Hell's One: Alien. (Past Arc)

Note: This chapter is set in the past and doesn't center on the current timeline of the story. Reading this chapter isn't mandatory for understanding the story, but it would enhance the overall experience. The choice is yours. (Canon)

"Owe a flower to one. Should it vanish, death's bloom shall prosper."

I am Zane Orion, and this is the story of how I turned out to be what I truly am. 

That being an absolute abomination.

.................................

I was born in 1998 in Bologna, Italy.

I was born into a moderately wealthy family – not rich, not poor.

We lived on the outskirts of Bologna, in what locals call the 'Campagna,' or countryside in Italian. On most regular days, the scenery consisted of a few cattle grazing and children running around playing games they often couldn't even name.

My father's name is Alejandro Orion. He was Mexican with Italian descent, which explains how I got the 'Orion' part in my name.

My mother's name is Isabella Ricci. She's purely Italian, to such an extent that when she did an ancestry test to trace her lineage, the results aligned closely with her expectations. She's 90% Italian, with the remaining 10% comprising a mix of nationalities from around the world.

My father's profession has always been a mystery to me. As I mentioned earlier, we were neither rich nor poor, but my mother didn't work; she was a housewife. This meant that my father was the primary breadwinner for our family. However, every time I asked him about his profession, he would usually divert the conversation, often putting me back to sleep soon after, which usually worked.

I knew his job wasn't illegal, but I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it. Perhaps it was a past he was trying to bury, or maybe my mother knew but they agreed to keep it from me.

It never mattered to me since I was happy, content with our lifestyle.

Happiness does what it does to one, making one adore two.

It's beautiful...

Enough background information about me now since I don't particularly enjoy talking about myself.

It was April 3rd, 2010.

My grandfather from my mother's side had passed away, leaving my whole family distraught. The morning funeral only intensified our grief.

Although it was raining for them, I saw no clouds that day.

I reasoned that if he was passing away, he must be going to Heaven, so I saw no reason to be distraught or distressed. But this mindset was characteristic of my young age; I never understood others' rational minds or ways of thinking. My own thinking was two-dimensional.

Despite the circumstances, I still went to Scuola Caterina de' Vigri, our school nestled among the hills of the countryside, almost like a fantastical city with natural walls surrounding it.

As the school day neared its end, I couldn't help but doze off and stare at the clock, knowing it would only make everything worse.

I don't want to blink.

As the tears of my eyes peter out, I feel all the more like an alien.

These people around me ostracize and isolate those who seem different.

They're nothing but dirty pigs.

They speak of certain humans as if they were animals, but with their way of speaking, they've blurred the line between them and the animals.

They've infected my mind with doubt about my teachings, where humans are supposed to be much more advanced than an average pig, yet they lack all rationality.

Pig Latin was no longer a simple game.

At the age of twelve, I found myself teetering on the edge of paranoia, though I assure you, anyone would falter in the face of these 'beings.'

The hours tick by easily when your mind is plagued with such thoughts, yet I couldn't stand their presence.

And so, the day ends.

I grab my things and leave in a hurry.

I couldn't bear to spend another minute in this hellhole.

Each time, without fail, I'm greeted by my mother waiting right outside the building with her arms wide open. Like anyone would, upon seeing my mother's embrace, I rush forward to hug her.

Nothing that may or may not exist on the face of the planet can ever exterminate the inherited value of a simple, unexacting hug of a mother.

It's the sole reason I kept going to this school. It warmed my heart to know that a woman like her could love me enough to call herself 'your mother.'

"Really clinging onto me now, aren't we?" my mother asks. "It was just a little over six hours, you know?"

"How could I not?" I reply, still embracing her. "Those pigs' oinks were particularly loud today."

My mother pinches my earlobe and proceeds to say, "Didn't we agree to stop calling them pigs?"

"Sorry, sorry. I won't do it again," I say, pleading with her but with a smile. "I'll try, anyways."

After school, we often take a pleasant stroll together. It's a heartwarming routine, especially with the sun shining as it does.

Today happens to be Wednesday, smack in the middle of the week, more or less. So, we're off to pick up a few groceries for the rest of the week.

Our village, not too far from home, is divided into different districts, each catering to specific needs on different days.

And today, it's groceries we're after, conveniently located in the shopping district.

As the wind blows through the village, I breathe in the fragrant perfume of the ripe fruits and vegetables, which is tranquilizing.

The central streets and the perpendicular ones are picturesque lanes covered with old white stones; however, they all lack color, somehow.

Stalls on the market are glutted with a riot of vegetables produced in various colors.

I guess those colors help balance things out a bit.

Vendors shout, each promoting their products, and local residents engage in conversations as they pick the items that attract them most.

Weirdly enough, we always go to this one old vendor who's as sweet as can be.

His name was Vittorio, but we always called him Nonno Vittorio, which translates to Grandpa Vittorio in English.

The funny thing is that he isn't even my grandpa, biologically speaking.

It was a gesture of respect, seamless and genuine, nothing less, nothing more.

With him, all actions are out of respect.

"Nonno Vittorio, we're back again," my mother says.

He was blind in both eyes.

"Oh, Isabella! Is Zane with you as well?" Nonno Vittorio asks.

"I'm here, Nonno Vittorio!" I say with a huge smile, despite knowing he wouldn't be able to see it.

"Y'see, I can't see anything; however, even someone as blind as myself is able to tell that you've grown tall, Zane," Nonno Vittorio says as he begins to laugh.

Then he abruptly stops laughing and stares at Isabella.

I know he's blind, but it has always inflicted some eerie sensation knowing that his eyes were all white.

It instilled a sensation that implies the lack of life.

A white void.

Alien.

"Isabella, sorry to hear that your father passed away. He was a great man, a great friend of mine, actually. I knew him since the days Dictator Mussolini enrolled us for the world war. Words... words can never comprehend my grief, but I know it's been harder on you," Nonno Vittorio says.

As a son myself, no spear, bullet, punch, nor any weapon of similar outcome can puncture my soul as much as seeing my own mother tear up.

I lift my head to see her tear up; therefore, I know what kind of rain she was talking about at that funeral.

"Sorry, Isabella. I didn't mean to sadden you in any way, shape, or form," Nonno Vittorio says.

"No, no. It's just that I haven't gotten over it yet. Thanks," my mother says. "Just a kilo of tomatoes and potatoes as usual, please."

I'll always admire how she can smile, even after losing someone as significant as her own father.

"Of course," Nonno Vittorio says as he grabs a plastic bag and fills it with vegetables. While he's putting in the potatoes, he asks, "Have you heard about the recent monster that entered Bologna?"

"What kind of monster?" I ask, my tone tinged with curiosity.

"Oh, not something to be excited about, my boy. They'll wipe that smile off your face. Maybe, this monster might even eat that cute smile of yours," Nonno Vittorio says, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They travel and migrate in groups. Now, I'm pretty Italian. Italians recognize other Italians, and they look about anything other than human"

Nonno Vittorio sets both bags of vegetables on the table in front of him.

"And they could be anywhere..." Nonno Vittorio whispers into my ear, his tone filled with ominous warning.

I feel a chill run down my spine...

"That's enough now, Nonno Vittorio. You and your spooky stories that you used to tell dad, you'll never change," my mother says in a witty tone, but her eyes betray a hint of unease.

Nonno Vittorio just laughs it off, but it leaves a lingering sense of dread in the air, like a foreboding shadow.

And so, we bid our goodbyes and leave to go back home. The atmosphere around us seems to grow heavier with each step, as if the very air is thicker than usual.

The path home always gives me a tingling sensation within my skin, especially my toes. It's akin to the feeling of sleeping in a set of brand-new bed sheets. The sun is setting, casting long shadows that dance ominously across the landscape.

Why would anyone choose metropolitan life over a sustainable life in the countryside? It always perplexed me. Akin to how those hills surround my school, our house is enclosed by fences from all four sides, like a fortress protecting us from the outside world.

As we approach our home, the familiar sight of our house bathed in the fading light of day brings a sense of comfort. But as we draw closer, an eerie feeling creeps over me, like a whisper of danger on the wind.

My mother pulls out her key from her purse and unlocks the main gate. As we walk down the path towards our home, we encounter a sight that I had feared for far too long.

The night had truly fallen now.

My father stands before us, breathing hard, holding a shovel with blood stains. In front of him lie two lifeless bodies, a stark contrast to the serene countryside setting.

He looks right at my mother and says,

"They're back for the debt."