Alastor's End was Willow's End too
A fic about my OC Willow dealing with the death of Alastor. Despite mentions of how he died, nothing else from Season 2 of Hazbin Hotel is mentioned. Trigger Warning for period-accurate racism, derealization, non-detailed murder, one use of whore.
"Ma'am?" Willow looked up from de-weeding the sage to see a copper on Alastor's footpath. Not uncommon for the area, as it isn't the safest neighborhood in New Orleans, but the coppers usually have a more arrogant air to them than this one had. She wiped her hands against her overalls as she stood, now able to see two more men pulling up in a cart outside their fence. "Yes, officer?" "This be the home of that colored radio fella?" No matter how many times she heard Alastor be put down because of his mixed heritage, Willow felt heat in her chest. She wanted to make the man call Alastor by name, not his place of employment, but Alastor always told her to go along with it. It made life 'easier' for both of them. Not happier. Easier. "Yes, this is Alastor’s home. He's out looking for wild berries right now if you're in need of him." "No ma'am. I'm here to inform you that we found him past hour 'go." The man's expression confused her; was it one of indifference or boredom? Neither made sense with what he had just said. "Found him?" "Dead, ma'am." Her heart stopped. No longer did the copper matter; now the cart had parked in a way for her to access the back. The walk over was a blur, but his face brought things back into perspective. Still. Pale. Unsmiling. Dead. Her hand found his cheek, cold and stiff. A splatter of blood across his face, originating from the hole in his forehead. Right in the centre. Perfect shot. "The early light had him lookin' like a deer in headlights." She didn't know who was talking; she could only hear herself telling him to be more careful during dawn and dusk, when the light causes tricks on the eyes. He had promised he would be, and even avoided leaving too early to keep her mind at ease. Because she was right. A deer. He'd been mistaken for a large buck. Willow wanted to throw up, but she had to hold back. She was stuck to him; her hand on his chest in a weak attempt to wake him. To return to her. To tell her that he'd be back once he had finished 'hunting' for the evening. "He had been dragging another man towards the road; a victim of the Butcher." Ah, yes, because the Bayou Butcher couldn't be a colored man of talent. Words that once made Alastor laugh rolled over his cooling body as if it were just a breeze. He should be laughing. He should be smiling. Tears dripped down his face as Willow struggled to hold herself together. Her saltine tears drip, dripped down while her gaze went back to the hole in his head. Just an empty… lingering… hole. "You… promised to…" He made many promises over the years, only truly meaning them once he decided she wasn't worth the carving knife. To house her.
To protect her.
To let her treat his wounds.
To dance with her over others.
To be beside her.
To love her.
To come back home early today to teach her how to cut vegetables properly. She was an abhorrent cook, while he was a master of the craft. And now neither statement will ever change, for what was the point of learning such a thing without the one she was learning for?
"P-Please wake up, Allie… Please." He never did. Instead, he was put in an above-ground cemetery beside his mother. It was more than most with his skin color, but not enough. He only got a ceramic photo, his name, occupation, date of birth and death. No mention of how he'd play music for free in clubs, or how infectious his smile was, or how hard working he was as a child in an attempt to uplift himself and his mother from poverty.
He was just a colored boy; he got more than what others had simply because he worked as a popular radio host. They had replaced him within two weeks; a boring and drab old coot Willow couldn't stand to listen to.
New Orleans was lesser without her Alastor. His voice, his smile, his hunts. The city lost not only Alastor, but the Bayou Butcher as well. A man that killed the rich racists, the abusive womanizers, the bullies of the downtrodden.
A rich old man’s head was still in his cabin when Willow visited. She stared at it for a while, despite the wretched smell of old blood and rotting meat. She thought her stomach would turn at seeing Alastor’s handiwork.
Willow simply got to work putting things in burlap sacks to bury out in the bayou. Then she scrubbed until the smell was gone, and went about replacing a few stained wooden boards. No one would find a reason to desecrate Alastor’s name any more than they have by avoiding it.
The Bayou Butcher would remain a boogeyman. It would’ve brought out a laugh from Alastor; Willow was too numb to laugh for him.
Those in town saw her as nothing but a silly white woman.
‘Should be happy, can be with a white fella now.’
‘She’s still so young.’
‘The ditz could get herself out of that ragged house if she tried harder.’
Willow didn’t want to be with some ‘white fella’. How could they comment on her age when even she didn’t know it? Alastor had guessed a year younger than himself, yet that felt off and she guessed a larger gap between the two. And the house? The house he had worked so hard to get?
She wanted to burn the city down. Watch as they cried for their homes, their loved ones. Have nowhere to turn to. Maybe then they’d understand her pain.
But no; no one would understand. A woman without memory of her past life, slowly falling in love with the man that had found her unconscious in the bayou over a decade ago now. Sure, he only did so to later put her smile on his wall; but she had managed to worm herself into his life. Then his darkened heart. A real gem among the coals of New Orleans, he called her.
She felt like she was only a gem because of him. Now, Willow felt like a dusty piece of jewellery behind glass walls.
One moment, she wished someone could break the glass for her. But not like this.
The smell of rye.
The sound of drunken laughter.
The touch of a familiar stranger.
With a practiced swing, she hit the pale man across the face with the rock she had picked up and began to run. His voice echoed behind her, the brush telling her he wasn’t letting her go so easily. The name he gave her was one Alastor once warned her about; a target he couldn’t reach quite yet. A rapist, he believed.
He was proving Alastor right; the words he shouted at her made her skin crawl as she ran through the bayou. Her heartbeat drummed loudly in her ears. Her breath was quick and shallow. Her arms hurt from the brush she ran through, but she didn’t care.
Alastor had always told her to run, but if ever cornered, to kick and claw her way out. And she would fight, she would always fight for Alastor’s sake, but she was a small woman compared to the one chasing her. A little starved as well with food tasting like ash without her lovely chef around.
Fuck; she wouldn’t be chased by this guy at all if Alastor was still around. He’d have been gator food last week.
“WHORE!” A screech left Willow’s lips as a hand encircled her arm; she tried to hit him with her rock once more, but her world spun before she could. A heavy punch disorientated her. Her vision was blurred. Her face felt wet.
But she still kicked. Then bit at whatever she could reach. She stumbled as he let go, and ran once more. More brush scratched at her skin as she couldn’t see well enough to avoid the worst of it, but she wouldn’t give up.
She had promised to not die by another’s hands.
And she wouldn’t.
Her foot connected with a root and her vision went white. Her hands met the wet floor. Then she fell again.
Onto concrete.
Her head spun, and an unimaginable pain shot through it like lightning. Her world was dark. Empty. Alone. Before she remembered.
Everything.
Her vision returned. The building she was beside looked old, yet also not? She shouldn’t be on a sidewalk though? What happened to the bayou? Where was she?
“Miss?” Willow spun around at the voice; a young woman with a nose ring and some band t-shirt was crouched beside her. Starbucks in one hand, cellphone in the other. “You aren’t high are you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
No southern accent. No familiar smell of New Orleanian streets. Starbucks? She never liked Starbucks, she preferred Alastor’s coffee with some added sugar.
“I’m… confused. What city am I in?” Things weren’t making sense. New Orleans didn’t have a Starbucks. Shouldn’t.
“Oh fuck, did you hit your head?” The woman seemed to look her face over before answering. “You’re in Oregon City. You know what year it is?”
“Nine-...” No. It wasn’t nineteen thirty-three. There were no cellphones, no band t-shirts, no nose piercings for women in thirty-three. “It’s twenty twelve.”
“Well, you’ve got something going for ya.” Willow wanted to throw up. She was an ER doctor until a few months ago, but also a fiance. In a different time. Two lives. Neither made sense now. “You need the hospital?”
With a shake of the head, Willow pushed herself to her feet and looked out at the city she had been living it rough in ever since she was fired. The buildings felt too tall, yet also familiar. She was used to the tallest building being Alastor’s radio tower.
Did that tower even exist? Did that life exist!? Her head hurt, pulsed in pain, so maybe she did have a concussion. She’d never heard of living twelve years after a bump to the head though. “I’ll… be alright.”
“If ya say so…” The woman shrugged, and after looking Willow over again, started walking off. Back to her normal life.
What was normal life any more? Memories mixed together; an impossible double life. Doctor Willow Keyes, orphan and chemical expert. Willow, the fiance to the charming Alastor. Is either real? She couldn’t have both; that doesn’t make sense. Was she dead?
Her gaze trailed to a nearby window, the woman looking back seeming so unfamiliar and familiar at the same time. Tied back long hair, messy as it was in college, she used to cut it for classes but Alastor said it framed her face better when it was long. Her blouse was torn at the sleeves; but she had hated long sleeves? Or did she?
With hands climbing into her hair, the thoughts continued. They were muddled, confused, two lives lived and she was… forty? Or almost twenty-nine?
Tugging at the roots, she heard the sound of someone sobbing before realizing it was herself. What was she crying about? The confusion? Loneliness? Grief over a life never lived, or one she had lost?
What was she?
Who was she?
What was real?
… Was Alastor ever real?
