Of Fire And Darkness

I

Death is so indescribable that not even the most descriptive sentence can even begin to describe the wonderful and terrible sensation of dying. The bullet penetrates, the noose tightens, the knife slits, the fist connects. And the feeling, the terrible, wonderful feeling. It's mesmerizing in the way that the killer finds the art of death to be beautiful. There is the pain but then there is the overwhelming sense of completion, finishing the only game that matters. Then your family weeps over your lifeless body, and your sister paints your face like she had always wanted to do when you were children. The undertaker stuffs you in a case and a priest sings pretty words to a human who meant absolutely nothing to him. Then your coffin is picked up by your brothers, their strong arms that you'd always admired hefting the wooden box onto their shoulders. They shed their last tears and drop you into the ground with a hollow thud. Moist, brown soil covers the coffin and your mother sobs into your father's chest.

In ten years you're forgotten, an old family friend remembered at birthdays and anniversary's. When the bullet hits the soft skin in your chest, quickly whisper your last words, thank you's and sorry's, let out your final sigh, and fall as gracefully as possible to the ground. And sleep.

I've always thought heels were the most inconvenient of footwear for multiple reasons. The one proving itself now is the insistent clacking and tapping. My mother storms after me in an avid fever of anger. I focus on my feet, the rain puddles on the cobblestone road, the identical homes and stores on either side of me, the strands of hair falling from my meticulous up-do. "Arien!" My mother shouts, what she doesn't understand it calling my name isn't going to make me come back to the party. She already humiliated me enough. "Arien!" She screams again but now it's louder and scared. I turn my back on the on-going road and into the waiting arms of my mother. But she's farther then I thought and I hear the loud cocking of a gun. "No!" My dear mother screams as the killer squeezes the trigger. I hear the releasing of the bullet and the blow back in the split second it takes for the shell to enter my skull and chest. My body crumples to the ground.

My mother shouts, screams, and sobs for my father to come help revive his little girl. But she is long gone.

I vomit as soon as my bright blue eyes widen when they see my surroundings. I'm on a boat and the stench of death has never been more putrid. My legs are pinned by bodies, my skin is soaked through with blood. Why am I alive? Why am I breathing? I feel my chest and my head and sure enough, both are coated with my own warm sticky blood. The hand that's not pressed to my chest, trying to keep my organs in, is being held. The person had let me look around figure out why I'm on this death boat, why I'm here. But the truth is I've got no clue. I look at the man who extended his hand to me. He is most definitely alive, his hand is warm and there is a blush on his cheeks that make is cheekbones stand out. A couple strands of dark black hair fall over his eyes, his hair style is completely absurd with the hair falling to his shoulders, a small fringe covers his eyes. He's smiling at me with big, white teeth. There's a ring on the left side of his lip and a tattoo on his finger. "You're going to need to get up and some point," he says. His voice is like smooth, with the occasional bump,. When I manage to un-stick my legs from the other bodies he winks his dark - blue eyes.

"Why am I alive?" I ask. He almost giggles and smiles with pouty lips. His laugh is raspy. "You're not!" I look at him with the most confused look I can muster. Suddenly I'm tired, my stomach and head ache like hell. "Can you stop touching me?" I snarl, looking down at our hands. "If I let go, you're just going to, well, die again," he replies and squeezes my hand. "You ready to go?" "Go whe-" I get cut off by a hideous feeling of being thrown in the air but I'm clutched tightly to the man's chest. We're not even in that terrible pit of darkness for a second and we appear on a stone pathway. He gives me a moment to collect myself. I step away from his tall figure, wishing I could get this sticky, gross feeling off my conscience. "Take me back. Now," I hiss. "Can't," he went on, "It's impossible. I'm taking you to see the king." The king? "Where am I?" I demanded. It was dark in this place. They sky was grey with a tinge of orange, like a nightmare sunset. The ground was cobblestone and all around me were slums, I could see people hanging out of the windows. Most of them were sobbing and moaning, it disgusted me. A couple carriages went by, chock full gaunt faced residents of this world. "You know exactly where you are, but anyway, welcome to the realm of Hellas, King of the underworld," he sang, raising his arms and addressing the land. "My home." My eyes widen in surprise. I shouldn't be here. I have never been cruel or mean in my life, nothing worthy of ending up in the domain of this monster. But the land I'm in is nothing like the world depicted in my mother's precious bible. This world is not made of fire and ash and devils, but of fear and poverty. My captor hails a carriage and a pale faced and hollow-eyed man pulls the reins on half-dead horses. My collector climbs in the carriage and offers his hand. I brush it away and haul myself in.