Ashmodai walked with purpose through the stink-ridden streets of Hell, his head down, eyes following cracks between the cobbles, deep in contemplation. The darkness bore into his eyes and the sound of screaming pierced him from every direction. But he was not afraid. To tell the truth he had grown quite tired of Hell. The same routine day in and day out; doing the rounds, checking new souls, monitoring old souls, not to mention enduring his own eternal torment. This was enough without the damned Union on his back demanding time off, holidays to spend doing goodness knows what. The problem with creating living things was that eventually they would develop that most dangerous of traits: self-awareness. Then there were the occasional phone calls from the Boss, checking up on his most trusted employee, his own words, a contradiction. But that was the Boss, a whole bundle of contradictions.
He thought back to the day he changed his name. The Boss would no longer call him ‘light bringer’, his desire to bring death to all that The Boss had created just brought too much irony to the label. He must have known. He must have known what his first-born would do. It was He who had given him fire, the epitome of wickedness, the ultimate weapon of mass destruction. But His reaction, the way He had filled the Kingdom with His booming voice, one would almost think He’d been surprised by the words of His first and most perfect creation: It is better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven.
Ashmodai made a left. Moans came from the brothels that riddled this part of town. The demons who worked here were the worst. It was their duty, he knew, but when you saw them at work you could tell that they enjoyed their jobs. A film of dirt lined everything here, leaving footprints as Ashmodai made his way through the maze between decrepit buildings. Not far now.
The fires which had burned within him, his wish to un-exist rather than serve one who he no longer respected; all had been quelled on his first day in Hell. At first he had cried out, his screams echoing around the barren landscape, tearing at his flesh in despair. He had prayed, sent up vows, pleas, provocations, until eventually he realised that the one he loved to his very core, the one love for whom had been woven into the very fabric of Ashmodai’s being, his adored master, was no longer listening. And he deserved it, he knew. He had wished for this and created Hell as his own retribution; and he loved it. Even so he was destitute for a long time, laying on the bare rocks for weeks, breathing slowly, or wandering through the vacant valleys, his hunched shoulders burning in the relentless sun. He despaired and revelled in the vast nothingness he had fashioned, the emptiness he inhabited and which inhabited him.
Now he was doing what he had done every week for a thousand years and what he would continue to do for the rest of time. Ashmodai opened a gate and cut through a ragged yard overlooked by one of the few rest-houses, the front of which faced a vast expanse, grey, desolate, and dotted with crucifixes.
Before long, souls has started to arrive, and brought with them their own self-made tortures. Such terrors they could create, for such crimes they had committed on Earth. Murders, thieves, molesters, all of them unworthy of a place in the Kingdom. So they came to Hell to repent for their sins. At first Ashmodai did his best to cater for the wicked souls, creating space and monsters for their ambivalent agony. But the space went unused and the monsters withered and died from lack of purpose. So he merely watched over them. He called the demons that the souls brought with them his Angels. They were minions of Hell and they carried out his intentions for the punishment of those who chose to deny the Boss’ almighty power. Now here he was, well-established Prince of Darkness.
Making his way across the plain Ashmodai approached one of the crosses. As he got closer the feeble sound of two words repeated over and over echoed in his ears. The lament was once screamed out into the Hellish sky, but after a thousand years of screaming one’s voice tend to deteriorate somewhat. “Forgive me,” it said, “forgive me, forgive me.” Ashmodai sat down in front of the thin tower of wood and stared up into the face of the woman he loved. She was delirious, but her eyes managed to find his and she appealed to him with her wispy words “forgive me, forgive me.” Ashmodai said nothing. He had learned long ago that it didn’t do any good to speak to her. On his weekly visits he simply sat before the woman and looked at her, drinking in her beauty. She was thin and brown, shrivelled in the burning sun, a shadow of the wonderful body she had no doubt once owned. But her face, caked with dust, still held the beauty of her former life. The eyes were large, blue and wet, bloodshot and surrounded by thick dark lashes; the nose perfectly formed, slightly crooked but small, flanked by high cheek bones; the lips were thin, cracked, plum-coloured.
He could not recall how long ago she had come to Hell, time was so different here. But it seemed to Ashmodai that she had always been there, upon the cross she had made from Hellish yews. Her face would have haunted his dreams if he could only sleep. She was all he wanted. If he must rule Hell he could at least have a companion. But the Boss would never allow it. Ashmodai wondered if this was not just another part of his agonizing sentence. It would not have surprised him; the Boss could be so cruel.
The longer Ashmodai gazed upon her, the greater the frustration grew in his chest. Why, why did it have to be like this? She was sorry, wasn’t that clear? He could redeem her, he knew it. With his love he could bring her to salvation. But it was out of his hands. He sat as someone meditating and recalled the trial, all those years ago, when he had tried to appeal for her redemption
“Please!” was the last word heard in the courtroom. Wooden panels echoed Ashmodai’s voice back to him, his desperate, hopeless appeal. The room cleared quickly, leaving Ashmodai alone with the Boss. “Why?” Ashmodai was childlike, wretched tears staining his cheek, eyes not meeting those of the parent.
“You know why.” The voice was terrible, calm, disarmingly gentle.
“Yes. But…”
“You heard the case against her. She murdered 25 people, including children, in cold blood, to satisfy her need for a drug that would eventually kill her. She stole from good people, innocent people, to feed her habit. And not once in her life did she repent. All this proves that her soul is not worthy to dwell in the Kingdom. So I sent her to yours, and she is punished appropriately. What kind of life do you envision with her, you two, in Hell?”
“She could have been my queen. I get so lonely.” Ashmodai wasn’t crying now, he was tired, suddenly drained.
“That is part of your torment. You defied me long ago; you questioned your place and my authority. I gave you what you asked for. I gave you a new name, a new purpose. I gave you what you wanted. I gave you power. But it was agreed; we agreed that you would do it alone, with no help from anyone. Even I limit my contact with you.”
“I know, my lord.”
The Boss suddenly grew to an immense size. “How - dare - you - call - me - your - Lord?!” The room span and Ashmodai lost his balance, falling through the floor. The world glowed bright white, shining through Ashmodai’s body, showing the veins underneath his skin. “I know you! You are not worthy to speak any of my names! You are a serpent, crawling on his belly!”
Ashmodai reached out his arms in silent appeal. “I have been cruel and I have been wrathful, but you were the first person to be sent to Hell! Remember that!”
“I remember!” The room appeared again, rich sunlight shining off polished wood and brass. The floor became solid and Ashmodai quivered against the cold flagstones. The Boss picked him up and held him in his arms, subsiding the tremors running through Ashmodai’s body. He held him like a baby and placed a large hand on his head and all at once Ashmodai felt his love like a warm glow, surrounding him, penetrating his heart.
All at once the light disappeared and Ashmodai was back in Hell, sitting on his throne. He knew his duty, and he would never abandon it. He could never end his own suffering because he loved it so. He laid down upon the ground, destitute once more.
The hours passed quickly as Ashmodai sat on the baked sand, listening to the chant-like plea. He stared into the face of the face of the woman he loved until her features blurred together before his eyes, forming a shadow of the plain beneath the never-setting sun. When the bell from a distant church tower struck, he rose, took one last look at the pathetic figure, and began the long walk home.
“Forgive me,” she whispered. He stopped, turned his head, said over his shoulder, “I can’t”, and slowly he walked away.
