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Inside the darkness of Alastor’s room, the air had stalled, slowly filling with the saltiness of the swamp a few feet away from his bed. The murky waters rippled gently with the occasional splash of the majestic yet deadly alligators, and the buzzing of the fireflies made for a soft pleasant lullaby, lightly registering over the static radio feedback that permeated the room. Curled in the sturdy mattress, the deer demon tossed and turned, hooved feet curling tighter before relaxing in an attempt to make him forget the discomfort swirling under his gut. In the haze of his dreams, Alastor’s thoughts felt like waves. The knowledge lapped at the shore, only to retreat again into the immensity of the nothingness, right before he could have a handle on what it meant. Half conscious, he tried to identify the source of his pain, aware that the knowledge had to be hiding somewhere only awake he would reach, and yet the stubborn deer refused to leave the comfort of his warm bed until the pain had subsided. Then the light came to his sleep-deprived mind and he shot upright.
“Fuck.”
He threw the sheets off to the side and sprung to his hooves with surprising agility, sleep inertia forgotten. Running as fast as the tightening of his guts allowed, he made it to the bathroom inside his room, in front of the boudoir, and quickly lowered to the floor. Guided by instinct, his hand stretched to grasp at something hidden deep inside his bottom drawer. His claws roamed the small enclosure, finding a carton, a little plastic tube and a large piece of clothing stuffed in there, a barrier to dissimulate what he was truly in for. He finally reached the soft wrapping that now occupied his mind and yanked it out of the drawer with urge. Who knew how much time he had before it started? Had it started yet? His thoughts were abruptly interrupted when the little colorful packet he held in his hands was… empty, completely empty. Ridiculously and impossibly empty. Alastor took the drawer out of its furniture and took everything out at once, hoping there was something he had missed, but no. It was truly empty. He had run out of pads.
Alastor sat down on the toilet, free-bleeding as he questioned whatever (after)life choices had led him to that moment. Alastor’s life hadn't been easy, but many problems had been naturally resolved in his afterlife. Racism, lack of sexual interest, murderous tendencies, forbidden appetites of the flesh, gender identity… Having insane, mysterious powers had its perks, after all, and no one dared to question or mock a man who could easily spill out their guts and broadcast their screams on his radio broadcast before breakfast. And just the same, he found himself with one of his oldest predicaments biting him back; periods. When had God decided some people had to bleed out every month to maintain the species' survival? Why couldn’t he have been born just like the other boys? But there was no changing the past. There was no changing his creation, so he had to leave with this… even know that sinners had no fertility and they were practically walking corpses manifesting the insides of their souls. What a joke. He sighed and stared at the packet again. There truly were no more pads, and he didn’t have a second pack laying around somewhere, he would remember something so crucial. He sighed again and placed a hand over his head, tugging his hair back with restrained frustration. He tried to recall his reasoning for leaving the damned plastic wrapper stored without anything in it. In the end, it had given him a false sense of security, it had become bated, and he had been bated— by his own volition at that. Then it occurred to him, he had left the packet there to remember which one he was supposed to buy next time. Or rather, so Niffty would remember when she bought them for him. Which led to the next problem; he couldn’t ask Niffty now. It was extremely early in the morning and the little cyclops would surely be already up and about making everyone’s breakfast so it was ready by the time they woke up. She was all the more earnest to make the bread herself. “Fresh and warm and natural,” is what she always said. Disturbing her now was not an option and, even if he forced her to abandon her duties,— although forcing was usually a word reserved for unwillingness, not willing-forced submission— it would still look suspicious, and Husk would know, because he always had an eye for this kind of thing. He didn’t wish Husk to know. Or anyone for that matter. It was already horrible enough to know it was the way it was, to know he, a man, had periods. Not that periods were pleasant in general, but it added a layer of shame, divine mockery, that he despised to his rotten core.
After what could have easily been one hour, Alastor stood up from the toilet seat and inspected the bowl. No blood, yet. Maybe he could still make a short trip to Rosie’s and borrow some of her pads before his bedroom and bathroom became a murder scene. He pulled up his boxers and rushed back to his bedroom to get ready. Normally, he would simply snap his clothes on and ready for the day if he was in a hurry, but for this occasion, he would rather select the oldest and most worn out pants in case he bled out in the middle of his trip. Perhaps a tad irrational given he had been bathed in blood many, many times, but enemies’ blood and his own menstruation blood seemed different in his mind. One had to be hidden before people assumed deviancy, and the other had to be displayed before people assumed weakness.
He wriggled into his clothes and, reflexively, stared down at the floor, almost expecting to see drops of blood. Not yet. He sighed with relief, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to truly set his mind at ease until he knew for a fact that he couldn't stain anything, in half a week. And he hated that feeling, the constant glancing. He felt like prey. With one last glance towards the bed,— thankfully it was clean— he used his powers to materialize right outside Cannibal Town. The path to the Emporium was fairly quiet, the colony hadn’t woken up yet except for one or two folks who made their way to or from work. That was good. The less interruptions he got the better. After all, bleeding out or not, he had to remain civil and entertain conversation when it was given. But sometimes he wondered if the cannibals could smell him. They had such a good sense of smell. Alastor clenched tighter his fists behind his back. The idea of being discovered terrified him more than the idea of inducing an appetite for deer meat in them. He would rather die a man, thank you very much.
Finally, he devised his destination and hurried his pace. It was still the early hours of the morning, maybe past six o’clock depending on how much time he had been having an existential crisis in his bathroom. But Alastor knew his friend Rosie would already be awake and preparing the inventory for the morning sales. And she would never leave him aside when in dire need. He trusted her. As he was about to knock on the door, a wave of pain radiated from his lower region. He tensed his muscles, repressing the urge to bend down and curl up into a ball. He was the Radio Demon, he could endure everything. Even the voice in his head mocking him for his faulty nature. Fuck that. He wasn’t a woman.
Engrossed as he was in his own misery, he didn’t notice the silhouette approaching the entrance until the little bell at the door rang its hurried tune. Rosie stared at him with a raised eyebrow and her hands on her waist. “Alastor?”
“Why, hello, Rosie, dear! A splendid day to visit, isn’t it?”
“Oh dear, it’s so early. Whatever brought you here?” Without expecting his response,— oh, how well she knew him— the owner of the Emporium gestured for him to come inside. “Come sit down, I think you have something you wish to tell me.”
Alastor obliged at first. That was until he was in front of the beautiful pink-and-rote couch and froze in realization. He couldn’t sit. He could stain the couch, and then there would be proof. No, no, he couldn’t risk it. So he stood still, next to the armrest of the couch, and made sure his smile didn’t waver or twitch. He only wished it would all stop so he could forget he had a uterus. However, this didn’t seem to sit right with his friend, because Rosie immediately frowned, confused. She opened her mouth to comment, but seemed to have a second thought and, thankfully, danced around the elephant in the room. No wonder people confide in her so easily. The woman always picked up on everything, yet chose courtesy over power leverage.
“If… Is there anything I could help you with?”
“I’d have to excuse myself to your bathroom,” he said with gritted teeth.
“Whatever you need, darling. I’ll make a cup of tea in the meantime. It usually helps with-”
“It’s not that.” Meanwhile, his mind kept running with different scenarios to tell her what he needed before he ran to rummage her privacy for a m- bleeding pad. But nothing he could come up with would save him from the embarrassment, and Rosie was smart, but not a mind-reader.
“Oh?” she said, cocking her eyebrow.
Alastor struggled not to quiver under her scrutinizing gaze, eyes like void that consumed the sight before them. “It's…”
Not “that time of the month”. Not “in my period”. Not ANYTHING.
“Alastor, dear… You're bleeding.”
He stiffened and, before he could stop himself, Alastor tilted his head down and stared at the splotch of blood that had formed at his feet.
“Precisely,” he forced himself to reply, hoping the burning sensation under his skin was not tinting him red.
Rosie frowned for a moment, before her eyes lit up— metaphorical, no light could escape the abysm— and she signaled to her room upstairs. “Go, dear. You'll find what you need in the second drawer of my boudoir.”
Alastor nodded, thankful for her discretion, and excused himself to her bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, he returned to the living room, his mind eased under a balm of cold water. He stared at his seat, and hesitation prickled at him again. After some deliberation, he decided there was no point in going through all this trouble if he couldn't even sit down without worrying about the stains. The cramps he had begun to feel in his lower region again had also incentivized his final decision.
Soon, Rosie approached him with two cups of tea, then returned with a saucer with chocolate. “It's the one you like,” she said, which Alastor knew she meant the one she made, the one that used blood to embitter it more than cocoa purity ever could.
“Thank you,” he said as he took the streaming-hot cup in his hands. He felt instantly drawn to its warmth and wished he could wrap around it. If only things could be so simple…
“I’ll be with you in a second, dear,” she suddenly said.
“Of course.” He nodded politely. Even if it had been an emergency, Alastor was aware of how untoward it was to disturb his friend’s business when she was about to open the store. He just hoped they still had some time left before clients came in. He didn’t wish for anyone to pry into their affairs nor wonder why the Radio Demon was at her place at such unprompted time. Much less they saw-
“Dear, I just called for m-”
“The stain!” Alastor blurted out loud without realizing.
“Don’t worry about that. Do you know how many times I’ve spilled blood on my tiles? Oh, honey that’s occupational hazards!” she chuckled, and that made Alastor feel a bit better. The meat spilled blood, not just the women. And he was fine with perceiving his own body as that, meat. Something most cannibals seemed to agree on.
She finally sat down across from him. “You really shouldn’t worry so much. As I was saying, I called my errand girl to search for a few things, and she’ll bring yours too.”
“You truly are a life saver, Rosie,” he thanked her.
She sighed. “Oh, Alastor, how have you managed before? You’re such a disaster!”
“Oh, if you only knew! You see, back in the day before television got his head up his rear, we were both flapping our tongues like straight* acquaintances,” he began. “That was until the square-headed fellow noticed a little stain in my slacks.”
“Oh, dear, no,” Rosie said, placing a hand over her mouth with demure.
“Oh, yes, dear!” he replied, leaning towards her as he felt himself slip into a performance mindset. “Poor little Vincent looked at me with his big, obtuse eyes and used his big, loud mouth to ask me ‘Hey, Alastor, what is that stain on your pants?’” He mimicked Vox with as much lack of decorum as he could muster, throwing his cadence training out the window and flaunting his hands here and there. “The whole restaurant had their eyes on us faster than sharks smell the blood in the ocean!”
“Oh, I can see why you two distanced.”
“No, no, dear. That is a story for another day, truly, we would be here all week, but I’m afraid you don’t have that time,” he told her, waving his hand dismissively.
“Well, then I suppose I’ll have to invite you more often to our tea time. Gossip doesn’t spill on its own!”
“Yes, indeedy! Although perhaps next week, hm?” he said, knowing by then his little predicament would be gone, at least for the month. He truly loved running his tongue, but to gossip with Rosie was his special favorite. He didn’t mind if it was considered feminine, that he could stand to be called.
“Wonderful,” she replied.
“Well, anyways, there was this man-child, so confident yet so clueless— can't even see outside of Plato’s cave!—, making a scene out of a little stain. And then he raises his finger and, like a total buffoon, he points directly at moi, saying ‘there, there,’ like I had turned blinder that a mole! And oh, dear, oh, the lack of shame! Astounding, haha.”
“Oh, my, who raised him?!” she commented.
“And indeed, you would guess his parents were absent from his education! But alas, his complete, utter lack of perception turned in my favor! I looked at him with all the patience I could muster with a man so sloven as him and told him— and you wouldn’t believe this— ‘It must have been from breakfast’. Breakfast! And that man swallowed it whole! Truly, I cannot comprehend how such a lousy lie can fool the men who later go to become magnates. Breakfast! Oh, good Heavens, life is indeed so ironic!”
She giggled. “Men like him are often clueless, especially on that subject.”
“Well, if you ever catch me lacking that way, please, do give me a piece of your mind before I end up down his route! Next thing you see I’ll have become a total puppet of fame and fortune!"
“Oh, Alastor, you don’t have to worry, you’re far from a ninnyhammer boy,” she replied. “And yet you can't figure out the aces,” she added in a whisper, making Alastor second-guess if he had heard correctly. The what? But before he could inquire, a knock on the front door interrupted their prattle.
“Oh, it must be Niffty. She’s so efficient, that girl!” Rosie commented before getting up and walking to greet the newcomer.
“Niffty?” Alastor exclaimed, which provoked the small demon to speed towards his face. He hoped she couldn’t smell the blood.
“Yes, sir?”
“Morning, dear.” He forced himself to relax his smile. This was Niffty, after all. Although, he would have rather been notified upfront of who it was in charge of this odd request, even if anyone would simply assume it was Rosie who needed them, not him.
As if reading his thoughts, Rosie gave him a reassuring smile. “She came to me to busy her free time, and has found a liking to helping me around for little errants. Very discreetly at that.”
“More work, YES!” the short woman exclaimed with manic enthusiasm. “Sorry, sir, it’s not that I’m not happy with your work. I am! I just thought I could use my free time for good! And Rosie has a lot of blood to clean at her shop, hehehe.” Niffty commented, alternating between submission and unhinged giggles.
Before she could go on a rant about the blood on Rosie’s tiles, Alastor smiled at her, a genuine smile. “Oh, Niffty, do not worry. How could I keep you from having fun?” Even if “fun” was a strange way of putting it, Alastor had learned to accept that Niffty’s interests were something that she enjoyed, even if probably for pathological and traumatic reasons. But this was Hell, so it was expected. Eating people was not that common outside Cannibal Town anyways. “If you want to sweep blood clean from-”
“But there was no need for pads. I brought them! But I think it’s better to clean the blood with baking soda and my special mix. It’s more acidic than bleach! But pads are fine to patch things. But these weren’t those kinds of pads. Although all kinds of blood work. I suppose if you wanted to hide that your husband’s corpse is bleeding out in the garage you could use that. And-” As Niffty ranted on and on, she didn't realize Alastor had grown stiff, with a frozen expression. He took a glance at Rosie, but in her eyes he only finds calmness, which only furthers his confusion.
“It was an odd request. But I don’t judge! Were they for you?” Niffty finished, jerking the pads towards Alastor like a coiled spring.
He stopped breathing, looked at Rosie— who now did seem perplexed—, then back at Niffty, hands close to his body so his friend couldn’t shove the packet into his hands. How on Earth had she guessed? She was either a mind reader or the most unlucky sinner in Hell.
“Isn’t it yours? You asked me this a year ago. I made sure to remember so I didn’t mess any future orders!” she explained, nudging him with the hygiene product.
Curse it. It had been him after all who had told her, albeit indirectly. But he should have been more careful. Now he was doomed.
“Darling, why don’t you give them to me so I can make sure they are safely stored?” Rosie intervened, crouching down lightly to be at reaching distance.
“Oh, sure…” Niffty replied, giving one last glance at Alastor before surrendering the pads. Her only eye tinted with embarrassment.
Alastor pondered for a second if to let Niffty shimmer in her shame, but what kind of man would he be if he threw a woman— his friend!— under the bus just to save his bleeding tail?
“Thank you, dear. Sometimes… one needs to take care of bleeding in a different way,” he forced himself to respond, hoping that keeping things vague would be enough. He didn’t feel comfortable being out to Niffty yet, even if she was one of the most loyal people he had ever known. Hell, if he could, he wouldn’t even have been out to his mother!— may her rest in God’s grace. But maybe he could subtly imply it, with plausible deniability, of course. “by the month.”
Niffty blinked, processing the information. "I thought since you're a boy you didn't have to deal with that."
His breath hitched. Well, maybe she was more perceptive than Alastor gave her credit for. "A secret between us, darling, that even the Radio Demon bleeds some times. My eternal punishment, I would say,” he said with a bitter smile.
“Maybe dying a bit older would have aided with that, deer,” Rosie added, trying to lighten the mood.
Alastor rolled his eyes. “Fair enough,” he thought, but he finally let out a breath he had been holding for too long.