cupid clearly hates me.

[ 32 ]

☆ Alastor's flashback

Back then, I was a human.

Not a demon that sent fear into hell's onlookers. Not a half-deer creature with an insatiable bloodlust.

Well, save for the bloodlust part. I did have that.

I was a human. An insane human, yes, but still a living, breathing human being who worked and functioned just like all of the other humans in my small town.

Of course, I was categorized amongst the richest of the rich. I lived through the time of the Great Depression, which was such a time when many folks lost their jobs, money, and some even their families. Most people in America were suffering with the economic failure, but, whatwith the great position that I was in, it was nothing short of being entertaining. I got to watch from the sidelines as the folks of my town lost everything that they had.

"Bread, sweet potatoes, and more! Get all of your fresh farm foods here, starting at the mere price of 8 cents!"

My freshly polished shoes clicked against the sidewalk with each step, sounding both loud and prestigious. I didn't like to drive to work. Walking was far better—that way, everyone got the chance to get a good look at me.

Everyone in my town and the next few over knew who I was. Not only was I frequently featured in the paper (for varying reasons, some better than others), but I also owned by very own radio channel.

I gave the stout, old man a generous smile as I walked past him, barely giving a second thought to his pitiful advertisements. Although we stood and walked on the very same pavement, I walked with shoes that he could never even dream of affording, and I kept that in mind. He surely did too.

The man's sign lowered, revealing his gawking, wide-eyed face. "W-William! Good evening, sir," the man blubbered. His voice was small and unsure, making his greeting sound more like a question.

"Good evening yourself," I said, not sparing the man a second glance. Back then, I was called William. It was the name my mother gave me. I didn't change it to Alastor until after my death.

I continued to walk, and the dark energy inside of my chest continued to feed off of the confused, fearful, and amazed guffaws of my neighbors. They stared at me like I was Franklin D. Roosevelt himself, or maybe even some sort of God. I loved it—or, rather, the darkness inside of me loved it.

It was similar to what a powerful, demonic overlord might feel as they watch the inhabitants of hell fall to their knees at the sight of them.

And that was exactly the feeling that I—no, the thing inside of me—wanted to feel.

My walk was shorter than expected (time really does fly when you're having fun). I reached the studio sooner rather than later, and opened the doors to the building with great relish.

Tom Trench, my coworker, took a deep puff of his cigar as he glanced over at me. "Hey there, Will," he said, leaning back in his chair. He was sitting in the lounge, where a few other folks who worked here were sitting amongst him, filling the whole room with cigar smoke. I, myself, didn't smoke, for I hated the taste. How could someone inhale something other than oxygen?

(A/N: Let me tell you the answer to that question: addiction)

"Hey yourself," I replied with a grin. "How's the picture show coming along?"