Down the Rabbit Hole (Ch. 3)
The next installment of my Hazbin Hotel fanfiction! Hope you all enjoy! Any feedback is appreciated!
Ch. 3
The young man sat at the edge of the bayou where the water lapped lazily against the muddy bank, the slow current stirring curtains of moss and lily pads drifting along the surface. Cypress trees rose tall from the water like ancient sentinels, their roots twisting deep into the dark earth while strands of Spanish moss hung from their branches like tattered gray veils.
The evening air was thick with the perfume of wet soil, cane grass, and distant magnolia blossoms. Frogs croaked lazily somewhere in the reeds, and cicadas hummed their steady rhythm as the day slowly bled into dusk.
He stretched his long, lanky legs out before him, ankles crossed comfortably as he leaned back on his elbows and bit down into a crisp apple. The sound of the bite—sharp and clean—cracked through the quiet calm of the swamp.
Juice ran along his fingers as he chewed.
The boy tossed the apple into the air once, twice, catching it easily each time.
He lay back fully against the warm earth; the sleeves of his white undershirt rolled up to his elbows. His black slacks hung loosely at his hips; red suspenders stretched across his narrow torso to keep them in place. The fading sunlight washed over his deep chestnut skin, soft along the lines of his young face but interrupted by pale scars scattered across the lean muscle of his arms.
Marks that were not given kindly.
His arm bent behind his head while the other lazily tossed the apple skyward again.
His black-and-white dress shoes were scuffed and worn, dusted with the familiar clay dirt of the Louisiana soil. Mud clung stubbornly to the edges of the soles from wandering too far off the beaten path, but he never minded.
The bayou was his refuge.
His honey-colored eyes gazed across the water toward the sinking sun, watching the sky melt into warm shades of gold, peach, and crimson. The reflection rippled gently across the slow-moving water.
His wispy brown hair curled loosely along his forehead, stubborn strands lifting slightly in the humid breeze. A small pair of round glasses rested delicately on the bridge of his nose.
From a distance, he looked peaceful.
Soft.
Content.
For a brief moment, he was.
He loved it out here.
The quiet.
The stillness.
The way the world seemed to slow down and breathe along with the swamp.
Everything his life was not.
He was fourteen. A young man by some standards, though still a boy in truth. A proper gentleman, raised carefully by his mother.
And beaten down by his father.
The thought soured the sweetness of the apple in his mouth.
He relished these quiet moments alone. The precious hours when his father had not yet stumbled home from whatever dingy bar had swallowed him for the evening. More than likely he was already slumped against the counter somewhere in town, whiskey glass in hand, slurring his words before the clock had even reached seven.
Alastor tossed the apple one last time before catching it.
Peace never lasted long.
“Alastor!”
The voice floated across the bayou, warm and familiar.
“Boy, you bettah get yo’self home now, darlin’!”
He lifted his head, sighing softly as the sound of his mother’s voice carried through the buzzing chorus of insects.
A slow smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
He pushed himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his slacks before stepping away from the water’s edge.
Away from the quiet.
And back into the fire.
The cabin sat nestled along the edge of the bayou where the land finally rose just high enough to keep the floodwaters at bay.
Palm trees and tall cypress surrounded the property like crooked guardians, their shadows stretching long across the clearing. To the east, rows of sugarcane swayed gently in the evening breeze; the stalks whispering softly together like conspirators sharing secrets.
It was a modest home.
Small.
Weathered.
But it held a certain charm.
The wooden walls were painted a soft, fading brown, though years of Louisiana rain had worn the color thin in places. Green shutters framed the windows, their paint chipped and peeling where the sun had been particularly cruel.
The porch swing creaked lazily in the evening air, its rusted chains complaining softly with each movement.
Thin ribbons of smoke curled upward from the chimney.
Alastor smiled faintly.
His mother had the fire going already.
A wise decision.
The heat of the day was still heavy in the air, but the Louisiana night had a habit of creeping in cool and damp once the sun disappeared beyond the horizon.
The red trim along the windows and door glowed warmly in the fading light.
It was humble.
But it was home.
Alastor climbed the worn wooden steps slowly, each familiar creak beneath his feet greeting him like an old friend.
And yet the weight in his chest returned with every step.
Back into the nightmare.
The door opened quietly beneath his hand.
Inside, the small cabin was warm with the scent of woodsmoke and sweet batter.
And there she was.
His mother stood by the stove with her back to him, humming softly as she stirred something in a large ceramic bowl. The gentle rhythm of her voice filled the room like a lullaby he had known since childhood.
Her yellow dress hugged her slightly plump figure, the fabric swaying gently with her movements.
Her hair was the same warm brown as his own, though silver strands had begun to creep along the roots. Her skin, darker than his—rich and deep like polished ebony—caught the warm glow of the firelight and shimmered beautifully.
To Alastor, she had always been the most beautiful woman in the world.
Strong.
Graceful.
Unbreakable.
Her bright copper eyes turned toward him as she heard the door close, and the radiant smile that spread across her face lit the entire room.
But the moment his gaze landed on her face—
Something inside him snapped.
Her left eye was swollen and bruised. Dark purple and angry. It would only worsen by morning.
Rage boiled up inside him so suddenly it made his hands tremble.
Again.
It had happened again.
“Mother,” he said quietly, crossing the room in two quick strides.
He reached for her arm, his voice tight with barely restrained fury.
But she simply turned toward him and smiled.
Soft.
Gentle.
Her hand rose to cup his cheek, thumb brushing affectionately against his skin.
“Now don’ you fret, cher,” she murmured in her warm Creole lilt. “Go on an’ wash up. Dinnah gon’ be ready soon.”
She leaned up and pressed a kiss against his cheek before turning calmly back to her mixing bowl as if nothing had happened.
As if the bruise beneath her eye meant nothing at all.
Alastor stood frozen.
His hands curled slowly into fists at his sides.
Over and over his fingers clenched and relaxed as the fury in his chest threatened to spill over.
But he swallowed it down.
For her.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the bathroom.
The cracked mirror above the sink greeted him with a fractured reflection.
His thin fingers gripped the edge of the counter as he stared at himself.
His eyes burned brightly.
Wild.
Angry.
Helpless.
The boy in the mirror looked back at him with quiet mockery.
He splashed cool water onto his face, letting it drip down onto his shirt as he breathed slowly through the storm raging inside him.
Then he grabbed a cloth and wiped the water away.
That was when the door slammed open.
Heavy boots stomped across the wooden floorboards.
The sharp scent of whiskey and cheap liquor filled the house almost instantly.
Alastor slowly placed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.
He looked up into the mirror once more.
And smiled.
A crooked, unnatural smile stretched across his face like a mask sliding into place.
His mother had taught him many things.
But one lesson had stuck above all the others.
You’re never fully dressed without a smile.
And he would need that smile now.
Because if his father saw the hatred burning in his eyes—
Things would only get worse.
But someday…
Someday his father would see it.
He would see it clearly.
Right before the moment Alastor finally acted upon the dark thoughts that had begun to bloom so quietly in his mind.
Right before the moment he finally killed the bastard.
