Hello Darkness

Hello Darkness,

My Old Friend.

Malina dreams of an old memory, her first heartbreak.

“Malina, honey, all these tears over a boy? A boy who makes you cry like this isn’t worth your tears.” Her mother, Azella, soothed.

“I love him, and he dumped me for that skank, Bethany, because she puts out.” Malina sobs.

“Prințesă, dry your tears. Shall I tell you a story? Take your mind off the dweeb?” Azella asks.

A ghost of a smile appears on Malina’s face. “It’s going to have to be an excellent story.”

“I’ve been saving this story for when you were older. It is said that Aphrodite herself kissed your many, many times great-grandmother, Flavia, on the forehead soon after birth. Because of this kiss, she grew into the most beautiful woman people had ever seen. Everyone fell in love when they first saw her: men, women, barnyard animals.”

“What!” Malina exclaimed. “She did it with a donkey?”

“No, not literal animals. Some don’t deserve the title of men; they are pigs. Now hush, eat your Ben and Jerry’s, and listen. Where was I?” Azella murmurs

“Barnyard animals.” Malina snickers

"Right, Flavia was well versed in plants and poisons. When she came across a bipedal pig, she would…take care of him.

Satan eventually became curious enough about these men who died before their time. When questioned, each man gave Satan Flavia’s name. Intrigued, Satan rose to the mortal realm, and when he saw Flavia, he fell in love.

But she was mortal; he knew they couldn’t be together while she lived, so he bided his time, knowing that her soul was bound to wind up in hell on her judgment day.

But Flavia was also a healer, using her knowledge of plants and potions to save many lives. Flavia used the line between good and evil like a skipping rope. At her passing, her soul was too good for hell but not good enough for heaven.

They say Satan has vowed that he would only love a woman from our line and has been waiting for centuries for one of us to give into the bit of darkness we all have inside of us."

Rolling over, pain briefly wakes her, interrupting the dream. As Malina settles back into sleep, she dreams of a more recent event.

“I promise you’ll love Ben. He’s absolutely perfect for you.” Debbie says

“If he’s so perfect, why don’t you date him?” Malina asks.

“No, no, perfect for you. Not me. Ben’s an old family friend.

I told him about you, and he’s excited to meet you. Come on, one date. What could it hurt? If it doesn’t work out, I’ll never try to set you up again. Promise.”

“Ugh, fine. One date.”

More memories come, their edges crashing together, forming one distorted nightmare.

She’s out on her date with Ben.

Coming back from the restroom and seeing her glass of wine had arrived.

Feeling light-headed after dinner.

Stumbling out of the restaurant.

Ben helping her into the backseat of his car.

Debbie, looking at her from the front seat, laughing.

Being dragged from the car and into a house.

A strange man.

Ben being handed money.

A bedroom.

Malina comes back to herself in stages, every one of them uglier than the last.

First, the pain: a thick, bruised blanket that covers her from scalp to shin, layered in splotches of purple, green, and the yellow-brown of old rot.

Her left eye feels welded shut. The right opens, gummy and reluctant, but it works. She’s lying on her side, cheek mashed against the seams of a mattress. She’s wearing nothing but a red negligee. The only thing in her direct line of sight is an old radio; it’s a toss-up on which of them is more battered.

She tries to catalogue the damage; the list is long. Ribs hurt to breathe. Wrist sprained, maybe fractured, but she’s not ready to test it. Her lip is split so deep she tastes iron every time she moves her mouth.

There’s movement beyond the door—a shuffle, then a cough. He always coughs before coming in. It’s his version of a doorbell.

She stares at the door, refusing to flinch as the lock disengages.

The door swings open. Mike fills the frame, six-two, two-fifty, all meat and old scars; part of his American traditional eagle tattoo is visible.

Malina straightens. Every muscle protests, but she keeps her chin level and her eye—the good one—fixed on Mike’s. There’s an art to not looking away. Not to challenge. But if she drops her gaze, he wins a little more.

He reaches over to the radio and turns it on. Disturbs cover of The Sound Of Silence fills the air.

“On your knees,” Mike demands.

“I kneel for no one.”

Mike’s hands are on her before she registers the movement. He grips her upper arm—left, always left, and yanks her upright. The pain is bright and immediate, but she bites down and refuses to give him the sound he’s waiting for.

He releases her with a shove that sends her back against the wall.

She hisses, just a little.

Mike grins. He goes for the ribs next, two short jabs that land with surgical precision. Malina’s left side folds instinctively.

He grabs her by the hair, yanking her upright again, and leans in. He wraps his hands around Malina’s throat.

“Who do you belong to?” He demands.

“No one.”

He starts to squeeze. “Who do you belong to?”

“Fuck you.” Malina wheezes.

He squeezes harder.

The air leaves her lungs in a single, whistling gasp. The first instinct is panic—her body thrashes, legs kicking, but there’s no leverage, nowhere to go.

The world reduces, pixel by pixel.

There’s a roaring in her ears, swimming blackness starting at the edge of her vision that closes in, steady and absolute.

Her arms go slack.

With her last spark of life, Malina searches inside herself for the darkness he mother told her about. Finding it, she calls out with her entire being for vengeance.

***

Sitting in his well-lit office, Satan’s head snaps up. He turns to the shadow that darkens a corner. “Find that soul, and bring her to me.”

The shadow billows into a room, approximating the shape of a human but not quite achieving it. It’s less like a figure and more like an absence, a place where the world has simply stopped being.

A battered body lies on the floor.

Looking around, the shadow sees a soul standing in the corner, luminescent tears running down her face.

Sensing something watching her, she turns her head.

“Hello, darkness, my old friend,” Malina says softly.

Beckoning her forward, it holds out a hand to her. Smiling for the first time in weeks, Malina approaches the shadow and willingly takes its hand. Slowly, the shadow moves up her arm, and little by little, it envelops the rest of her body. Turning, the shadow melts away, taking Malina with it.

Malina comes to in a chair that could only belong in an expensive therapist’s office or a senior partner’s lair at a law firm. The upholstery is maroon leather, faintly warm, supple as skin. She’s still dressed in the red negligee, minus the blood and bruises. Her skin is smooth, unblemished, as if every scar and cigarette burn had been buffed out. No pain, but she can still recall the memory of pain, like a phantom itch after an amputation.

The air smells faintly of scorched cinnamon. On the other side of the antique desk sits a man.

He is tall, the kind of tall that makes you feel short just by existing. His hair is jet and silver, swept back in a way that’s either timeless or years out of date; his eyes, when he looks up from the sheaf of papers before him, are so blue it almost seems cruel.

“Welcome to Hell,” the man says, not smiling, but with a warmth that could almost be mistaken for welcome. “Please, call me Satan.”

The way he says it is matter-of-fact, like ‘Todd’ or ‘Greg’—no melodrama, no thunderclap.

He closes the folder before him, steeples his fingers. “I can give you vengeance. But it would come at a cost. Your soul would be forfeit.”

“I would be tortured for all eternity? I was the victim!”

“No,” he chuckles. “Only corrupt souls get tortured. We have plenty of souls experiencing their best afterlife here. Many souls in life were trapped in bodies that struggled with mental illness and addiction. They truly weren’t responsible for what their bodies did. Here, they are free from them.”

“For those souls who don’t get tortured, what’s the difference between here and heaven?” Malina asks.

“Heaven has more natural light.” He smiles. “The choice is yours: revenge and you remain here, or turn the other cheek, ascend to heaven, and they get away scot-free. I’ll give you time to think about it.”

He stands—uncoiling is the word that comes to mind, as if there were twice as much man in that body as physics should allow. Walking around the desk, he offers his hand to help her stand. His fingers are long, the nails cut short and squared.

“Let me give you a quick tour, then I’ll show you to your apartment.”

She takes his hand, because she’s never been one to cower from the devil she knows.

Twenty minutes later, on their way to her new home, Malina says, “I heard you…knew my ancestor Flavia.”

“I wouldn’t say I knew her; more I knew of her, she was a strong, independent woman. I had a lot of respect for her.”

“Oh, the story I was told made it sound like you were close.”

“Would you share the story with me?”

They arrive at Malina’s apartment just as she finishes the story.

Laughing, Satan opens the door. “Let me show you something, and then I will leave you to relax.” Holding his hand out, a scroll appears in it. Unrolling it, he says, “Flavia Barbee.”

Malina watches, entranced as a picture of a heavy-set woman with close-set eyes, a large bulbous nose, and a mole on her chin with hair growing out of it appears.

“This is Flavia, an incredibly impressive person, but far from being Aphrodite kissed, apart from the errors of her looks, and my love, the story is surprisingly accurate; she did take many lives, but she did it to protect, and she saved many more than she ended.”

“If I sign the contract, how quickly will I get vengeance?”

“That could be a long conversation, and I have an appointment soon; why don’t we discuss it over dinner? I can pick you up at 6 o’clock.”

Looking down at the red negligee, “I literally have nothing to wear.”

“Your apartment is fully stocked with everything you need. But I’ll understand if you don’t want to go out tonight.”

“I’d like to go out for dinner,” Malina responds.

Satan smiles, “I’ll see you at 6 o’clock.”

***

The restaurant is all dark red, like the inside of a heart. Every surface gleams, crimson tablecloths, copper filigree running along the ceiling in veins.

At the far end, a glass-walled kitchen is visible, all heat and violence, the chefs a blur of arms and knives.

A low hum of conversation fills the room, clinking glasses, the syllables of dozens of languages. Malina feels it in her teeth, the way she used to feel thunderstorms in her bones.

“I never would have believed that hell has a Michelin Star restaurant,” Malina looks around in awe.

“Yes, a contestant from that Gordon Ramsay show opened it last year. You had some questions regarding the contract?”

“Yes, if I sign it, how long will it be until I get my vengeance?”

“Well, first, they need to die, which would be soon and in horrible ways. You won’t be involved with that part, so at most, a week.”

“What happens after they are dead?” Malina asks

“They will be confined in a cell.”

“And then?”

“They will be tortured, by you, me, my minions…” The reply was nonchalant.

“I’ll sign the contract.”

Lifting his hand, the contract, and a black pen appear. “This was a much quicker conversation than I anticipated,” he said, offering it to her.

Looking down, Malina reads. For the deaths and right to torture Ben Anderson, Debbie Anderson, and Mike Watkins for eternity, I, Malina Ramos, forfeit my soul.

Taking the offered pen, Malina signs her name.

***

“Thank you for dinner,” Malina says as he walks her home.

“I want you to know I have no dominion over you.”

Perplexed, Malina asks, “What do you mean?”

“My purpose here is only to imprison and torture evil. You and all the other souls walking free are my responsibility, but we are equals.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you are trying to say.”

“I would like to see you again, but I don’t want you to feel you have no choice but to accept. There is no power imbalance between us; I have no authority over you.”

“I’d like to see you again, too.”

Smiling widely, “There’s a nice botanical garden; we could have a picnic tomorrow,” Satan suggests.

“That sounds wonderful,” she says

“I’ll pick you up at 11 o’clock.”

***

Malina runs her fingers through her hair and thinks back on the newspaper article that came with her breakfast.

There was a horrific car accident; the victim of the single-vehicle crash was somehow decapitated when she was ejected; her head hasn’t been found, and police believe a wild animal may have made off with it.

Smiling, she gets ready for her date. The gentle knock at her door causes butterflies to dance in her stomach, and she hurries to open the door. A sigh escapes her as she looks at him, tall, dark, and deadly.

“Malina, I brought you a gift.” Satan rumbles. Her soft smile widens when she sees the dozen white roses, liberally splattered with blood from Debbie’s severed head that the flowers are artfully arranged around.

Holding them out to her, he quips, “Look, Debbie does Damnation.”

“They’re beautiful, thank you.” She laughs. Setting the flowers down, Satan offers her his arm, and taking it, they walk out.

***

Two days later, another newspaper article is served with her breakfast.

While drinking her morning coffee, she reads about the body of a missing hiker that was found in a ravine; police believe he somehow fell off the trail, and there was significant animal predation.

She can’t help but wonder if Satan will have something for her when he picks her up in a few hours for their beach date.

Malina hears the gentle knock on her door. She’s surprised that a man as powerful as Satan seems so inherently tender.

“Malina, I brought you a gift.” Holding out a box of chocolates tied with an odd-looking ribbon, Satan explains. “Turns out you can’t make Ben’s guts into garters, but his intestines work great as a ribbon.”

“I love this brand of chocolate; the ribbon is perfect. Thank you.” Putting down the chocolates, she picks up her beach bag. Satan holds his hand out, clasping it with hers. They leave.

***

“I had a wonderful time today,” Malina says when they reach her door hours later. “If you’re not busy on Friday, would you like to come to my place for dinner? I can’t cook, but we can order pizza?”

Pressing a soft kiss to her cheek, he growls, “I’d love that.”

***

As expected, there was a third news article with her breakfast on Friday morning.

Human remains were found after a house fire was extinguished; speculation is that the victim fell asleep while smoking.

“I’m washed, scrubbed, exfoliated, and shaved. I am ready for this date and whatever happens,” Malina mutters as she shimmies into a sexy matching bra and panty set. Pulling on a soft sundress, she fluffs her hair just as the anticipated knock on the door happens. After a calming breath, she opens it.

“Malina, I brought you a gift.” Satan hands her a large book bound in human skin; a traditional American eagle tattoo is on the cover. “It’s a collection of my favourite poems. And every night that you read it would be open Mike night.”

“This is such a personal and thoughtful gift. Thank you.” Standing on tiptoes, she kisses him on the mouth.

***

Gentle kisses on her bare shoulder wake Malina.

“Good morning. We should get up and get something to eat. You must be hungry since we didn’t have dinner last night. After breakfast, I have a special gift for you,” Satan says.

Breakfast finished, they leave Malina’s apartment, hand in hand. Soon, they are in an area Malina hasn’t been to before. Down at the end of the corridor is a door with a large red bow.

“Would you mind closing your eyes?” Satan asks. “It’ll just be for a minute.”

Smiling, Malina closes her eyes. She hears the rusty hinges scream as the door slowly opens.

“You can open your eyes now.”

Malina opens her eyes; she’s standing in a large room; there’s a table with manacles and straps for securing people, the walls have every type of torture device imagined, and in the back of the room, three cages, each one with a person in it.

“Oh, Satan, you give me the best gifts.”

Chuckling, “I’ll leave you to it then. When you want them moved to and from the table, just ask the shadow,” he motions to the corner of the room that is much darker than the other three. He kisses Malina on the temple and says, “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Debbie, I think I’ll start with you.” Looking at the corner, “Hello, darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again.”