudly upon the opening of the door, and as soon as that bell rang, a pig's squealing soon followed after. Its fat little legs stumbled down the creaky, wooden stairs before landing at Anthony's feet. "Are you Fat Nuggets..?" he could hardly muster.

The fat little piggy's head tilted in confusion and Anthony could almost hear him think, you're not my owner...

"I'm so sorry, Fat Nuggets," the boy sobbed, falling to his knees before the pig, "I'll take care of him for you, (Y/n) (L/n). I promise."