A vile Monster

August 30, 2022 —London, Great Britain

Anthon stood crestfallen in the crowded tavern, while most of the patrons engaged in pleasant conversation he simply drank. A firewhiskey, alone, ran down the immensities of his throat. His clothes are quite wrinkled and his vision, almost blurred, accompanies the grief and anguish bubbling deep in his stomach.

It only took one look at those people, in those strange robes, for that feeling to flare up again. He looks at the barman with that sour expression and taps two fingers on the wood of the bar, the opposite, a man of the same age as Anthon, around forty, puts down the cloth with which he is rubbing one of the empty glasses. The Englishman receives no verbal response, he simply hears the cork being uncorked and then watches the translucent liquor fill his glass.

"Cheers." he says to himself. A gulp straight to his stomach; a pained hiss escapes his mouth before those memories invade his mind again. «How can they be here, drinking so quietly and happily? Monsters, that's what they are». There he will take his long two hours and it is not until his fifth sip of that magical drink until the universe conspires to make his wish come true. The atmosphere may have been a pleasant one worthy of a Friday night where people gather to chat, to forget the intense working day behind them but Anthon is not there to chat with anyone, so when a figure sits down next to him he doesn't pay any attention at first but when he notices her everything changes.

When that golden blonde hair appears in his peripheral vision it is almost impossible not to look at her. His irritated eyes fog up with almost tears, happiness seems to have invaded his body after so long.

"Dad."

It's her. «My daughter, but how? When did you...?» Her glassy eyes threaten several tears, Anthon moves his body to face her, holding her by the elbows with a mixture of illusion and hope that almost erases all traces of bitterness.

"Mary," he murmurs haltingly, «What are you doing... here? I thought...»

"Are you going to hesitate now?"

"H-How?"

Mary leans forward, that pale face wearing a smile. Her fingers cling to her father's shoulders, slowly comforting him; her voice is deep, strange almost, but no one in that place pays attention to them. The innkeeper doesn't even try to serve her anything, the customers share the butterbeers that run-in spades, pleasant conversations about the last match in the Quidditch World Cup whose finals would take place in just three weeks, although the stadium had already been decided, the numbers were about to give Bulgaria as the winner keep going as if everything was alright.

"You are not her." If there is one thing a father knows it is how to distinguish his own daughter and considering how things had ended between the two of them Mary couldn't be there at all.

"I see that you are more perceptive than I thought." A mischievous laugh accompanies a direct look into Anthon's brown orbs. "Yet," she points out, "you've been coming here every night for the past two weeks."

The man turns to his back, those smiling, happy wizards, living the lie they had chosen to believe, enjoying a cold drink, oblivious to the misfortunes that they casted on him. There he remembered how strange it had all been; knowing that world, those strange things they did and said. Those wands. Everything was wrong. It had been eleven years since her daughter had received that «stupid magic school» letter.

"I know how hard it has been for you to have to see how everything you believed to be true was nothing but a lie." That sweet, honeyed voice penetrates the ears of that grieving father. "Little by little you let the child of your eyes escape from your side, didn't you? The first few years she visited you at Christmas, something that eased the pain of having to be alone for the rest of the year. You no longer had your wife and now since she was eleven years old, you lost your daughter. They had kept her, with their strange ways, with that magic they do."

She continues.

"You tried to be understanding but things were more difficult. She, your dear Mary, ended up being seduced by the magical world, why would she be with her father, if she could be with those who were like her? That had been drummed into her head, hadn't it? And in yours. What do you have left now that even your daughter has abandoned you?"

Anthon takes a deep breath, his pupils grow larger, and that grip gets stronger. This may not be his daughter anymore, in his eyes, all those words ignite a venom that increases with every syllable that penetrates his mind.

"But you don't come here hoping to see her, she gave you the kick herself. This is her world, her people, and you are just someone who never understood her. You tried to fix her and not understand her, you even blamed her for killing your wife? You are just a monster, a vile and lowly one, and that is why we are here." The woman removes her hands from Anthon's shoulders and slowly looks towards the door.

A parishioner, lonely as he is, leaves the premises at a slow pace, almost stumbling with the door. He says goodbye with a couple of shouts and it is then that 'Mary' decides to get down from that stool and goes outside. Anthon follows her shortly after and they walk down John Adam Street, following the unfortunate, drunken stranger in the distance.

It is nightfall and the cobblestone street is under the shelter of the full moon that reigns in the sky. The man shows obvious signs of drunkenness although Anthon is not much better. He follows the one who claims to be his daughter until he catches up with her and she continues with that speech that almost seems like a spell. The words soon dull his mind, not that they are to blame for what he has been thinking month after month, year after year, but they are the necessary fuel, the vital oxygen that feeds the fire, the pitch that will burn everything.

"He has stolen her from you." «yes, that's right» "your little girl is no longer with you because they brainwashed her. Maybe they jinxed her yes, those weird monsters...she was a sweet little girl before, how could she give up her real family? No. They took her away from you."

Those words echo loudly in his head. Up ahead the wizard staggers and clings to a lamppost. Anthon narrows the distance to only half a dozen paces, his right hand goes to the inside of his trench coat, the thick fog has now become his shelter. «They took her from me. They took her away from me. It's her fault. Their fault. All of them, those freaky monsters. They took her away from me, my sweet Mary!»

"You know what you must do." The blonde says in a sweet tone as her hands gently push the man by the shoulders. "Take out that knife and make them pay for everything they have done to you.

Anthon obeys. His right hand holds that knife; it may not be an intimidating weapon, but his target doesn't even pay attention to it. His grip is strong against that wooden handle. Holding the wizard by his hair, he grunts, confused. "Wh-what the...?" but his voice is cut off as the dark-haired man drives the object hard into his ribs. The flesh opens, the sharp blade pierces through his side with little resistance.

A dry movement with the wrist provokes a stifled cry of pain in the opponent as Anthon's left hand holds that mouth tightly shut. The one who claims to be Mary slowly positions herself in front of the wounded wizard, the sound of three more stabs accompanies the gasps and moans. The man tries to break free of her grip and instinctively brings his hand to his belt where his walnut wand rests.

"Expelliarmus." Mary disarms him before he can do anything and that wand flies away, lost in the mist. His hands interlock, holding his own wand behind his back before he hears the screams.

Anthon snarls, possessed by that irascible fury, his eyes injected with the same fury that corrodes his veins and moves him to stab with more and more violence. At first his attacks are silent, but then he grunts, screams, and is imbued with that visceral rage. With a kick he pushes the body of the stranger, the blood flows free like an overflowing bathtub staining those elegant clothes, most likely Madame Malkim's, was now soaked and that reddish stain only grew bigger and bigger.

"Well done, Anthon." she congratulates him, still holding that now soaked razor. "Finish it." And he obeys. A quick slash in the jugular precedes some sudden convulsions, the magician tries to stop the blood from spurting out and staining the man's body before the woman smiles with satisfaction. "Leave them a message they will not forget, let them know that they will never be at peace."

Anthon doesn't hesitate, he plunges his hands into the dense blood, the heat adheres to his dermis before he begins to write a message in the same blood. Someone has alerted the police, but now he feels good, given to that fantasy that has been gnawing at him for years, and he doesn't stop even when the lights of the police cars can be seen on the other side of him.

"Death to the wizards." says the woman.

"Death to them all." Anthon repeats almost in a trance.

The sirens sound close, close, and the mysterious blonde disappears in an invisible vortex that engulfs her. The fog swirls around her. The policemen get out of the patrol car and force him to stop, but he doesn't obey. He does not drop the knife; he doesn't stop writing. When they try to disarm him, he attacks them and when his back is turned, three loud shots make him fall to the ground, still alive, but motionless.