"Welcome to Hell," the hideous beast hissed.
With a smirk on my face I rose to my feet and found my stature well above that of the gatekeeper's. His clothing was nothing less than Gothic. Seeing him reminded me of the punkish-looking transients that I encountered while living in Austin, Texas. Nevertheless, he was not taken aback and offered no signs of obeisance; much to my dismay he chuckled to himself, as he looked me over. The pretentious glare in his eyes made me wonder whether I was going to be outwitted and overpowered. The oddness of the situation brought to mind my readings of Alice in Wonderland. I pondered what the little blonde pubescent would do or say in such a predicament. It was all I could do not to laugh at the absurdity of my life and now this. Then that little voice somewhere inside my head began to bring to mind those
mad creations of such authors as Dean Koontz, Clive Barker, and Stephen King, turning my mind sour as I conjured up the outcomes of what such situations would bring. The cold and calloused orchestrations of an author's somewhat deranged mind would surely bring no worse fate than that which awaited me on the other side of that Gate.
Pulling myself from the rather unpleasant daydream, I noticed the sinister stare of my adversary. I thought of those boys who had come to take my daughter "out." They had the exact same look in their eyes. Little bastards. Those beady eyes poured rage into my blood, and I found myself wanting to paint the gateposts with this creature's blood—whatever color it might be. As if in possession of some telepathic power, he had realized my homicidal mood. He abruptly looked away. What a fucking gimp, I thought to myself as I followed his gaze. Beyond being merely telepathic he must have been prophetic as well, as I was about to find out. Hearing a desperate scream I turned around. There was a thud and a cloud of dust rose about us.
"Right on time," the little bastard wheezed. I heard a soft whimpering. The dust settled quickly and I could make out the shape of a person, sprawled out on the ground like a rag doll. It appeared to be a woman. Her dress was rather morbidly dark. How fitting? I thought to myself as I knelt down beside her. I reached one shaking hand out towards her shoulder. It was then that I realized I had been in need of some sun. A vacation perhaps. My skin was so pale it glowed in that dim light right there in front of the Gate.
"Looks like a pretty one," the little bastard said as he peered over my shoulder. I remember getting a good whiff of an odor that smelled like rotting flesh. I smelled myself—fully knowing that I was dead—but I found no uncommon smell, just the brandy from last night; or was it that morning? Then I saw the reason for his sarcasm, and at the same time a reason for my horror. Upon this poor person's head, or I should say halfway buried in this person's head was a very large butcher’s knife. My intuitive horror was confirmed as the woman rolled over with a creepy moan.
I shrieked and fell backwards. My shoulder bumped into the gatekeeper's rotted chest as I was falling, and both he and I tumbled over one another. My head slammed into one of the gateposts. I went out like a light.
When I awoke the woman was standing over me. God, this is hell, I thought to myself. But I was still a bit confused about why she was there. That butcher’s knife was still lodged deeply within her skull—a silent reminder of one final night of domestic violence at my house. Sure, she had been a bitch for the last thirty years of our horrible marriage, but after being tied to a ball and chain for thirty years, who wouldn't seem like a bitch? Then there was the affair with the lawn boy, which didn't bother me that much at the time. I had been a philandering spouse myself after the initial "we're in love" syndrome had expired.
Then it hit me, the dumb bitch, after thirty faithful years of breakfast making, got up one morning and told me that she was done "serving" my "sorry ass." She said that I was lazy, egocentric, and unloving. For that, I smacked the stupid bitch. She tumbled across the bed and fell to the floor. I remember chuckling to myself, thinking of how the domestic violence report would look this time. I played in mind’s eye the previous report where she had told the authorities that I had choked her, and that I had told her she would be dead if she spoke of it to anyone. The authorities had urged her to leave the house that we had made our living in all this time; she had decided to stay after all. She had revealed to me that the reason she chose to stay was because she still loved me. I no longer wanted or needed love in this relationship. As a matter of fact, this relationship had taught me that love is an ethereal emotion that is based on the lack of logical thinking. Needless to say, I no longer believed in love.
