by Naomi Canale
I’m not even in hell yet and as each second passes the only thing I’m becoming more aware of is anguish. My soul’s being devoured.
I lay palms across the ground that’s now only covered with dry death. I clench onto the dirt that sits just below a yellow patch of tall grass. Tiny rocks break the skin under my nails and I barely notice the blood that starts to seep out. “Think, Savanna, think,” I scream.
Faith. Dad was always talking about the importance of having faith—the faith of a child—innocence even when you know evil exists. As I barely move from my current fetal position under the tree, I watch as loose soil frees from my hands, and I yell out to the orange sky caving in all around me. “But how can I have faith if I already know heaven and hell exist?”
Chapter 16
Rest
~Daniel~
Desert air has a way of drying things fast. My clothes are covered in blood, dry crusted blood, the kind that doesn’t appease me. As I stand outside the Do-gooders house, I search for a tool that will help me dig a shallow grave. I need to dump these clothes before I go back into Savanna’s residence. I spot a rusty pitchfork that leans against an old tin trash can, grasp onto it, and start toward the crumbled stone structure that’s not too far off.
As I dig a shallow grave within half falling walls it doesn’t take long for Savanna’s little body to build up a sweat. Droplets of water trickle down across breasts and into the cups of her bra as I pull off a heavy wool coat and a shirt made of cotton. I draw the chemise across my nose as I bend down to untie taut laced boots and breathe in. Cotton, I’ve missed that smell.
I sit a moment on top of frozen ground and touch the skin covering her arms. It nearly mimics sugary honey that’s been kissed by the summer’s sun.
Gently, I lay the wool coat into the grave and shift the arms to its sides. Next is the shirt made of cotton, and the bra placed just underneath. I stare a moment with a tilted head at my masterpiece and finish it off with a pair of jeans and black boots. It’s almost as if someone’s in them standing at attention doing what I tell them to do and they listen.
“I say adieu, my dear Elsie.”
With the side of my foot, I shove small piles of dirt into the grave. Who says demons’ hearts can no longer beat? I scoff as I try to stomp unfastened dirt firm, “I even bid her adieu.”
Clothed in only skin, I start back toward the house. The moon peeks through clouds and causes this Caucasian body to become illuminated in the dark—I don’t like it. Being hidden and in the shadows is what calms me. The verses say that the light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it. But I’ve memorized the Bible and I understand. His name is the only thing that remains hidden from me. In my first seconds of experiencing hell, I couldn’t say His name, only think it and it quickly faded—I have a hard time remembering what the Father of Light’s name was, that’s the only thing I can’t comprehend anymore.
One thing nice about a small body is how hushed all the movements can be. It only takes one sudden hop and I’m on the ledge of the window. My eye’s follow the faint trail of the moon’s light before I climb in—it’s fascinating how it’s always darkest before the dawn.
Savanna’s skin is blemished with now crackled blood as I move my face about. The Do-gooder sleeps heavy. I shush the dog, and keep him lying in his bed while I close the bathroom door and step inside the shower.
Water, this body craves it. I can tell with her fast beating heart and veins that aren’t as moist as they were. Drops of cold water trickle down my face. I part lips against the stream and allow it to flow down a sore throat, and through a body that’s aching to be free of me.
The taste of the chill is only enjoyed by my true humanless self and as I begin to acclimate to this body, lukewarm is the only temperature that doesn’t bring on a shiver. I make the water hotter with the slight turn of the faucet. I smile. This body will soon be mine. Steam fills up the room and I allow water to run until cold is all that remains—I want to make sure this body doesn’t stand out as a killer. Even though the only thing I’m longing for is rest now that my hunger has been filled, I still refuse to be sloppy—stupid.
I lay a fresh blanket over untidy sheets stained with virgins’ blood, fold the corner down, and pull myself under the covers in a delicate manner so I don’t disturb the well made bed and cause wrinkles. Both arms lay over one another across my chest and I turn to face the wall so the Do-gooder won’t take notice of sliced cheeks in the morning. I even cleaned the untidiness of his razor and put it away nicely.
Respite. I’d rather it take place within my own being, but for now this will do—I never thought it would come again. I’ve been pleading for sleep for nearly a hundred years. It’s nice to have a body that will allow me to rest. The breath of life channels into lungs and practically transports me away from my eternal suffering—the everlasting baggage I’m left to carry. But as I nod off, I know better than to get too comfortable with the idea. It will only make me weak.
Chapter 17
Unquenchable Thirst
~Daniel~
The Do-gooder wakes me as he tries to sweep hair free from my right cheek. He’s awakened me from the rest I’ve craved for over a millennium. Bitterness only ripens on my tongue for the man, but I keep my mouth shut if I’m to rest again.
He has the touch of a true believer. I lift the arm he’s touching and rest it across a wounded face so he’ll break free of me. If he touches me again, I know I will only do something I’ll live to regret.
“Sweetie, school’s in about an hour.”
I’m fully awake, but I bury my head deeper into the pillow and sputter out a couple of letters from the alphabet. I don’t want to exchange words with this human.
His voice resounds with fear because of Lucky’s circumstances. I like that. “Could you just keep in touch with me today?” he shifts on the bed, “I’m worried with everything going on and I want to make sure you’re okay.”
If I don’t respond to that, he’s going to notice something’s off. I grind teeth until sulfur drips onto taste buds before I speak. “Sure. No problem.”
He pats a hand over my leg. “Be safe, honey. I love you.”
I’m quiet and wait for the front door to close before I get up. It’s interesting how easy it is for me to sway men with greed and to quench their thirst for power. They want so badly to be respected and think they earn it by success of materials. It’s strange; this man wants respect in the opposite way. As the door shuts behind him, I grumble to myself, “You are pathetic, Do-gooder.”
After watching Savanna for so long, I know how she goes about her days, her friends too.
I go to her closet, run fingers along clothes on their hangers and stop on the pieces made of cotton. I drape on a grey blouse, pull up dark blue jeans that sit just under my hips, and skip the bra—I don’t like those. Only two pairs of shoes to choose from that look like they date back to the industrial days, too bad I had to do away with the boots. I slide on a red sweater, pull the covering attached to it over my head, and grab the keys to the truck.
School, this ought to be fascinating, being there should help keep suspicions low.
The old truck bumps along toward my destination and it annoys me only because I’ve driven the best. Music streams through the radio, and some idiot is screaming about the animal he’s become. These humans know so little and think they’ve got it all figured out, even when they see past their flickering lights and into the darkness. Torture, they define it in their books as anguish of the body and mind—the infliction of intense pain (as from burning, crushing, or wounding) to punish, coerce, or afford sadistic pleasure. But that’s not the half of it. In hell they’re given a worm that can’t die and crawls through all the crevasses of their suffering corpse, the fire is never quenched, and the smoke casting up from their ashes goes up forever and ever. And the beasts that toy with them play with every fear that tainted their souls while on Earth.
The day is
warm, but a snow storm is moving in. It’s funny how the stuff covers the earth like it’s trying to hide the sins of the world. But it doesn’t take long for something so pure to absorb the filth it laid upon and become dirtied, as it should be. Humans are filthy creatures. Before I was part of the fallen, I was above them. Now I have to be one of them. But as long as I’m getting rest, I guess beggars can’t be choosers. As I turn into a parking space, one of the grimy creatures walks past with a sullen glare. She judges Savanna because she’s the daughter of a preacher. But she’s only jealous because she wants a father like the Do-gooder instead of the parents that like to beat her. I glower back to add more fire to the blue flame already lit inside her.
I keep a head turned down as I walk through the sea of bodies—they brush by my shoulders. Their touch forces me to exhibit my detestable animal ill mannerisms. I sniff the air, so many doubters. Savanna’s tongue grows moist and her mouth begins to water. I clench onto the straps of a backpack and try to contain myself. After taking a life already I need to lay low.
Amy rushes up from behind and grabs my arm. She’s out of breath. “Hey.” She’s startled by my appearance. “What happened to your face?”
“That’s not a very nice way to greet someone.”
“Okay,” she says taking down her voice, “are you all right?”
“Fine,” I say sharply.
She’s suddenly hesitant to speak with me, but still rambles on. “Lucky was transferred this morning.”
I already know the reason, but keep it cool and pretend to care. “Really? Why?”
“She needs heavier antibiotics, her body is rejecting them and her wounds are getting worse,” she stammers and bites onto her lip to keep tears from falling, “Mom won’t let me take her car to Reno because it’s fresh out of the shop. Maybe your Dad won’t mind if we skip school tomorrow and take your truck to go see Lucky for the day.”
A laugh erupts from my core, I can’t help it. I always do such a good job when it comes to my assignments. I look up, shit, Amy’s pissed off. “Why is it so funny? It’s not funny.”
The bell rang already—I’ve never been one to be late. I fix my face. “It’s not going to happen.”
She doesn’t budge and shouts out before I open the door to Mr. Stevens’s class. “What the fuck ever, Savanna, glad to know you don’t give a shit.” I turn back as I stand in the slit of the door and give her a slight smile.
The veins in her eyes grow red and she stomps out of the building. Guess someone’s going to have a hard time graduating this year. I’ve seen her skip a lot of classes. But I can tell she’s never really been smart anyway.
There’s a seat open in the back. As I sit down, I squint against the sun and look out the wall of windows and scan the desert for the same spot I stood to watch Savanna. Being on this side of the window is more fitting. I straighten my posture when I notice Krystal, a believer, observing me from behind. It’s curious, because if she followed through with what the Bible teaches and had been kind to Savanna, I may not be where I am today. I turn around, rest my chin over my shoulder, and crease cheeks up into a smile to show my appreciation.
Her flat frown and crinkled face confirms how unappreciative humans can be.
Mr. Stevens chats to the class while drawing little pictures on the chalkboard. “This is an atmospheric phenomenon that displays a diffuse glow in the sky in the northern hemisphere. It is caused by charged particles from the sun as they interact with the Earth's magnetic field—” he pauses as he sketches strange doodles I can barely identify. He’s doing them wrong.
I easily grow bored because this isn’t complicated. I want to hear him talk about what he “thinks” he knows, so I can prove him wrong. Anyone can figure out what the northern lights are. Hasn’t the man ever wondered why he’s only seen stars die but not be reborn? If I brought it up he’d probably vaguely respond with how stars are formed from dust in space—mass attracts mass and becomes a ball compressed together so hot and so dense it ignites hydrogen gas and you end up with fusion. Then he would try to tell me that when stars die they burst (what they see) and new ones are slowing forming and that’s why we can’t witness it. But he’s wrong; it’s a bigger explosion when a fusion first forms in the sky—baby stars are nearly blinding. And these humans haven’t seen one because the Father of Light placed them there. Don’t they read anything? It’s in the first page of their beloved bestselling book. Just another reason they don’t deserve grace—they’re dense.
Class empties quickly after the bell rings and I wait until everyone’s almost cleared out before I leave—having their flesh brush against mine is building up an unquenchable appetite. Mr. Stevens stops me with words. “Ms. Christy, how’s the essay coming?”
He tucks hands further into pant pockets—he’s suddenly uncomfortable with my presence as I turn to answer. I twirl out another smile. Maybe this human will be appeased by the gesture. “Beautifully,” I respond.
Fear’s been brewing up in the man ever since he heard about Lucky this morning. He knows Lucky and Savanna were close. “Were,” I say snickering to myself.
He tilts his head and wants to ask what I said, but doesn’t, “Great, best of luck with it.”
A shy one he is. No wonder he’s never moved on from this town and up in the bigger world of science.
Before I’m able to make it into physics ahead of everyone else, I get the urge to use the restroom—disgusting. The only place these bodies belong is back in the dirt from where they were made.
As I scuffle along in a stall to loosen a clasp that sits just under a belly button, there’s a sudden sharp ring in my ears and it’s not the devil—someone’s praying for Savanna, fasting for her even, it’s the Do-gooder. I tighten a hand into a fist and bang the stall, “Stop it!”
The volume in the bathroom is taken down as a few stragglers leave—they’re no longer comfortable being in the same room with agony. I grit my jaw closed like a bull dog and stare down at a floor scattered in toilet paper as I wait for the praying to end.
An entire night’s rest wasted.
Any energy this body had is being stripped away. The Do-gooder is getting in my way—he suspects possession.
Lack of rest makes Savanna’s eyes feel like they’ve been dowsed in kerosene and lit with a match. I get the urge to rip them out of their sockets, but refuse to give in. Once rest has commenced, I can go about my business. I press an index finger and thumb hard over eyelids—I’m practically blind and scuffle out of the bathroom. Light splashes over me and I detest it because it means I’m exposed—out of the shadows.
The truck’s fabric seats bring comfort as I crouch into a weak fetal position on top of them. I pull the sweater half way off and up over my head to detour the daylight casting on my face. Fingers want to fidget. Sleep becomes complicated when you haven’t experienced it for as long as I have.
As rest finally begins to settle into my chest and breaths grow steady, I’m awakened by a vibrating phone. When I see the name flashing across the screen, I get the urge to shatter the windshield with it. The Do-gooder wants me home.
To keep suspicions low, I try to pry open eyes cracked with red, and start the engine. “Home” isn’t far. I keep it together to please the man so I can lie upon a bed and gather the strength I need.
Chapter 18
Escape
~Savanna~
I’m torn.
Daniel was beautiful.
Evil came to me clothed in beauty and I let it swallow me whole.
A sheet of ice now covers the ground and as I run my hand over its surface, it slips. Hell is liquefying its layers. The beacon of light has faded and the only one that’s left is the glow of the underworld smoldering beneath me.
I’m becoming a flickering illusion, like Daniel was, but I have no one to hold onto to help make me real again.
I’m fading, my sight is too, or the colors are—I’m not sure which. Grey is all I seem to know.
A wilted flo
wer unfolds back into its splendor on one of the dry weeping branches that sits close to my right shoulder. It’s vibrant. My eyes open, wide. First it’s green, then fades to turquoise, and explodes at the tips with purple velvet. I touch it, pluck into the palm of my hand, and breathe in its perfumes. Its scent is bitter and reminds me of the time I pricked my finger and licked the wound dry. I watch as it changes again to the purest of white and the tips bleed out with red. The aroma’s suddenly sweet like strawberries.
I brush peddles against my cheek.
“Redemption,” I say faintly. It’s all I’m left to hold onto—the idea that I’ll be rescued and this ice will stop melting and I won’t really fall through and land into the cindery ashes of hell.
For a time, when I was small, a still voice inside me told me I was created, I was God’s child. But the idea slithered into a hole of quick sand. Once it left, I didn’t feel so ignorant anymore—it was fantasy. Mom and Dad told me everyone doubts their faith and it will come around, but it never did. I still read the pamphlets and Bible they gave me to please them, but it all felt wasted without the faith they spoke so fondly of.
My lips quiver from the cold. I scoot closer to the thickness of the tree so I can reach out for a branch and hold on if the ice breaks beneath me. The shiver causing my body to quake comforts me. It reassures me that the layers above hell are still thick. I tuck knees close into my chest, bow my head, and pray.
“I’m sorry, please forgive me, I’m sorry.” —words, I say the same ones on repeat.
Chapter 19
Look At Your Folly
“But if I say, ‘I will not remember Him Or speak anymore in His name,’ Then in my heart it becomes like a burning fire Shut up in my bones; And I am weary of holding it in, And I cannot endure it.” ~ Jeremiah 20:9