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May’s life had been looking up the past few months, with the ‘tragic’ death of her husband behind her things had been slowly improving. The bruises across her body faded with time, the red and purple sunrises painting her warm sepia skin finally setting for good. The little apartment she shared with her son felt lighter and brighter than it ever had before, the quiet hum of a radio and the smell of fresh food wafting from the kitchen. Talking and laughing as the earth turned day after day, it was perfect. At least that’s what May told herself, because what else could it be? Everything she had wanted for her and Alastor, everything she could feasibly hope for at least, was at her fingertips.
But something wouldn’t leave her alone, a thought, a suspicion. Ever since his father’s passing Alastor had begun acting stranger than usual. He had always been a bit silly, a bit strange, but now it was downright weird. She would wake up to find him in the kitchen late at night, scrubbing his clothes in the sink. Other days he would forget to eat before slipping off at odd hours. HIs expression held something in it, an intensity that felt almost cruel, but she would blink and it was gone. May hated seeing that look on such a young face, the hardness in those wide brown eyes. Of course Alastor only ever looked at her with affection, small mercies, but that didn’t mean she was entirely naive to it. She was his mother, being perceptive was her job.
By the third month May could no longer force the thought that something was deeply wrong away. Was her son actually devastated by his father’s death? Awful as he was, she could understand how the loss would be hard on a teenage boy. Or perhaps he was happy and felt guilty for it, he was always such a sensitive soul. Regardless of the specifics Alastor was clearly trying to cope in some way and May saw how his expression became more wild after every occurrence. There was only one clear explanation. He had turned to drugs in his time of need. The glint of a newly formed addiction was obvious in Alastor’s patterns and the way he avoided any questions about it. So maybe everything wasn’t perfect. And May was more than a little concerned.
May stayed up to watch his comings and goings, always observing his eyes. His smile always hid his emotions but his eyes never could, not from her. When he got home late she would have a cup of tea ready, her own remedy to clear his mind from whatever he had put in his body. The first time she’d done it Alastor had looked a mess, tight brown curls falling over his face and smudges like fingerprints on his glasses, but he’d accepted the beverage and let her gently clean up his face. The second time he’d had blood on his collar but wouldn’t let her look for an injury (“Maman, please, I’m alright. It’s only a little cut.”), and she could only assume he’d been in some sort of altercation.
It kept going on, recurring nearly every week. Clearly it was consuming him, and it tore at her. May didn’t know what to do. On top of it all there was the growing number of murders around the city, healthy strong men found partially dismembered, missing pieces as if killed by a wild animal. A wild animal that could use a knife. When Alastor went off into the night she had to wonder if he would come back or if they’d find him splayed out and butchered like a pig. She doubted a young coloured man would be priority in that case, he’d be forgotten in a few hours to all but her.
The eighth time Alastor came home with a piece of glass buried in his side. A shard from a broken bottle lodged in his flesh though not particularly deep. May had cleaned it out, whispering words of admonishment to him as she worked to bandage it. She had tugged his ear afterwards hard enough that he yelped, warning him not to come home hurt again. When she lay in bed afterwards she cried, sobbing until she fell asleep. She couldn’t let him go on with this nonsense, enough was enough.
When Alastor went out for work May slipped into his bedroom, rifling through drawers and belongings. She found a few pipes that smelled only of tobacco and slid them back carefully, they were hardly a drug. She found stacks of newspaper clippings, cut out articles of the recent murders littered across the otherwise tidy room. There were small notes in cursive adding to the descriptions of the bodies, little things like ‘stabbed in neck - effective.’ They filled May with a sort of dread she couldn’t identify, not one of conscious thought, but she shut it down quickly. They must be for a project, or maybe he was writing a script about the killings to pitch his radio show. Yes, of course, he was finally going to try for that job at the radio station. She could only hope he didn’t catch himself in the sights of the killer themself in the process. Leaving the room with nothing of a suspicious nature regarding her son’s addiction she decided to move on to plan B.
Alastor stepped in the door quietly, slipping off his worn brown overcoat and adjusting his round glasses. When he made to move for his bedroom, he was met by his mother standing with her arms crossed. May was almost a foot shorter than him since he had hit a growth spurt, but she still intimidated him. The only thing that could truly freeze him in his tracks was his mother’s disappointed glare. His lips quirked up awkwardly and his head tilted, waiting for whatever was about to come.
May looked up with the kind of authority mothers always seemed to have, “I know what you’ve been doing, cher.”
The words seemed to hit Alastor and hit him hard, his eyes went wide, “You… know?” The words seemed to carry an interwoven horror to them.
“You need to stop this. It’s dangerous, and I don’t like how it’s making you behave. Allie please.” The sternness fell away into something more desperate at the end, a plea for her little boy to listen.
Alastor was unmoving with the exception of his gritting teeth and the way his muscles flexed as he clenched his hands into fists. This could not be happening! The fear that danced across his mother’s face filled him with an unknowable dread, a great pit to Hell opening in his stomach. Would she call the police? Kick him out of the apartment? Or worst of all, just judge him silently? “Maman,” he whispered, reaching out to rest his hands on May’s slender shoulders, “I don’t know why but I just… need this. I can’t stop.” How could she possibly accept that he needed to see the blood, to taste it?
“I know you do. But you can’t come home hurt, you can’t keep hurting yourself, mon bébé. Not to mention it’s illegal!” May placed her hands against his chest, a little surprised to feel noticeable muscle on his frame, the kind that came with growing into a man. “I’ll help you quit, whatever it is you need. Just talk to me.”
The teenager bit his lip, the abyss in his core aching to tell her the truth. It wasn’t like she didn’t know already. He breathed, taking in the scent of his home and mother before speaking. “It felt so wonderful when I did it that first time with father, it was a whim, it was never meant to be this.” Okay yes, Alastor had always harboured strange and violent urges, but it was true he’d never planned to act on them, if only to spare his maman.
May gasped, gripping the white shirt her son wore, “Your fa- Richard? Richard started this?” It made a horrible sense to her. The man had been an alcoholic and she’d had her suspicions regarding heavier substances over the years. But introducing them to a boy not even eighteen angered her, if he’d been alive she would have killed him herself. That… that bâtard.
“You’re upset. I… apologize. I should have resisted.” The slaughter of his father was no regret, it was his greatest achievement, but that didn’t make his mother’s response any easier to deal with.
“I want you to come to me next time you do anything, no more sneaking out at night. And darn it, you’re going to learn to stop.” May pulled Alastor down to kiss his cheek, “I love you.” She had to keep her calm, that was the only way to make progress. But inside she wanted to give Alastor a small smack across his backside for harming himself in such a way.
A small blush fell across tawny cheeks, “I love you, maman.” It couldn’t have gone better in Alastor’s opinion. Somehow his mother had discovered his identity as a serial killer and, while upset, wanted to help! He really didn’t want to nor plan to stop but that could be dealt with later.
May was cleaning the kitchen, wiping out pots so that she could cook for the evening, red beans and rice. She had felt lighter again since the confrontation with Alastor, the boy would talk to her, she knew it. He always did, ever since he was a small skittish child, weaving around her legs as she tried to bake. While the idea of his addiction scared her, it had also been less than a year. Surely everything could be fixed, righted, perfect. He could be okay. May took a towel from the cupboard, humming to herself, when she heard the front door open and slam shut violently.
May dropped what she was doing, hurrying out as fast as she possibly could without tripping over her own feet. When she made it to Alastor she choked out a cry of surprise, grabbing the wall for support. Because there was her baby boy covered head to toe in blood and offal, gripping a hunting knife in his hand and panting heavily. The stench of death followed him, overwhelming the room in moments. May could only gape, speechless.
Alastor dropped the knife to the floor where it splattered red across the wood, his eyes wide and crazed. “I did it again.”
How was a mother supposed to respond to this situation? May certainly didn’t know, it took everything in her not to wash him up and say nothing. But she couldn’t do that. “Did you hurt somebody?”
“I-” Alastor began before being promptly cut off.
“This has gone too far Al, you can’t just hurt someone for whatever it is you’ve been taking!” She held herself with as much confidence as she could muster, “Look at you!” May practically wailed, darting forward and reaching up to cup his cheek. “If you don’t hurt yourself that… that monster out on the streets will. You’re a bloody red target, mon bébé.”
Now it was the killer’s turn to stare confusedly, taking something? Monster? “I’ve not been taking anything I’m… What are you talking about?” He tries to wipe some of the blood from his face but only smears it around further.
“La toxicomanie.” She shook her head, trying to think more clearly. “Your addiction.” When that earned nothing more than a blank look she pushed forwards. “That your father started, that you were going to quit.”
“Oh.” Alastor came to a sudden understanding of exactly what was going on. He supposed this was his time to either come clean or admit to an addiction he never had. Of course that still left him with the question of the monster, after all, he was perfectly safe. The only monster on the streets was… “Oh.”
“You silly stupid boy, speak up.” May tapped her hand against his face, holding back the tsunami of rivaling emotions within her.
And that was that. Who was Alastor to deny his mother anything? “I killed them.”
A long silence followed, blood continuing to drip to the floor.
“Oh thank somebody, it’s only that.” May gasped out without even thinking.
If Alastor had been confused before, then he was in another stratosphere now, he couldn’t even stop the way his smile twisted into a confused pout. “Maman, I killed father. And then I killed all the rest.” The floodgates had opened and it was all pouring out, how he did it, how it made him feel, the uncontrollable urge inside him, the way he chose his victims. He leaned into his mother’s touch further with each confession, seeking the familiar comfort. “It’s beautiful, the way they die. The way they taste.” The awful truths of his recent double life laid bare to be judged by the only person he had ever, and would ever, truly love.
Horror, dismay, and a quiet sort of acceptance. It was all there and May could only take things one step at a time. Maybe she was a tad bit crazy herself but at least the killer wasn’t a concern and at least Alastor wasn’t doing drugs. “Let’s get you cleaned up, mon petit monstre. Then we can… we can talk.”