Blackbird

Jeepers

Starlight outlines the canopy’s shape overhead. Full moon, not a cloud in the sky. It’s a gorgeous night. In spite of the circumstances, Alastor can’t help but carefully take the view in. He was always appreciative of the little things.  

Now wasting precious seconds content with such a nothing sentiment. 

The freshly disturbed soil is cool and soft. Nearly comfortable. Irritation builds as he continues to be distracted from the moment. Leaves and foliage crunch with each footstep near his head, the cause pacing in circles just past his line of sight. Inconsiderate prick. 

Blood fills his lungs and throat far faster than he can cough it up. Of course his body still reflexively tries. Warmth spreads more and more across his chest with every exhale, pouring equally from his mouth and wound pierced through the sternum. 

It’s far from the first time that Alastor has heard such sounds. He always felt he’d be above those miserable animals when his time came. But the surge of adrenaline makes his body betray him. Crushing humiliation burns deep inside as his own voice desperately chokes out inaudible pleas. 

Insect chirps, air flowing through the trees, as well as the footsteps all begin to fade away. Soon replaced by a deafening, unfamiliar sound. Almost like running water, but it hurts. 

A shape steps into view. It’s too dark to make out the idiot’s face, but his figure is clear with the moonlight above. From somewhere within the rush of noise in Alastor’s ears, the panicked rambling nearly starts to make sense. 

“What’s your name? Maybe I could… Oh my God. I’m so sorry, I swear to God I thought you were a…”

Alastor doesn’t entertain the question with a response. There isn’t anyone worth giving the big news to either way. The man keels over, sobbing to a degree that he gags. 

“What am I gonna do? What the fuck do I do?” He parrots on an infuriating loop. 

You could shut the hell up, at least spare me of your whining if nothing else. Alastor would like to say if he weren’t drowning. 

It’s difficult to tell if the man became quiet, or if Alastor’s hearing had finally gone. Grasping at the fabric of his coat takes a tremendous effort now, his extremities alight with pins and needles. 

The stars that had brought him comfort a mere moment ago begin to sway and distort in a nauseating fashion. He blinks over and over to correct his vision but it’s useless. No air at all enters as he inhales, just an excruciating cycle of moving blood in and out. 

“Sorry… So fucking sorry.” The hunter blubbers.

Those words precede a cold pressure just between Alastor’s eyes. Proper sight isn’t needed, he’s intimately familiar with the barrel of a hunting rifle. An all consuming wave of anger follows. 

Dying here, like this. What a pathetic end. The very most stubborn and proud parts of Alastor fill his mind with nothing but the desire to take the hunter with him. 

Memories don’t flash before his eyes, no regrets, no grief over what could have been. What a joke. 

Fuck you… 

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. 

Fuck you.  

Alastor’s inner voice repeats the sentiment like a broken record. Maybe one’s final thoughts ought to have more meaning than that. More refinement.