JoeEngland

"That was over four hundred years ago. And it's been that way for us ever since. Because... I guess we're still unforgiven." Riley sat aggressively deep in the couch cushions, arms crossed defiantly in a mighty huff. Morgan couldn't blame him. He'd been the same way back when it had happened to him. "So that's why we're... this." Riley looked down at himself miserably. He'd heard parts of the story before, of course. Never the whole thing. He hadn't known the names or the places until now, had never wanted to sit still through the details, but his father had warned him many times what to expect. And yet, somehow, he never really thought it would happen. "But... why the hat? Why the stupid black dress??" The wide brim of his new headwear slipped over his eyes. He angrily grabbed at it, trying to toss it away, but of course he couldn't. It was part of his new identity, even if it was too big for him, and it kept flopping around in a way that Morgan found both

"But I came here to rescue you!!" "Sort of, yes," She sighs. "Lots of you came here. But not to rescue me. Not really." She gestures to the ornate mirror over Her desk, and from the depths an ethereal visage materializes upon the glass like condensation. She paints the line of a smile upon it with Her fingertip. "This was my first. He tried to rape me." Palm prints appear upon the surface as the smile melts into a grimace, and She sweeps Her arm towards the rest of the room. "Over there is the second. He tried to be romantic, but you can't lie to someone who owns a magic mirror. I made him an empty space, broadening my view. Quite a clever trick, I thought. At the time." The Knight glances at the hole in the stone wall, the window that looks very much like a scream. "And over here," She says, continuing her tour of the room. "This was a great, burly, bearded warrior, clad all in spikes and armor. A barbarian. I almost liked this one, but the slap made it clear he wouldn't

It doesn't hurt, really. It's just sad. I look out the window. There's a street outside. No fire. No brimstone. No monsters. Just a street. Nothing interesting. So that's Hell, I think. The mundanity of evil taken to its purest expression. A world without intrigue. Without anticipation. Just a boring, ordinary place with no glory. Like a present you've been waiting to open for your entire life, and there's nothing inside but socks. I sit on the bed, asking myself if I can live with this (or whatever dead people do with eternity). The room is musty and perfunctory, something made without care but without malice for the individual. It's suffocating in its adequacy. I'm going to need to cope, I think. There has to be a way. Some strategy to make this work, to win the game and beat the despair. I can own this. And then the air conditioner clicks on, sending an artificial breeze that's just a bit too cold at me with a mechanical hum. I inhale the scent of cleaning