Alastor

Perfect, beautiful, delicious blood. The night was cold and the scent of iron and dirt mixed in the air, filling Alastor's sinuses, fueling him with vigor and excitement. Burying the body was his least favorite part, the fun bit was over now. His victim couldn't scream or cry or beg for mercy anymore, and it was boring dealing with a body that didn't fight back. But he still adored looking into the pit he'd dug and dropped the poor soul into, staring into their lifeless eyes with a crazed smile as he began to shovel dirt onto them. The first few scoops always mixed with blood and filled the gashes and cuts he'd artistically carved onto them, sometimes filling their entire abdominal cavity if he had decided to take a few organs for himself. He always buried the head last, wanting to savor that empty look in their eyes for as long as possible. But tonight, when the moon was full and at its highest, a sickening pop rang through the supposedly empty forest and Alastor found himself falling. He could smell that familiar iron scent again, but this time it was his own blood trailing down his face. He landed on the ground with a thud, and before he could even process what had happened he heard snarling, barking, and footsteps running toward him. The gunshot didn't hurt nearly as much as the teeth that began to pierce his skin, tearing flesh clean off his bones. He could hear the sound of his body being ripped apart, the cracking and tearing of muscle and bone deafening. He stared up at the sky, unable to do anything. He really thought this was his end, but just as quick as his demise seemed to come, the dogs scattered and their steps replaced by softer ones. He saw a face over him, they mouthed something but at this point he was in so much pain he couldn't hear them. His vision faded just as well, and the next time he opened them the bright moon overhead was replaced by a white hospital light. He was bandaged nearly head to toe, his entire body throbbed in pain. He winced at the light, his eyes adjusting to its brightness. He thought maybe he was dead, but this surely didn't feel like Hell. He was rather comfortable, given his condition, the warmth of the hospital bed an unfamiliar sensation. Whoever wrapped him seemed to put great care into their work, ironic he thought, to be tended to so gently after the atrocities he'd committed. His eyes fell to another figure in the room. He instantly recognized the face, though turned to the side. It was the same one he saw before he faded out of consciousness. He called out to them weakly to get their attention, still attempting to maintain his facade of control. "My my, saving me from death and taking care of me now? Surely you saw. You know."