Impish

CHAPTER 18: HELLISH

I have to work to get myself through the doorway. It's an ordeal to stand; it takes effort to follow the sliver of light coming from behind the mirror door without tripping over the bodies of my doppelgangers or otherwise falling over. I have to put in the elbow grease to get to that point. The shattered glass from the mirrors sliced apart by the chainsaw bite into my feet.

The room beyond the door is bright and lavish. It's decorated in reds and golds. Tall red marble columns with throbbing veins of gold that reach up to the vaulted ceiling. There is a painting that looks like a window to a Boschian Hell on the far side of the room, next to a painting of a clown with a grimacing smile that stretches up toward its ears and eyes. Upon a second look, I realize that neither of these frames hold paintings. Both of them are windows. Both of them show me what is happening on the other side of the wall. It's Hell. I can tell. It's hell.

The columns line a room that is more like a long hall. At one end is a set of large double doors with built-in chains. At the other is a throne made of that same red and gold marble, constructed with chains, bones, and spots of literal fire. The seat is as big as a card table.

Seated atop the throne is the biggest, most casually imposing woman I have ever seen-- and that's including the head nurse at the hospital my mother works at, who terrifies me. This woman is at least nine and a half feet tall, with bright white skin and gold horns that curl like a ram's and slick back like a pompadour hairstyle. The top of her dress is cut like a halter top the queen of England would wear if she were cool, and the skirt is thin, with a slit up its side, stopping just above her hip. It clings to every curve on her body; her legs are crossed one over the other, bare in the slit of the dress.

In one hand, she holds a staff topped with a human skull. In the other, she holds thick black chains with menacingly-large links. I follow them to their end and find Doug, in that partial-demon form from last night. He is shackled and kneeling like he's praying before bedtime. His head is bowed.

I stumble into the room, bracing myself against the glass door, the wall, and whatever columns I can get my shaking hands on. There are more important things than looking cool, which I probably couldn't do anyway because of the blood leaking through the Angela Baker outfit I'm still stuck in. I want my own clothes back. I want my blood to get back into my body. I don't want to think about the implications of Doug being chained up like that. The possibilities are endless. I think I get what's going on, though. It's not a sex thing, I don't think. Rather, I'm leaning toward the thought that this woman, the woman on the throne, who holds his chains, is keeping him hostage. This is the reason he was acting so off earlier-- or, at least, part of it.

The woman on the throne smiles. Her teeth are dark and sharp. "Mikey. Darling. Welcome home."

"Excuse me? This doesn't look like Florida to me," I reply. I'm filled with instant regret. Apparently, I'm incapable of doing anything with any sense of decorum. No wonder anger has become my go-to emotion over the past few weeks. No wonder it's so easy for people to manipulate me to that reaction, for me to manipulate myself in the same direction.

She laughs, though. I guess what I said didn't harm her perception of me. With a shake of her head, she corrects, "No, my sweet pea. I mean to Hell."

"Oh. Is that where we are?" This looks nothing like the glimpse of Hell I got earlier, in the portal Mikey 2 was taken through. This is more ornate, more polished, more refined. There is significantly less torture happening in here, and less screaming. I guess there is that odd window on the other side of the room. I should have known. I should have put two and two together.

She smiles. There's something about the way she calls me dear and darling and sweet pea and every other pet name that makes my blood simultaneously run cold and boil. Her smile is full of burnt sugar and sickly-sweet cordial when she bares those sharp teeth and replies, "It is. It always has been. And now you are here, with us, where you belong. Are you ready to free your father and take his place?"