Short Stories

Hell

~*~profanity, torture~*~

Hell stunk. In the literal sense and metaphorical. One fourth of Malcolm's  soul was there, so he would know. Just because most of the demons accepted him as their future king, not everyone did. Like Asbel. He was cruel, merciless, and quite good with a hot poker. When he heard Malcolm's soul  (well, 1/4 of it anyways) was in Hell, he pounced at the chance.

As he swaggered into the cell, his victim was asleep. Nobody had bothered the lamb yet. He was happy to step up.

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!" He yelled as he drenched Malcolm in Holy water.

Malcolm woke up in a scream. "WHAT THE FU-" But was cut off as Asbel covered his mouth in duct tape. How fitting that it was bright blue.

"Tut-tut-tut, no screaming, we've got enough of that down here, don't we?" He said as he put the bucket down and picked up a long, iron poker. "Let's warm this up, why don't we? You're always talking about how cold you are, aren't you?"

Malcolm shook his head furiously and muffledly yelled. "NO, DON'T, PLEASE, DON'T!"

"What was that? I couldn't hear you." He singsonged back as he got the fire poker white hot with a wide smile.

Mal was speechless as he watched him come over, tears streaming down his face and knew it wouldn't be worth fighting back. All he would do is add more scars and burns to his collection. 

So he laid there and took the pain. He remembered somebody coming in, killing Asbel. He had dark black hair and lots of tattoos.

Uncle Tony?

No. No he wouldn't save him. He didn't love him.

All he could be was eternally grateful to the man that did save him.