Intuition

        Hell. Demons. Dead. Where else could I be? There was fire everywhere, tortured screams and thick grey smoke. I was hardly breathing, yet the sulphurous air felt like it was burning my insides. I felt a strange sense of intuition as if my lungs had near-frozen drops of blood dripping down the side of them. My lungs were not the only parts of me feeling like it was bleeding. The sound I had thought was screaming was unendurably, but undeniably horrible soprano singing. An unexpected punishment, I see. The sulphurous smell, upon closer inspection, was the scent of burning brownies, like a lit-on-fire kind of burning. I had experience with that. The brownie factor alone revealed that I was in Hell.

        Do not misunderstand: I knew that I was one fated to end up here, had it existed. I had supposed Heaven and Hell was humanity’s way of assuring itself of possible happiness. Being a cold, heartless person, everyone told me that my destiny would lead me downwards, literally. Come to think of it, I had never intentionally hurt anyone, but I hadn’t helped anyone either: I had simply done nothing. They said my indifference to pain and loss made me inhumane, that my preference to speak brutal truths was cruel. As if I cared.

        Slowly, the way Death took the sick ones, the soprano singing ended. Oh, thank goodness. If it existed. Or at least, I was going thank it, until an ever-horrible voice began to scream-sing from bass to falsetto. Oh well.

        Oddly enough though, I could not remember any details from my life. Any time I attempted to focus on something specific, the memory slipped from my grasp, far from reach. Not unlike the way one fumbles with a lost bar of soap in a bath: right in your hands, but the moment you tried to hold it, it slipped back into the waters.

        I tried to remember my mother or my father, hell, even my family, but it was impossible to focus on anything sure, any proof that they truly existed. Maybe they had not, but then, from where from had I come?

        I failed to even recall enduring any form of trial to end up in Hell. Could not remember any trace of evidence indicating I had existed before my eyelids slipped open just now.

        “New here, are you not, Dear?” An amused voice by my ear chuckled. I turned my head, not even bothering to act surprised.

        The Devil. Beelzebub. Fallen Star. Belial. Evil One. Abaddon. Whatever you call him, the being stood by me now, and it was imminently him. Something about him, perhaps his demeanour, perhaps himself, or both, felt vastly familiar. No. I could not have known him. He was the Devil. The Evil One. I was a nameless spectre. But he had called me ‘dear’, had he not?

        “You are going to torture me, I presume,” I stared at him levelly, ignoring the cheesecakes now erupting from a fissure near us, “What will it be? Burning? Tearing me limb from limb?”

        “Oh, you! Adorable as always,” he laughed heartily, “I may torture you, but we absolutely have to watch Second Chances!”

        For once, I felt taken aback, “What?”  I had not even paused to note him saying that I was adorable “as always”. Always?

        He patted my shoulder, “It’s a show where we give the to-be-tortured a second chance. Like a reality show, but literally from Hell.”

        I touched my shoulder gingerly, wincing at the fiery tingling, “A chance for what? Heaven?”

        “No! The chance to prove themselves worthy, to punish those deserving. Someone made of steel, strict enough to see to torturing and inflicting pain to those who deserve it.” He gazed at me, thoughtful, “Y’know, you might have a chance. You are not good, but not evil. Neutral. And, as always, very calm.”

        “When do we watch it?” I peered at him dubiously.

        He smiled, horns glowing against his dark hair, almost looking genuine. “Just about now. Come on.”

        He gestured towards what looked like a hungrier inferno than the rest. It stood taller than all the other fires, so deep it looked black, reaching to the absent roof of Hell. Its shadows casting dark beams of lights, its flames licked closely at all those around it. Even I could feel the sear of heat on what was meant to be my skin. A surprisingly refreshing aroma of sandalwood floated from its reach.

        Taking my hand, the Devil nodded his head towards it.

        I nearly flinched at his touch. His hand wasn’t an ordinary type of hot. No sweat or moisture. Dry, even, and searing, it was as if he was burning from the inside. But like a magnetic pull, a moth to a lamp, perhaps unknowingly diving towards its death, I could not tear myself away. It was habit. Maybe I was mad, but I felt with a brittle certainty that I have felt this irrefutable blaze before.

        He led the way, and I followed.

        It was like a theatre, and we had the front seats. A grand, flat stage lay in front of the dark inferno. Enormous. A semicircle of elevated seats surrounded it. The design was fancy, elegant and aristocratic. Ironically, the inferno had not burned me when I was so close to it, on the contrary, it was the one cool place in Hell.

        Still, the feeling that I had known the Devil was inescapable. The acknowledging glances from all those around us implied familiarity. Between he and I or between them and I, I could not be sure. One demon even grabbed my arm, about to say something, but the Devil pushed him away.

        “We will be sitting here,” he gestured grandly at a pair of large, velvet throne-like chairs. They stood out from the rest. They were for the Devil. He was their king. Of course, it would.

        I looked behind the chair at the many demons and demonesses lining the elevated rows. A demoness waved, beaming at me in the way only close friends did.

        “Wait,” I let go of his hand at last, “Either you are not the Devil, or I am not a normal spirit. Either way, you know me. So, tell me, which is it?”

        The grin on his face faded, eyes narrowing. For a moment, my blood, or whatever it was flowing through my veins, stilled. There was a deafening quiet silencing the questions on the tip of my tongue. The first time fear had ever really touched me. It was a chill in the core of my stomach. The relaxed, silly façade was gone. Here stood the Devil in his purest form. His gaze burning, his mouth set in a hard, forced smile while clinging shadows of power surrounded him. As quickly as his false front had disappeared, it came back.

        “Dear, can this not wait until the show is over?” He attempted a sly grin, “Look! All of the punished souls are assembled for your benefit.”

        He was the Devil, and I would not push him. I inclined to avoid torture, even if he had called me “Dear” again. 

        “Fine.”

        He grinned at me, genuine happiness shining on his face. "I will then go acquire snacks."

        I laughed softly, "In Hell? Snacks?"

        He winked, "The best popcorn, I vow." There was something off about it, though, like bitter pain beneath his joy. Surely the Devil felt no pain?

        He hopped off of his throne and disappeared among the crowd. Funny how it ceased to part for its king.

        I turned to look at the demoness who had smiled at me. She stared back with a questioning gaze. Who was she? How did she know me? She blinked, and it was like time slowed down. The brush of her long lashes, the way she pulled her fingers through her wavy chestnut hair, were all things I had known once. Roses. She would smell like roses. And as soon as the memory danced before me, it slipped away. But it was coming back to me, like volcanoes just before they erupt, bubbling. Her name, it was choked in my throat. But it would come to me. Soon. 

        “I have returned just in time!” The Devil panted, holding up a bag of popcorn.

        I took it with a nod of thanks, annoyed at not being able to question the demoness. "Devil?"

        “Yes, Dear?”

        “What was my name? And please do tell." I raised my eyebrows at him.

        After a long pause, he finally answered, turning away from me, “Fiernas.”

        I looked at my popcorn, rubbing my finger against the soft velvet of the armrest. Fiernas.

        A demon, presumably the host, stepped onto the stage, his eyes filled with blue fire. The crowd behind us screamed, whooped and applauded. Keeping my expression neutral, I clapped politely.

        "Welcome, everyone to another night of Second Chances!" The host beamed a smile our way, "After we had resolved the problems between Tamejia and Sijeh, we received a very, very special request from none other than our own Satan!"

        I furrowed my eyebrows, "problems between Tamejia and Sijeh"?

        "Hey," I tapped the Devil's shoulder, "Are you sure you gave me the right synopsis of the show?"

        "Uh," he bit his lip, black eyes frantic, "Well. Maybe not, Dear.”

        A weird sense of dread began to submerge me from within as if my body knew what to expect, yet I did not. As if I were drowning within myself. As if my blood began to freeze and started to kill me from within. I could not breathe, the boat slowly filling with water, soon to drown. Please tell me it was a joke, I prayed to goodness knew what, please let this be about second chances at torture school, anything but it.

        "So, would the Devil, our king," the host gestured at him, gleeful, "and his wife, Fiernas," then at me, eyes twinkling, "please come up to the stage to resolve the problems within their marriage?”