Hell is not flaming tombs and florentines. Hell is not brooks of blood or the gilded chains of the plutocratic. No. Hell is the monotonous and mundane. Hell is the every day suffering of survival.

“Hell is the absence of God,” said Baz the demon.

I was taken aback by how wrong human theology had been. Demons, for one, looked disconcertingly normal—fallen angels I supposed, all made in God’s image after all. Hell, most of all, was not as advertised.

“This doesn’t seem so bad to me,” I replied. “I was never much for songs of praise or prostration. This suits me.”

“The punishment for our life of darkness is an eternity apart from the light,” explained Baz further.

“Again, no complaints here. I can see you and everyone around just fine,” I said as I searched my surroundings.

Everything appeared in gradations of normalcy. The sun was still shining, albeit its luster dulled ever so slightly, like a haze hovered about my eyes. The grass, still green, no doubt was greener in the friendly confines of the heavenly illumination. The clothing of my fellow inmates reminded me of the clothes that walked by me every day; clothes that betrayed a sense of privilege and stature, not so refined as to suggest wealth, but sophisticated in the manner that only suburban comfort can be.

I remember the feel of the cotton on my skin. Clean, comfortable, well fitting. The smell of lavender caressed my nose as would a cartoon pie in the cartoons of my youth. For the first time since I was a child, I felt comfortable, as if I were on level footing with my fellow man. The word egalitarian balanced on my tongue. Perhaps Dante had missed the point. We were all finally equal in hell—as far as I could tell at least.

“What did I do to deserve this?” I asked with gratitude in my heart. Life for me was suffering. Life for me was hellacious—certainly not rivers of blood, that is hyperbole—every waking moment was struggle and strife. In death, I finally found rest.

“We have all earned our place,” said Baz. “Through means and methods private and peculiar, we have each turned our backs on God. We live out eternity in this place as punishment.”

I scoffed at this remark. It was not I who turned my back on God. He had turned his back on me.

My parents raised me to believe that if I performed acts of righteousness, if I was kind to the downtrodden, if I prayed every day and attended church every Sunday, I would be blessed. I was owed a blessing by virtue of being a messenger of the good word.

The prosperity gospel.

Hogwash. All of that. I wasn’t blessed a day in my life. I was given no quarter by life, no hand extended by my neighbor, no bootstrap ever strong enough to support my weight—and later in life, no boot ever dry enough to warm my feet. No. I was never extended the same kindness I had paid out early in life. I slowly faded into the background of the city, a fixture lacking focus, a set piece never illuminated by the spotlight of life. At best I was ignored, at worst I was beaten. Although, that beating led here. So maybe it wasn’t the worst thing to have happened to me.

I looked Baz up and down. He looked me directly in the eyes—I couldn’t remember the last time I had experienced a gaze intent and intentional.

“Can you show me to my living quarters?” I inquired.

“It’s not far from here. Follow me,” said Baz as he turned toward a large gray building.

I followed behind Baz and continued to breath in my surroundings. My stride was long, prideful for the first time. I eagerly anticipated a roof over my head. What luxury awaits. As I strode along, I noticed the furtive glances of neighbors and demons alike. Perhaps it had been some time since they had seen a face so content. In my view, there was nothing to fear, there was nothing to fret. I would have a place all my own, a bed to sleep in, nourishment and leisure time.

This was a veritable paradise.

“Here is your quarters,” said Baz as he pushed open a beige door with the number 1129 on it. We had climbed 11 flights of stairs—apparently elevators do not exist in hell—and yet I wasn’t breathing heavy in the slightest. My physical health was the best it had ever been.

I scanned the room with a grin wide on my face. To many, the space was nothing special. To me, it was palatial. A twin bed tucked in the corner, topped by one pillow. A small desk opposite the bed, a solitary lamp shown upon a note book and pen. The window had no dressing, but looked out upon the gray expanse of the cittern below—I could see into another building across the street from mine.

“Thank you, Baz. This will be just fine,” I said as I walked over to the bed and laid down. I stared at the ceiling and closed my eyes. The bed was firm but cradled my body in a matter that felt at once foreign and maternal.

“Before I leave, I should note,” said Baz, “there are many trials and tribulations which await you in this place. Each trial is an opportunity afforded to you to earn ascension into the eternal realm of heavenly light. You would do well to make the most of these trials and work over the millennium ahead to earn your place among the chorus of angels in the court of heaven.”

I sat up and gave Baz the toothiest grin I could and said, “I’m already here.”

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