cupid clearly hates me.

[ 12 ]

☆ Alastor's POV, present tense

Staring down at my gloved hands, I realize how I'm feeling: absolutely bemused.

The thoughts in my mind are swirling like dust in a tornado, and I'm unable to grab onto a single one. They all just fly by, slickly escaping my grasp, only letting me consider them for a fleeting second before they disappear in the cavern of my memory once again.

I rake my fingers through my hair and over my ears, making them bend backwards slightly. I don't mind the feeling. It doesn't hurt.

I'm standing in the woods with the dead body of a freshly killed dear lying limp on the lush green grass beneath my feet. I killed it only seconds ago—it's my dinner.

(Y/N) is back at the house, doing Satan knows what. She was showering when I left, but it has been a while, so she might have gotten out already. Maybe she even fell asleep.

I hope she isn't scared or uncomfortable, being all alone in that big house of mine. I left her a note, telling her where I would be. I wish that I could be there with her now, kissing her and hearing her beautiful voice.

Gah, stop that! I tell myself, growling out loud. Stop thinking about her you obsessive creep.

After I heard her sing the chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody, with her voice flowing along with the hum of my piano tunes perfectly, I absolutely knew that there was something special about her.

She doesn't belong in hell.

But it's not only that—her personality is absolutely captivating. Plus, she has talent. She's special, and I told her that I thought so, too.

I just don't understand. I've never felt this way about someone before; it's completely new to me. I don't know how to handle it.

I just sigh and sit cross legged on the ground. There is a plate and silverware set up neatly on a small table nearby, ready for me to dine. But first, I have to do the dirty work; I must skin the dear and cut out the perfect slab of meat for my meal. It won't take very long—I have perfected the technique of preparing venison—and I eat fast.

(Y/N) thinks it is odd that I'm a cannibal. That is the sole reason why I always have, and always will, dine alone in these woods of mine. People are repulsed by me.

I am fine with it, really. Plus, eating by myself is peaceful.

☆

☆ Second person POV, past tense

Your body was covered in nothing but a soft white towel, which you found folded in the guest bedroom closet before you had gotten in the shower.

You had seen other things in the closet, too. Among those items was a shotgun (you were too scared to touch it), a vintage black dress (it was actually quite magnificent, with the silk on the bottom hanging down in flowery tendrils), other, more plain and modern clothes, a mannequin (strange, yes—surprising, no) and a box, which you had not opened, despite your burning curiosity.

Privacy, you had reminded yourself, staring down at the lidded cardboard box. This is still Alastor's house, not yours.

You hadn't grabbed any of the clothes out of the closet, but you were planning on getting some to change into after your shower.

But now there was no need for that.

Frowning skeptically, you saw the neatly folded pile of clothes sitting on the counter before you, right next to the bathroom sink. There was a small card-stock note stuck on top, folded into a little tent so that it stuck up and grabbed your attention.