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Alastor’s organs were rotting, he could feel it. He could feel the angelic energy trying to purge the demon from him, attempting to drain all of his power; it was working. Everyday since that blasted extermination, working tirelessly to keep that failure of an hotel up and running without so much of a lick of gratitude from the Princess and her group of misfits.
Everyday since he lost that idiotic tap dance with the brute of the first man he could feel himself decaying from the inside out. Alastor’s rage, much like his wound, was festering. Each day he spent with the holy residue from the battle infecting his body was another day shaved off his remaining lifespan.
It’s not like he could ask for help from the Princess or her socially inept father, his ego was too fragile for that at the moment. (Even if Alastor would never admit that out loud.) So he was inclined to wait.
The day Alastor reached his breaking point was exactly one month after the extermination, he could no longer keep down food, he could barley even drag his weakened body from his bed to his bathroom. Blood was ejecting itself forcefully from his stomach along with chunks of sinner meat and venison, getting his bathtub covered in viscera.
What a shame, it had just been renovated after all.
Retching up everything that was left of his meal, Alastor collapsed on the porcelain tile. Vitriol for his body’s pathetic display of weakness poisoning his veins more than the actual poison inside.
He began to claw at his stomach, clothes and undershirt tearing under the pressure. Pinpricks of blood already welling up from the wounds he gouged in. Frustration quickly turning into hope, he knew how he could fix this, it might be a little old-fashioned but it’s not like hell has much standards!
Sinking his claws deeper into his abdomen and ripping the skin open, flaying his flesh not much unlike how he had done with an unfortunate soul who happened to cross his path last week. He remembered how fantastic the sensation had felt when the intestines popped between his teeth.
Distantly Alastor wondered if his sickness would make him taste better or worst.
Without looking, he plunged his hand into the bloodied cavity and pulled. His organs spilling out like a stray loose thread being yanked free.
Alastor pulled.
And pulled.
And pulled.
Until he could feel himself start to lose consciousness.
Pausing briefly, finally looking down to survey the damage. To see how much of the rot he had gotten out.
Turns out when your a cannibal even seeing your own bloody and infected organs spilled out in front of you makes you hungry.
Who knew?