- ANASTASIA STARING AT THE SUN SKIN
- ANASTASIA STARING AT THE SUN FULL
- ANASTASIA STARING AT THE SUN PLUS
ANASTASIA STARING AT THE SUN SKIN
She steps back and I get a better look her skin is pale, flavored with moles and her eyes are two different colors, gray and Eden green.
ANASTASIA STARING AT THE SUN PLUS
Plus the bracelet? Leaves no room for subtlety." If she were still alive, this was the moment she would have lit a cigarette. How much more trouble could I possibly get into?"Īn eyebrow raises to match her saucy lips. "You could get in a lot of trouble for fraternizing like that." "The suicides and the non-believers are only together at dinner," she said. This girl looks like she's been waiting all her life and death, just for me. I take a closer look and let go of my breath this girl is like my ex in the mundane traits only, blonde hair and dark eyes, they are the same height, but that's about it. She looks like Trish did fresh out of college. Nothing happens when they're on the other side until someone catches them. They wander in various states of mobility, some without legs or heads, others with skin bright as orange peels. Mirroring this fence is another town, like the one behind me, except those on the other side have red bracelets, not yellow. At the end of the road is a chain-link fence. Lines of the trees fall in line as I move, sprigs of leaves falling and getting stuck on my hair. It contains all the humane and cost-effective amenities you can find on Earth.įact: You're here because of you.
ANASTASIA STARING AT THE SUN FULL
Myth: Hell is full of fire and brimstone.įact: Hell was purchased years ago and is a privately owned corporation. It can, in fact, be very good! In fact, hell boasts over a sixty percent acceptance rate, with most tenants staying for a damned eternity!
I walk and read my information packet, trying to learn about my new home, with a particular interest in a pamphlet about the Myths and Facts About Hell!įact: Hell is not bad. At this moment, they're playing Good Vibrations. It's hot and exhausting, the food is overpriced, and Beach Boys music plays on a constant, warping loop. Walking around hell is similar to walking through downtown Winter Park, complete with dog doo, a giant 'NO DOGS ALLOWED' sign, and an overcast sky. As I get up and walk out the door I get a peek at his packet. The foam is still there, a rabid dog behind my gums. He rubs a string of drool from a hunk of tooth then turns over, trying to fall asleep. I don't give him the satisfaction of having figured that out. "You must be one of those good old Catholic girls." He sighs, deep, like he's lived a thousand years. "Original sin, the land of fire and flame, a big red man with horns chaining us to wheels with knives."
My roommate grunted and said, "What did you expect, girlie?" "This isn't what hell is supposed to be." Our window overlooks a lake, not of sulfur, just a lake with water, the bubbles of fish, and little boats. I take in the rest of the room with its lack of curtains, hardwood floors, and empty bookshelves. "I'm not too fond of you either." This was meant to be a whisper, but he heard me. "I thought in prison you weren't supposed to ask those questions." "What did you do to yourself?" he asks after a while. His comforter is a paisley green and red. He grumbles and turns to his bed, flopping down. His voice is clear and concise despite the lack of mandible. His unimpressed eyes glaze me from head to toe. "I'm Tammy," I tell him, trying to be polite. I guess there are bigger worries than fornication. My roommate is the man with the defunct jaw. The lights go off, and my bracelet glows with the word SUICIDE, like a gang sign. We are told not to eat them, no matter how hungry we get. All of the suicides are shuffled like dominos down a slide and into a courtyard full of trees, green and spiky, peppered with violet berries. I'm given a folder, map, and room assignment.
It's like a tour of a fancy, private college. Instead of looking at her face, I focus on her t-shirt that reads 'Someone in Hell Loves Me Very Much!' That smile, it makes her look like my ex-girlfriend Trish, the entire reason I'm here. She's blonde with a smile that's far too magnanimous. "It glows in the dark," says a woman with a clipboard. But I get to the front and a wristband is placed on my arm. My stomach is bloated, foam sits around my mouth, but there's nothing else to show for my demise. The man in front of me is missing a chunk of jaw. A group of teenagers push to the front of the line, most of whom have blood dangling from their wrists. That is what I'm told while being ushered behind a velvet rope with an assortment of people, dime-store candies with flesh moldy and nutty, missing pieces, smelling gross, probably tasting of medicine or bubblegum. I'm with the suicides the psychotics, the schizophrenics, the crazies who pop pills and cut their wrists.
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