You arrive home earlier than he ever anticipates. You call his name and something answers in the form of a muffled sound behind the living room door, the kind of subtle thud followed by a startled scrape of metal that tells you someone moved too fast and didn’t mean to be heard.
You push the door open and your world tilts on its axis so violently it feels like gravity falters beneath your feet, because what greets you is the sight of your husband standing above a mutilated man. His sleeves are rolled neatly to his elbows, hands wrapped around something metal that he drops the instant your eyes meet.
His expression fractures. His smile, that perfect, polished, radio-host grin you have always found so charming, falters for the first time in his life. Then it stretches too wide as if held together by sheer will, never quite reaching his eyes, which are blown wide with something raw and unfiltered you have never seen on him: panic.
“Dearest,” he says and the word trembles, pitched just a shade too high, “you’re home early.”
He steps forward, his red covered hand lifting in that soft, reassuring gesture he always uses when you’re anxious, but the timing is wrong, the cadence is wrong, he is wrong and your body moves before your mind can stop it. You stumble back and he freezes at the sight of you recoiling from him like he’s something monstrous.
The night hits you like cold water as you burst out of the house, your legs carrying you into the dark forest with a desperation that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the way your husband looked at you like a cornered animal suddenly aware of its own teeth.
Branches scratch your skin as you push through them, lungs burning, the earth uneven beneath your shoes. Behind you, the front door slams open hard enough to echo through the trees.
His voice follows, “Sweetheart? My dear, you really shouldn’t be out here alone!”
You hide behind a tree, pressing your back into the rough oak, fingers trembling as you try to quiet your breathing.
Alastor’s footsteps follow after yours. “Darling,” he calls again, tone unbearably calm, “if you keep running like this, you’re going to hurt yourself, and you know I can’t stand the idea of you in pain.”
Alastor truly thinks he’s soothing you. But his voice quivers at the edges, frayed with a panic he has no practice showing and that makes his tone unsettling to you. He’s not used to panic, his mind is on autopilot as he tries to comfort you.
“I know what you saw must have… startled you,” he continues, the sentence stumbling on its own politeness, “but you cannot fear me— I’d never lay a hand on you in harm, my love, I couldn’t bear the thought.”
His footsteps stop, his head snapping to the sound of a soft rustle. A laugh escapes him. “My dear,” he calls gently, “come out. You know I unravel a bit without you near!”
Leaves crunch somewhere to your right. Then to your left. He doesn’t mean to sound malicious; in his mind he’s being delightfully loving.
“If you keep hiding,” he says with a tremor masquerading as humor, “I’ll start to worry you don’t want to be found… and we both know I’m always very good at finding things!”
He goes silent before the smile drops from his face for a moment, giving into an almost heartbroken expression. He collects his composure in record time though, forcing a smile again. “I just want to talk.” he pleads softly.