Fresh Ink: 2019 Short Story Collection

The Serial Killer in the Other World

Unsurprisingly, there's a line to get into Hell. A line of damned souls stretches out through an endless brimstone tomb, packed in so tightly into single-file that every shuffle forward rubs off on us, red powder dusting an outline onto our very beings. Every dry breath carries the stink of sulphur, and a dread quiet hangs over our heads like the executioner's axe. Or electric chair, in my case. Either way, no screams of the eternally tortured. We aren't allowed to speak here. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

I have some theories as to why. There's a long standing phenomenon amongst humans – we come together best in times of crisis. You only need to look at the aftermath of any major natural disaster to see that. Simple communication is one of our greatest tools for both good and ill, and when we're robbed of it we can only work on assumptions of the intentions of those around us, usually breeding nervous paranoia. The boy in front of me tried his hand at sign language, but gave up upon realising that neither I nor the old dear in front of him had a clue of what he was trying to portray. Now he just stares at the floor, fighting off silent tears. Not that examining our personal thoughts is going to serve us much better. Even if we reflect on the circumstances and events that led us to this place, it's not going to give us any clues as how to leave. We'd need to consult our bibles for that, and I don't imagine they keep many copies down here. In the end, any penance we find within ourselves is minuscule compared to what the establishment will want to drag out of us.

That said, it's not like I'm suffering any delusions as to why I'm here. I used to dissemble things. Toys, vehicles, plants. Animals. People. I'm fascinated with the way things work, how they twitch and tick and spin, how a wheel turns and how life supports itself. It's not enough to read it in a book or examine a picture. I need to experience it for myself, get deep into the belly and feel the process at work. I took apart thirty-two people before the authorities caught up to me. One swift and deserved death sentence later, and here I am, awaiting judgement from the divine now that mortal law has disposed with me. I can't say that I'm too shaken up about it. What I did was wrong, there's no other way to look at it. I could blame it on compulsions or mental sickness, but do so would be merely fleeting excuses, insults to those who genuinely suffer from such problems. I could have resisted the impulse to kill, could have called a help line to explain my desires, could have called the police and put myself away where I couldn't harm anyone. But I didn't. I kept going, and now I'm here.

Still, if this is only the entrance to get into Hell, I shudder to think of what punishment unforetold awaits us on the other side of these infernal corridors. I feel bad for the old boy behind me, staring dead-eyed into the picture in his pocket watch. He's probably expecting to see some old friends down here at some point. Sorry buddy, but murder is murder, even when it's performed for King and Country. I know that better than anyone. I can still remember the first girl I took apart. So bright, with sunlight shining through her hair. I had to see where else she shone, and she was so bright on the inside too, pulsing under the midday sun. I hope she isn't down here too, she deserved better than this. Maybe she'll be part of my eternal torment, one of many pointing fingers damning me for their deaths. Hmm, can't say I like the sound of that.

You know what, let's try the whole self-reflection thing. Maybe if I go through the whole list and apologise properly, I can get my sentence reduced in some form. So, I'm sorry... well, isn't this embarrassing. I've forgotten her name. That's going to be a black mark against me. Ah well, it's not like I don't have enough time to drudge them up. Whether I've been standing here for five minutes or five years makes no difference, and I honestly can't tell which is. Probably intended by our hosts, drive us further into madness by robbing us of any sense of passage.

"Mr Connors? Mr Connors!"

I jolt, the world jumping in my surprise and depositing me in a different kind of Hell. Plain beige plywood walls. Plain grey short-haired carpet. Faux-walnut desk with a name plaque displaying a title that I couldn't attempt to pronounce without my tongue falling out of my mouth. God help me, I'm back in my old manager's office. The vision of petty middle management mediocrity is completed by an even larger surprise, a sharp-suited angel sitting behind the desk, hands folded neatly in his lap and wings folded behind his jacket. Not exactly what I expecting from my eternal torment, and I'm not sure I prefer the idea of being lambasted over my work ethic and refusal to play office politics over being screamed at for forgetting every little name. I adjust a tie that isn't there and take a seat.