Hurled Headlong Flaming

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"No," Satan said. "I had nothing to do with his mother-in-law." "I didn't think so," Death said. "That level of evil is way beyond you, she belonged to Jesus all the way." [[+|next]]

She cradled you in her arms and flooded your tiny body with the strength of all the sinners and all the saints. Born a bastard, raised by the holy host, you were a holy child, a child of [[dark and light]].

You have stared down Death and danced with Iblis. You have seen the [[circles of Hell]].

Everyone has their place in its order, spaces marked for the living and the dead, cohabitating side by side. You fall, fall, lonely, lonely, hurled headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky. And you see that the circles of Hell are [[five]].

[[Realm of the Demons]] <<if visited("Realm of the Demons")>> [[Realm of the Saints]]\ <<endif>> <<if visited("Realm of the Saints")>>[[Realm of the Sinners]]\ <<endif>> <<if visited("Realm of the Sinners")>>[[Realm of the Mothers]]\ <<endif>> <<if visited("Realm of the Mothers")>>[[Realm of the Lovers]]\ <<endif>>

You think, suddenly, as you approach the fourth circle, perhaps there is time for an apology. You write in your head, the only means of record keeping left to you, a million times over... A million times I should ask your pardon, it would not be enough to cover my sins which cause me intolerable shame, nowhere near enough... [[It is not enough.]]

Here lies the holy host, wrapped around that second ring of Hell, waiting. One by one you count them, [[fourteen]].

Familiar faces stand before you as you reach Hell's halfway point. Familiar not just because you've seen them reflected back in the faces of Iblis and Death, but because you know them now. [[You're sure of it.]]

You would think the demons would live at the center, wouldn't you? Lying in wait for your [[final torment]].

Two men stand, back to back, at the center of the pit. Tall and blonde, Viking gods, you cannot tell the one from the other. It is said, you have heard, that demons hover like moths at the closing doors of life, [[waiting patiently for the bereaved.]]

But no, they wait on the ouskirts, a greeting party. [[Iblis]] grins at you, wide and toothy, gestures to you with open arms as you enter the first circle. His son, Death, stands behind him, watching you with dark eyes that glitter even in the dark of the underworld.

He is blue-eyed, his skin drinking light. He is soft brown hair and incarnadine cheeks. Red hair and the trappings of a lawyer. Blonde and gentle. All in paisley, his body missing. Sometimes, when you look just right, his hair frosts over. His skin is crisped with flames "[[We've missed you,]]" he says, wrapping you in an embrace. The grin does not leave his face.

Death looks like nothing. He looks like everything. You see right through him as he holds you and his face shifts, almost as his father's does. [[Death speaks.]]

His embrace is all warmth and comfort, a flood of memories closing in on you with his arms. Your mother, your lover, every face who has helped or harmed you comes flooding back. The streets of Beirut, a goat, a mouse, a Behemoth, San Francisco's streets, stretching up instead of out. It all overlaps. It's all the same. You feel tears on your face. "Remember," says Iblis. [[You do]].

You remember and remember and the faces wash over you like a Great Flood until another hand wraps around your arm. [[You turn]].

Iblis' son stands beside his father. He has waited, but long enough now. An ink-black hand is wined around the brown of your bicep, like a claw or a tentacle. Kinky, you think, then you are pulled from the grip of the Devil and [[into Death's arms|Death]].

It is not enough. But she appears to you, full of grace, Virgin Mother, the harlot of all harlots, the whore of Babylon, the prostitute with a good heart. Her dark hair falls in curtains around her brown face, body wrapped in red cloth as she kneels. Her ankle bracelet jingles even as she is perfectly still. [["Mother?"]]

"Forget," he says. [[And you do.]]

The faces and places and names and times that shifted beneath his skin and his father's skin suddenly go blank. His body casts out light, drinking it back in as soon as it crosses the event horizon of his skin. A black hole contained in a single being. [[The tears dry on your face.]]

It doesn't hurt, but it doesn't feel like anything else either. Where you had brimmed over moments before, pain spilling over your edges, you're now empty. Or perhaps you're so condensed with the pain it's no longer differentiable. A neutron star. [[Your body rings hollow.]]

Death lets go and looks to his father, who looks back at him. Their faces are dark and light and you feel like you're on the verge of knowing something, but you're not sure what yet. Father and son stand side by side, surveying you. They nod together, [[motioning you forward|five]].

Their faces are more familiar than any others you've ever known. Saint Catherine, your mother, steps forward and takes your hand. "How did you end up here?" she asks, her voice all soft cushions and cat fur. "[[I'm not sure]]," you say.

Saint Margaret watches with blazing eyes and Saint Eustace's cross glows nervously, as Catherine waits for awe or terror of both to spill out of you. They all dance with Saint Vitus and you cannot answer. You try to squeeze Catherine's hand, but find it has gone, those holy helpers parting to let [[two figures]] past.

Two figures you have known, but wish, the moment they appear, that you did not. Sœurs Marie-Claire, that bouncing nun, and Emmanuelle, who flung you to Earth, emerge in the circle, and the other Saints around them vanish. Their loss leaves an emptiness you think you've known before, but that echoes just the same. The sœurs advance on you, all the fires of hell in their eyes. [[The one on the left smiles.|Marie-Claire]]

Her eyes blaze with the secrets you kept. All these years you kept them, and she smiles at you. "Mon petit nègre" she croons, tearing handfuls of your flesh from your body and eating them raw. [[Your blood dribbles down her face.|Emmanuelle]]

You are glad, when you see Emmanuelle, that your saints have fled. She bears a flaming cross, carried like a sword in one hand, the head of Saint Denis in the other. "[[All flesh was born to suffer]]," is the shriek that claws its way from her raw and blistered throat.

Your saints have gone, only these Saints, nuns of the holy church left behind. As they did in your youth, so they do now. They evict you from the circle, taking your saints, your cherished past and casting it back into the hellfire [[as you go.|five]]

Your mother Mary spit fire, bathed you in [[holy flames]].

Five, and a glowing figure all in white to lead them. Sœur Salwa (or is it Saint Catherine again?) steps forward and [[you are bathed in warmth and peace.]]

"Your saints have guided you," she says, placing a hand on your face. "You guided me to the saints," you say, touching the burn marks her fingers leave. "[[Not those saints]]," she says with a smile.

Saints Chris, Jim, Greg, Pinto, and Lou, the martyrs, all in drag, dressed like the bookshelf mahoganettes, swept up silently. One is missing, but [[you can't remember who]].

"Where is..." you begin to ask, but they smile and shake their heads. "Further up ahead," they say, gathering around you in a circle. "[[We've missed you.]]"

More tears on your cheeks that you don't remember weeping. "I'm sorry," you say. "I'm sorry." They cross their arms, reaching across the circle to hold one another's wrists. They press closer, holding you in their embrace, the sleeves of their Grecian robes twisting into a many-knotted rope. "You held us together," they say. "Not enough," you say. "[[Not well enough]]."

"Go to him," they say, pressing you closer on all sides. "He's up ahead, like always, right?" They laugh and they hold you, squeeze you tight until you collapse, and all your body knows how to do is move to [[the next circle|five]].

She looks up, her eyes meeting yours, but says nothing. The twinkle of her ankle bracelet is louder, faster. [[Suddenly you realize you are not alone.]]

Two patrons, angels or demons, you cannot tell, flank your mother on each side, like wings. One wing is soft, large, smells of childhood dinners and home. The other is sharp, bent, broken, smells of everything you have lost. You recognize [[a face.]]

In one wing, your aunt. Auntie Badeea. Who rocked you and cared for you and talked to you and mothered you when the woman kneeling before you could not. She flutters, all feathers, and urges you forward. "You're close," she says, "hold on." [["I can't."]]

The broken wing shrieks to life, blonde hair falling from between splintered feathers. Feathers and hair fly out, tornado-like, around the circle, blocking the other mothers from view. This one is not your mother. It's his. "Repent!" the wing screams. [["How could I?"]]

The wing screams and screams and drowns out the warm memories of the Sinners above. She takes them, one by one, from your memory. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands over your ears, wishing her gone, when a hand suddenly finds yours. [[You open your eyes.]]

The Mothers are gone. The circle is empty, silence echoing. You look beside you to see a someone, a small someone with red in her hair, grinning up at you. "What a bitch," Odette says, in that way she always does when she's trying to make you feel better. You smile back, less at the joke and more at her presence, banishing the wraiths to darkness. [["I don't know where to go from here."]]

"I can't take you all the way," Odette says, "but I'll walk you as far as I can go." Your hand in hers, she leads you to the [[final circle.|five]]

As one, the men turn to you, wide smiles on chiseled white faces, and their names come to you. Doc and Deke. And still, you cannot tell [[the one from the other.]]

"If you loved me," they say, "you would know who I am." "I forgot," you cry, "I forgot I forgot." [["Which is your lover and which is your love?"]]

You're on your knees now, talk about innuendo, as the men stand over you. But your face is in your hands and you can't bear to look at them. If you look, really look, then you will finally know that he is lost to you. You remove your hands and speak to the ground. [["Do you believe in God?"]]

"What kind of question is that," says the one with a laugh. "Sure. Or maybe not. What does it matter? [[We're all dying anyway.]]"

"What kind of question is that," says the other with a laugh. "Of course not. If God created man in his image, why couldn't man invent a God that was more anthropomorphic, less remote? [[Why would Satan look so like us and God so unlike us?]]"

You look up finally to see their faces, distinct suddenly, their faces in sharp focus. You see what you couldn't see before, a demon and an angel, side by side, identical, and though you cannot be certain which is the demon and which is the angel, you know which one is yours. [[You take his hand and let him pull you up, falling into his arms.]]

"This is where I loved you," you say into his chest. "This is where I loved you." The circles of Hell all fall away, his double falling to dust, leaving just the two of you. Standing. Arms entwined. "This is where I loved you," you say, and the two of you are hurled, headlong flaming into th' ethereal sky.

Erin Strubbe