Empty

My latest story. If does NOT reflect my beliefs. Just saying. It's simply a story. Anyway, have fun!

Empty
By Adam Gonzales

Hell was cold, for starters. Really cold. Figgins stared down at his shoes. They were frosted over and frozen to the ground. Ice clung to his brown hair and eyelashes, and his teeth clattered violently as he looked around the long hall. It was more of a tunnel than anything else—a dark tunnel of rock and sleet. Bright blue sleet.
It was funny. Figgins had always believed Hell to be more crowded. Crowded and hot. But it was empty. Not a soul in sight. He wondered if maybe he wasn’t even dead yet, really, but he stopped that thought short when he remembered his last minutes alive.
It was curious how people said that when you got close to dying you saw your life flash before your eyes. He couldn’t remember it actually happening, but he supposed it was possible. If it did happen, he figured it must have been his memories leaving him; because no matter how hard he tried all he could recollect from his life was his last five minutes. Nothing else.
Figgins tried to lift up his feet. The ice cracked and gave way, but it was hard to move without shaking. Hell was so damn cold. Why was it so cold? He rubbed his arms and started to move forward. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew if he stayed idle any longer then he’d be in trouble. So he kept moving. Moving and thinking.
He remembered not wanting to die, but needing to for some reason. The reason escaped him at the moment, but he knew he’d remember if he tried. Walking in front of the blue bus had been frightening, but necessary. Figgins scowled. Necessary, yes. But why? Why in damnation had he thought he needed to die? Dying wasn’t fun. Dying wasn’t even practical. Hell, even being dead was horrible.
He stopped moving and closed his steel blue eyes, breathing in deeply. He was here for a reason. Whatever that was. He opened his eyes again. Small flakes of ice cracked as they peeled away from his lashes. There was no end to the blasted tunnel. Just solid stone and ice in an eternal black void. Figgins grimaced as he pushed himself forward once again. Then he stopped short. Had someone whispered his name? It couldn’t have been—could it? He was alone.
Figgins.
There was no mistaking it: someone or something was calling him. Was this why he had come here? To find the one who uttered his name?
Figgins.
But there was no way he could have known this would happen. No way he could have wanted to feel this chill down his spine. This deep chill that had nothing to do with the ice. He wanted a way out. But he wanted to know who was calling him.
Figgins.
“What!?” His voice didn’t carry or echo like it should have done in a hollowed tunnel. Instead it was swallowed. As if it was being shoved back into his mouth. It set him on edge.
Speak your reason.
What? His reason? His reason for being in Hell? He couldn’t remember.
Speak your reason.
“To find what I have lost.” Figgins had replied without even thinking. And yet he knew he was looking for something. He had come to Hell to recover something he lost. He knew why he was here. And the thought comforted him.
What do you seek?
He racked his brain, concentrating as hard as he could. He couldn’t remember. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. His memories were gone. It was almost as if they were blocked; being held from him in some way. “I don’t know,” he managed to croak.
A selfish request, asking for that which you do not know.
“What are you?” Figgins cried out in frustration. He was trying so hard.
Now that is a question I can answer.
The temperature dropped fast. What was left of the rock on the wall was enveloped in ice. Figgins lost his breath—the shock of pure cold shooting up his veins. A figure in deep blue stood directly in front of him. It bore the face of a woman, beautiful and inviting with rich brown hair and calm grey eyes. So lovely and pretty, yet—Figgins somehow knew—so alien. So wrong.
“Hello.”
The voice echoed and shook in his skull. It came from everywhere at once and seemed to want to rip him in half. Figgins clutched the side of his head and gave a ragged breath. “What are you?” he asked again, despite the fear that flooded his body.
The woman smiled, her mouth widening slightly, her eyes narrowing, hair shortening, nose extending. A man with grey hair and sad brown eyes was staring back at him now. His lip curled as his face shifted again until it held the image of a slick teenage boy with bright yellow hair and eyes that matched the blue of his robe. The boy smile wryly.
“I am the face of every being that has stepped into this domain. I am the tortured soul of every mortal that has dared to try God. I am the eyes of every fool that has failed to love. The mouth of every cavalier who thought himself greater than his own undoing. And I am the ears of every master who lost himself in sin.”
The boy’s features had changed even as he spoke, until an imposing and hawk-like man with stark black hair, and cold green eyes stared down at Figgins.
“I am Lucifer.”
Figgins had somehow known this would be the case. He was in Hell, after all. What should he have expected?
“No,” Lucifer whispered calmly, “this isn’t Hell. Not in the practical sense, at least.
Figgins started. Could he really hear his thoughts? Everything?
Lucifer nodded as if in response, but he continued to speak. “This,” he said touching the side of his head as he smiled, “is Hell. In here. I am both its keeper, and its gate. No, this that you see before you,” he raised his arms widely then lowered them in a quick swoop, “this is the empty confines of your soul.”
Somehow, even after everything that had already happened to him, somehow this scared Figgins the most. He swallowed hard, trying to breathe normally despite the sheer chill. “Why am I here?”
Lucifer gave a rattling chuckle. “To find what you have lost. Did not you yourself tell me that?”
Figgins scowled. “Yes. But why can’t I remember?”
Lucifer shot Figgins a look of contempt and utter hatred. “No,” he said softly.
He reached out for Figgins’ temple, his fingers arched. And shrieked when their skin met. A look of pure fury slid across Lucifer’s face as he took a step back. “How did you get here?” he hissed.
“I don’t remem—”
“How did you die?”
Figgins fell silent.
“Do not test me, child.”
“Suicide. I ran in front of a bus.”
“And yet you remember.”
Figgins nodded.
“But you cannot recollect the rest of your life.”
It wasn’t a question. Lucifer knew something. Something that made him mad. Furious, even.
“I do not take well to taunts and practical jeers, Figgins. Playing with Hell is a dangerous pastime.”
Figgins swallowed hard, ice collecting on the tips of his ears and the edges of his mouth and eyes. “I don’t mean to. I just came to get something. Something I cannot remember.”
Lucifer sneered. “Everyone who enters Hell remembers their whole life. It is part of the eternal damnation, the endless cycle of vicious torment. It is the very definition of Hell.”
“But I can’t.”
“Curious, is it not? And yet,” Lucifer turned his back on Figgins and spat on the ground, “you have been condemned to perdition.”
Figgins didn’t dare to move now that Lucifer had his back on him. He knew he was too cold to run, and he knew the pointlessness of trying to escape the devil. Even more futile than trying to cheat death. Lucifer would find him, and Figgins did not fancy the idea of earning Lucifer’s rage two fold.
Lucifer turned back. “It is known that no unclean thing can enter the Kingdom of Heaven. There is a similar principle for those who pass through damnation. No clean thing can enter the Kingdom of Hell. You cannot remember your life because, by the standards of men, you lived a life of purity.”
Figgins coughed. “What?!”
“You do not belong here.”
“Then how,” Figgins was struggling to focus in spite of the cold, “how come I’m here? How come my soul is so…cold?”
“Suicide. The act of taking one’s life is a crime and sin so heinous that the soul becomes instantly shattered and fragmented upon death. That is why you can remember your death and only your death. Your single sin.”
“I…I killed myself because I knew it would be the only way to get here.”
Lucifer’s face grew sour.
“But you still hoped to claim my soul. Even knowing I’d done nothing else wrong. And it didn’t work. You wanted it to work, but it didn’t. Why?”
Lucifer’s face shifted back to the beautiful woman. Her deep grey eyes sparkled. “Suicide is a sin. And though it fragments the soul, nothing is nobler than dying for someone else.”
As the woman spoke, a familiarity crept through Figgins’ body. He knew this woman. This woman. She meant something to him. Charolette. Her name was Charolette. She was…
“…my wife.”
The woman’s mouth curled into a wicked grin as her face melted back to the hawkish man. “Ah,” Lucifer whispered with an air of self-satisfaction, “you do remember. Yes. Charolette. A fine prize for the Prince of Light. A fine prize, indeed.”
Figgins felt his stare grow hard. The flecks of ice that had been collecting on his face cracked as his brow steeped into a scowl. “Give her back.”
“I’m afraid I cannot do that. She has already passed through the gates of Hell.”
“But why? If Hell abides by the law that no clean thing can enter its Kingdom, then why is she here?”
“Possession. A deal was made to spare the soul of her father. In return she took his sins as her own, and I took her soul.”
“And that is why I’m here, isn’t it?”
Lucifer turned to the side, his robe brushing against the shards of ice underneath him. “If it is, then I am afraid I cannot help you. Or will not. Either way. I care not what reason you find I use.”
Figgins was trying desperately to maintain an air of confidence and imposition. He pulled his hands to his side, splitting chunks of ice, and stared at Lucifer as he turned back around. “It must be quite maddening to know that a spotless soul stands before you, and you can’t do anything about it.”
Lucifer hissed.
“I have a proposition for you.”
“What might that be, then?” Lucifer’s eyes narrowed as Figgins drew in a breath.
“My soul for hers.”
Lucifer cackled. “A soul is a soul, foolish Figgins.”
“And yet you took Charolette’s for her—”
“For her father’s, yes. You see, Figgins, a woman’s soul is so much more precious. It is more difficult to corrupt as men are more naturally drawn to power, and therefore failure.”
Figgins shifted. “But surely a sinless soul is even more tempting?”
“Charolette’s was. As I have told you, and as you have already come to know.”
“But not really, was it?” Figgins stare remained firm. “On earth, yes, it was. But you told me her father’s sins became her own. Her spotless soul tainted. Mine is clean. No contracts or satanic deals to tamper it. Pure as you will ever be able to claim.”
Lucifer’s eyes grew hungry, his desire betraying his demeanor. “If I take your soul in exchange, your soul would be tarnished by those same sins. Those sins cannot go unpunished without retribution from the Almighty.”
“The reward outweighs the consequence.”
Figgins stared into Lucifer’s green eyes, not daring to blink. The Prince of Perdition’s lip twitched, his mouth hinting a worried frown.
Lucifer reached out his arm, his hand eager to seal Figgins’ fate. But Figgins held fast. “Charolette is released and her father’s sins purged. That is my only offer.” Confidence seeped through Figgins now that he knew his purpose for entering the domain of the damned. The ice began to melt.
Lucifer hesitated, his hand curling slightly. “And in exchange,” Figgins continued, “the soul of a valiant man. Unblemished and clean.”
Lucifer’s green eyes gleamed as his hunger overwhelmed him. His hand steadied and his wicked grin widened. Figgins breathed in deeply and clasped Lucifer’s hand.
His body became violently filled with cold and pain. His veins felt as if they had ripped in half as his skull split from every angle. The cry of a thousand thieves filled his ears and the blood of a thousand murderers filled his mouth. In his last moment of sanity he watched as Charolette’s person split from Lucifer, fading into existence—returning to earth. Her grey eyes met his blue as he smiled despite the deafening scream that peeled from his lips. And in the moment he heard the crack of his spirit snapping into Lucifer, into Hell, he knew he had won. He had saved Charolette. And now…now he was…

Empty.