itchell Freeman looked around. He was home, in Boise, Idaho. He could see the cross up on Table Rock, and Bogus Mountain where he and his family went skiing. It was a beautiful late spring day. He thought it was winter, before the dream of going to Hell, and he vaguely remembered a car accident, but he must have dreamed that, too. He was in the student center at Boise State and the clock in the main seating area said eight-thirty.
“It was a dream.”
The man in front of him turned to look at him. “Excuse me?”
Mitchell realized he had spoken the sentiment instead of thought it. “I’m sorry. I was just… I guess I had a dream.”
“The office demon?”
Mitchell blinked. “What?”
The man shook his head. “No, it wasn’t a dream. I had it too. I had a few too many drinks after the big game and passed out.” The man gestured to the room. “Dunno how I ended up here.” His eyes wandered across the breasts of a young co-ed that bounced by in a BSU tank top. “I fail to see how this is Hell.”
“What can I get for you, Carl?”
“Hi, Cutie.” Carl looked at the menu.
Three young men were getting refills at the counter where Airpots of regular and decaf coffee stood vigilant beside flavor syrups and Sugar in the Raw.
“I heard a convention in Australia almost lost a big backer just because Adam Baldwin was signed on to be a guest. Of course they’d sign him! He’s Jayne.” The man pointed to his Hero of Canton shirt.
“Why’d they almost lose the backer?” The black kid tore open a Sugar in the Raw packet and dumped it in his coffee.
“Some chick blew her brains out.”
The third guy, sporting a letterman jacket from Kuna High School stirred his cup with a plastic straw. “Did they think Jayne had something to do with it?”
The Jayne fan shook his head. “Who knows why women do these things? Probably did it for the attention.”
The letterman walked off to sit at a nearby table. The other two men snapped plastic lids on their cups, their conversation interrupted momentarily by a blonde girl in BSU track gear. She excused herself as she reached over and got a lid for her own cup.
The Jayne fan’s cup bumped the counter, splashing a little coffee on the Formica. “Dammit!” He reached for a napkin, his arm brushing the girl’s breast in the process.
She stepped back and turned away, not looking back. The two boys smiled at each other and exchanged a fist bump, the spill and napkin forgotten in the victory celebration.
“Can I get you something, Mitchell?”
Mitchell looked at the girl taking orders and money, then at her coffee shop shirt, but she didn’t have a name tag. Neither did the other girl in the snug t-shirt making the orders. He glanced around the other food service areas and saw name tags of glimmering gold on several other workers. He guessed this establishment didn’t require them.
“Tall vanilla latte, please. Thanks, hon.”
She wrote his order and name on the cup.
Mitchell smiled. “You look very cute today. Carl had the right of it.”
The girl smiled, focusing on the cash register.
He handed her a five and two ones. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, Mitchell!”
He stood off to the side, then stepped closer to Carl. “So, you saw the office demon too?”
“Yeah. Not sure how long it’s been, to be honest.”
“What do you know?”
“Well, everything is pretty much normal. I wasn’t even sure I was in Hell at first. Then I told our secretary at work she had a nice ass.”
Mitchell was stunned.
Carl shrugged. “It was true. I’ll admit, before I died, I would have stopped myself from getting in trouble. But here? There are no ramifications. She didn’t report me or anything. So, if I see a nice-looking woman, I can finally compliment her without risking a lawsuit.”
“Why would you think that was trouble?”
“Well, I’m a married man. She’s a good looking woman. That’s just asking for trouble.”
Mitchell nodded, seeing his point. He liked the idea of not having to worry about every little thing he said. “I hear ya. I’m all for equal rights for women, but they have to stop taking offense at every little thing. If I compliment a woman, I’m not insulting her.” Mitchell noticed Carl’s name stitched above an official ISU logo on his shirt. “So, what do you do, Carl?”
“I’m the assistant football coach at ISU. We’re here for the conference regarding scholarships for players. You?”
“Admin. Campus security. I don’t walk the beat, just do the paperwork.”
“I’ll try not to make any extra work for you.” He turned as the barista called his name and then placed the cup on the counter. “Have a good one,” he said.
“There were two rapes reported last night and three suicides in the dorms.”
Alan Johnson handed him the reports from the night shift. “This keeps up, those women’s dorms are gonna be empty soon.”
Mitchell looked at the reports. Frat parties. “Why do girls go to these things if they’re just going to claim rape?”
Alan shrugged. “I don’t get it. One of them says she thinks she was drugged, but of course the test came back negative. She had been drinking though.”
“In that case, it could have been slipped in the drink.”
“Yeah, but unless she can identify her attacker, it doesn’t matter. The hospital collected a rape kit, but the rapist must have used a condom. No semen.”
Mitchell looked at Alan. “What did the witnesses say?”
“That she showed up drunk. No one invited her but she was hot, so they let her in. They also said they don’t allow date rape drugs in the house so if she was drugged, it didn’t happen there.”
“Did the police get a copy of this report?”
“Well, that’s up to you. We can’t tell if there’s an actual crime. It’s just he said, she said crap.”
Mitchell looked over the reports. “There’s nothing here to convict. The cops won’t be able to do anything. I’m going to spare this girl the further humiliation of an investigation. The cops will put her through hell, then say nothing can be done.”
“What about the other one?”
He read the report. “She showered. No physical evidence to collect.”
“Her roommate said she came in looking like hell so they got her cleaned up, then called us. We sent a couple guys to take her statement.”
“Well, we can’t do anything if they wash away the evidence.” Mitchell picked up the suicide reports. They were odd. “Self-inflicted gun shots?” He shifted between pages. “All four?”
“It’s all the rage, apparently.”
Mitchell shook his head. “Women don’t typically go out like this. Too messy. They use pills so they can leave a fashionable corpse, and be easier on the person who finds the body. This…”
This was a man’s choice. Quick. Hard. Masculine.
Alan shifted, his face revealing he had something to say that was uncomfortable.
“What is it, Alan?”
“I don’t get it. What’s the point of this place?”
Mitchell put the reports down. “When did you get here?”
“Today. But I don’t know you. You’re not my boss.” He nodded to the nameplate on Mitchell’s desk. “The only reason I know who you are is because of that, and that you’re in the right office.”
Mitchell frowned. Alan was right. Mitchell didn’t know him. He behaved just like his security shift chief, but he only knew his name because it said Alan Johnson, Campus Security on his badge.
Mitchell bit his lip. “I met someone today who said he didn’t know how long he’d been here. Have you met anyone like that yet?”
“Yeah. Bennie from Nampa. Though now that I think about it, he might have been talking about how long he’d been working here.”
“Let’s get everyone together. Can you find Carl, the assistant football coach at ISU? He’s here for the conference regarding athlete scholarships.”
“You want him here right away?”
Mitchell thought about it. “No. Just give him my card. Ask him to call me when he gets a break.” He pulled a business card from a holder on his desk and handed it to Alan. “And send in Bennie, if he’s still here.”
“He may have gone home already. His wife is having a baby soon.”
“Check, please, and let me know.”
Alan left and Mitchell pulled out his cell phone. His wife’s number was in there, under “Honey-Pot.” His daughters were too, under “Princess” and “Kitten.” He’d been calling the girls those pet names since they were only babies. He furrowed his brow as he glanced at the others in his texting list.
Blondie. Tuna Salad. Front Desk. Charles. Mike. Tight Skirt. Gerry. His dad, Paul. Blue Eyes. Dispatch.
He recognized everyone there, so to speak. What is the point of this Hell?
Bennie had gone home, but Alan left a message with Dispatch that he found Carl and delivered the card. Carl called about noon.
“What can I do for you, Mitchell?”
“You said you’ve been here a while. What have you figured out?”
“Not much.”
“Have you traveled much?”
“Oh yeah. There’s always a conference somewhere.”
“Is it the same everywhere?”
“Pretty much. I attend games. Coach players. Attend meetings.”
“Do they have a lot of suicides at other campuses?”
Carl got quiet.
“Carl?”
“Why don’t we meet for lunch and talk?”
“Sure. Where?”
“Your office. This isn’t a conversation for a public place.”
“Sure. Do you want to order from Jimmy John’s?”
“No. And you won’t either. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
When Carl arrived, Mitchell had a fresh pot of coffee brewed on his personal coffee maker. He had thought about getting a Keurig, but the cup things were too expensive. It crossed his mind that here in Hell, that might not be the case. He offered the coach a cup.
“Sure.”
Mitchell poured him a cup in a BSU Security mug. “There’s creamer and sugar if you need it. I don’t have any fancy syrups.”
Carl walked over to the coffee station and helped himself the Coffee-Mate and sugar, using the metal spoon next to the carafe. Mitchell stirred his own drink and set the spoon down; it looked like residual coffee spreading like cancer on a napkin. He waited for Carl to say something.
Carl sighed. “So, yes. There are similar situations everywhere. There are lots of suicides, but here’s the weird part: they’re all women.”
“All?”
“Yeah. Every one. Usually after something like a rape, but that isn’t always the case.” He set his cup on the desk. “Something else strange about this place: women are never in groups larger than two.”
Mitchell’s face curled in disbelief. “That can’t be. I have a wife and two daughters.”
“You haven’t been home yet, I imagine. Look in the phone book. There are no sororities, just fraternities. Guys can gather at will and often do, but you’ll see two women working the counter at a shop, like the coffee place this morning. Never more. If you walk around here after dark, never more than two together. Parties have girls at them, but there’s never more than two talking to each other and usually, they’re isolated, but surrounded by guys.”
Mitchell shrugged, folding his hands on his desk blotter. “This must be heaven for them. All that attention.”
Carl winced a little, like maybe he had a different opinion. “Have you been online yet?”
Mitchell shook his head. Carl nodded toward the computer. Mitchell fired it up and logged in with his password by rote. It worked. The home page for the campus was the current quarterback flanked by two pretty blonde cheerleaders. He clicked on the link for Yahoo!, which was a way to get into the Internet from a restricted system. The first page celebrated Spring Break with two bikini-clad girls tossing a beach ball.
“What am I looking for?”
“Look up the number of suicides in, oh, just do Boise.”
Mitchell typed. “Time frame?”
“The last decade.”
More typing. They waited.
“Hunh. It says there’s no data available.”
“Now search for assaults against women.”
Typing. Waiting.
“Again, no data available.”
Carl leaned on the desk. He pointed at the back of the flat screen monitor. “Now, look up BSU’s win-loss record.”
Typing, then Mitchell sat back, surprised. “Wow. That was fast. I’ve got the stats from, geez, every year since we had a sports team.” He scrolled. “Man, any sports team.”
“You can look up anything you like about history, the Bible, sports, politics, activism, science… Damn near anything you like. Almost.”
“Hey, we had a really impressive run from ‘06-’12 under Chris Petersen! Ninety-two wins to twelve losses. I didn’t realize it was that long.”
“Oh! Look up WSU for me! I was talking about them this morning.”
A knock came at Mitchell’s door. Alan was there with the other security officers from the department.
“Ah. Thanks, Alan. C’mon in. Please, introduce yourselves and tell me how long you’ve been here.”
A blond man raised his hand. “Erik Johnson. I think I’ve been here a couple days.”
The next man leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. His hair was Clark Kent black and he had an uncomfortable look in his eyes. “Brad Marshall, this morning.”
“Alan, I think a couple weeks.”
“Carl, I’ve been around for a while, but I’m not sure.”
“Jamie Watson. Yesterday.”
“Mitchell Freeman. This morning, too. Did you all see the office demon?”
Everyone nodded.
“What did you all say to him?” Mitchell folded his hands on the blotter again.
Alan shrugged. “I barely remember. It’s all kind of fuzzy.”
Erik glanced at the window behind Mitchell. “I remember saying I don’t know why I’m here. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
The others nodded, a murmur of “likewise” and “uh-huh” blending together.
Carl pursed his lips. “Zoroastrianism?”
Brad popped off the wall, pointing at Carl. “Yeah. I remember that.” He snapped his fingers, blinking into space. “Something about that being the only religion that was correct. He said burning babies in a lake of fire was barbaric.”
Mitchell frowned. “Well, to be honest, that is pretty barbaric.”
“What are you?” Alan nodded to Mitchell.
“Agnostic. You?”
“Catholic.”
Jamie smiled. “I like your Pope.”
Alan nodded. “Me too! Francis is a good guy.” He blinked, frowning. “I guess he’ll end up here sometime, huh?”
That caused the mood in the room to drop. If someone like Pope Francis could end up there, what hope did anyone have?
Carl broke the uncomfortable silence. “Did you read the rules?”
Everyone looked at him. Mitchell cocked his head. “Rules?”
Carl pointed to the window. Everyone crossed the room at once to look at several billboards visible across the campus.
“Welcome to Hell.
This Hell is based on a problem plaguing men and women.
When you are ready to leave, merely explain the problem. Since it affects both men and women, one of each must be present for the explanation.
If you have correctly explained it, you will be admitted into a glorious Heaven filled with wonders and joys beyond your imagination.
During your stay, you may be interested in searching the Internet for information about Zoroastrianism. For your convenience, it is available as a link on any page and as a free app for your phone.
You are encouraged to live your life and do your accustomed job as you like. You may also change jobs, even try a new career.
We ask that you obey a few simple rules while you’re in Hell:
Be kind. Treat others as you would like to be treated. Failure to do this will bring unhappiness and misery to you and your fellow inhabitants.
Do not get discouraged. Remember, nothing lasts forever. Someday, this will be a distant memory.
All employees are required to wash their hands after using the restroom or touching uncooked meat or poultry.
Anything that goes on the Internet is there forever. Although it is possible to remain anonymous, there’s always someone out there who can hack your information. Be careful what photos you post.
If you’re killed, you will be restored to life on the following day. Please try to avoid death as much as possible.
All contracts, bonds, commitments, covenants, pledges, and promises entered into prior to your entering Hell are null and void. This includes, but is not limited to, debt, marriage, natural births and adoptions, requirements of citizenship, military obligations, student loans, etc.
Remember, you are never really alone, although it may feel like it for very long stretches of time.
There is always an Internet connection, regardless of your location, and you will not incur roaming charges. You have unlimited text, data, and phone service.
Lastly, you are here to learn something. Since it is something that happens every day, it should be simple to figure out.
We hope you enjoy your stay here. We have done all we can to make your stay a pleasant and instructive one.”
Alan stepped back first. “I can’t remember reading those before this minute.”
Carl got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. “They’re in every town.”
The others looked at him.
Erik leaned on the desk. “Are they always at the college campuses? Or are they all over town?”
“Yes to both. They are in courthouses, college campuses, and on billboards like those. They aren’t on freeways though, probably because someone would get in an accident trying to read something that long. They are on public transit, however.”
Brad shook his head and walked over to sit on a small sofa near the wall. “This doesn’t seem very…”
Mitchell also sat back down. “Hell-y?”
“Yeah.” Brad pointed to the scene outside. “I mean, look at that weather. It’s gorgeous. My student loans are gone. No commitments? Unlimited talk, text, and data?” He sat back in the chair. “Not seeing a downside here.”
Jamie nodded. “The rules even state you can try a new career, or do whatever. Carl”—he pointed—“you’re from another college, so you travel, right? You said it was like this in other towns.”
“Almost exactly. The towns themselves are different, but those signs are standard,” Carl said.
“So you can fly to Europe?” Alan’s voice was measured, but Mitchell could tell he was contemplating that career change.
“Probably. I haven’t really wanted to.”
Erik shook his head. “‘When you’re ready to leave, merely explain the problem. Since it affects both men and women, one of each must be present for the explanation.’ What kind of problem affects both men and women?”
Alan frowned. “Well, those rapes and murders are affecting everyone.”
Erik snorted. “Only because we gotta clean them up.”
“And the rapes?”
Erik raised his fingers to make quote marks. “‘Rapes.’ Whatever. Attention grabbing whores, if you ask me. There’s no way all these women have been raped.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it. I’m against rape and all, but to claim that every woman who says she was raped is telling the truth? That would mean that I’m surrounded by rapists.”
Mitchell’s eyes met Alan’s, and they both glanced at the reports on the desk. The discussion made Mitchell uncomfortable, realizing there were photos of dead girls behind that manila cardstock. “Hey, I’m gonna have to put a stop to that talk. This is a security office and our job is to protect those women out there.”
Erik and Brad stood, adopting a more professional demeanor. They said in unison, “Sorry, sir.”
The others mumbled similar phrases, save Carl who had not joined in the complaining.
“Let’s get back to work. I, for one, want to stay at this job for a while. It may be Hell, but I like the feel of normalcy.”
The others agreed, though Mitchell got the impression Erik and Brad might end up changing their careers before the month was out. As they filed out, Carl rose.
“You heading back?”
“Yeah.” Carl glanced at the billboards outside, draining some more of his coffee. “I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve forgotten about the rules. I haven’t thought about them for a while, though I know I’ve seen them every day.”
Mitchell turned in his office chair to look at the words again. “All commitments are gone. I wasn’t quite sure what I thought I would find at home. I don’t think my wife and daughters would be here. And one of our officers has a wife that’s pregnant.” Mitchell turned back to Carl. “Is that possible?”
Carl closed his eyes, shaking his head before taking another sip. “No. He was probably here just today too. He’s going to go home to an empty house.”
Mitchell’s gaze fell to the reports again. “Talk about Hell… thinking you’re gonna see your child born and ending up here.”
“Well, it’s not like he can’t hook up with something else here. There are women everywhere. It’s part of the rules.” Carl drained the cup. “Where do you want this?”
“There’s a sink in the break room. C’mon. I’ll show ya.”
Mitchell turned the key on his front door and was saddened to find it dark and empty, like Carl predicted. He tossed his keys onto the table in the entryway and flipped on the lights. He went to the fridge and opened it, not sure what he’d find. A six-pack of Shock Top chilled very nicely next to some cold fried chicken. He looked in the door and got out a bottle of honey barbecue sauce, then grabbed the chicken and a beer. He unscrewed the top and sipped it while he put the chicken on a paper plate and smeared barbecue sauce on the pieces. He licked his finger before hitting the timer on the microwave, then found the TV remote while the carousel meandered the chicken in a heart-warming tour of the nuking facility.
He plugged in his phone, then sat for a minute looking at it. His house was empty. Why did he have his wife and daughter’s numbers in his phone? Could he call them? He picked up the phone and dialed his wife. It went straight to voicemail. The automated woman’s voice reminded him of the number he’d just dialed and told him to leave a message after the beep. He shook his head and hung up.
What did I expect, seriously? That she’d answer? Hey, honey! I’m in Hell, how was your day?
The microwave beeped and he got a paper towel from the roll on the wall, then gathered his feast and made for the comfortable spot on the couch. The center of the plate was hot, so he set it on the coffee table next to his beer. He flicked through the TV stations and discovered every possible infomercial known to man, with nothing to watch.
Now I believe this is Hell.
He watched a few minutes of a cooking show selling a cucumber slicer, then turned off the television and went to his den. He started up his computer and settled in. The home screen had a bunch of icons that seemed perfectly normal to him. Four different browsers, three music players, the vast array of Microsoft Office programs. All the standard stuff. He saw an icon that said The Rules and clicked on it. Sure enough, it was a copy of the billboard information. He fired up Google Chrome and looked on Facebook. On the login screen, it had, in blue hyperlink text, Zoroastrianism at the bottom of the screen. He pulled up a few more web pages and found the same link in the same place, always in microscopic print, like the license agreement for the browser.
Carl was right. That’s simultaneously comforting and unsettling, like an old high school girlfriend suddenly stalking your page.
He tried to log into Facebook, but the email he entered was not found. He wondered why he was surprised. After all, he hadn’t been in Hell before. He filled in all the important bits and began his account. He didn’t have any pictures on his computer for the same reason, so he went into the living room and got his phone. He plugged it into the charger on the desk, then took a selfie. He had to download the app (the Zoroastrian app was recommended) before he could add the selfie to his profile. He doubted there would be anyone he actually knew here, but just to be sure, he put in his high school and college.
He clicked on his feed but then realized he had no friends in Hell. He frowned, then tried to remember the names of his men at work. Brad… Erik… Alan… James or Jeremy… Carl…
A friend request popped up.
“Well, speak of the devil.” He clicked on Carl Anderson’s picture.
Carl’s profile page had a bunch of promo shots of him with athletes, including one or two with some young co-eds. The girls had smiles on their faces and wore the ISU colors of orange and black with the Bengals logo on their tank tops. Every woman in every picture was young and pretty, almost like they were all on a brochure or poster. He had shots of football games, fishing trips, hunting trophies, a new car, and a small boat. It looked like an exciting life.
Mitchell looked at his phone and realized he had none of these things to put on his profile.
He opened a new tab and decided to surf the Internet. Nearly every website had some scantily clad girl on it in a provocative pose. When he was alive, he’d opened a site once that turned out to be porn, and he’d looked through it to see what the draw was, but had been disappointed. His wife walked in and saw the pictures. He had been too confused to be embarrassed. Several of the women had long, thick fingernails and the movements they were making with them looked more deadly than pleasurable. Several of these girls in the pictures had fancy nails like those, and the sight of them made him shudder.
He tried again to look up the statistics for suicides or rapes. He found nothing. Again. He sat back, drinking his beer. He could understand maybe having the truth on rapes and suicides being more horrific in Hell, but nonexistent? That was just odd. He glanced at the rules icon in the taskbar on the bottom of his screen. Whatever is put on the Internet is there forever. He had heard that before, when he was alive, but here? Did that mean no one had ever put a statistic up?
Two rapes that day. One, the girl went to the hospital, got a rape kit done, blood test, pictures undoubtedly. The other showered and almost didn’t report it. The outcome was exactly the same. There was no way either girl’s assailant would ever be caught or charged. Damned if they did, damned if they didn’t. It made sense that there weren’t a lot of statistics available. No point reporting what would be a waste of time. That was why he chose not to contact the police on either incident. It’s not like anything could be done to help them, and frankly, there was no way to prove the boys did it. They would just say the girls were lying and the girls’ lives would be ruined. At least this way, they could hide the rapes from future boyfriends. As his sister had been told in sex ed, no one wanted gum that was already chewed.
He finished his beer and tried to decide if he was tired or not. He decided he was. It had been a long, strange day, and it was possible this was a dream anyway. It would be nice to discover his wife next to him after a good night’s sleep. He tossed the bottle in the trash can next to the desk and got ready for bed.
Mitchell woke up and reached for his wife, but the bed beside him was empty. It took a moment to remember where she was, then he realized it wasn’t her location, but his, that was the problem.
I’m here to learn something, and it’s so common, I can’t miss it.
That rule made no sense. Obviously it was talking about the murders. They happened every day. The women never shot a man though, so Erik was right. The only thing affecting the men was that they were the ones discovering the bodies and cleaning up the messes. Doing the investigations. The women weren’t having anything happen to them except their own deaths.
Well, unless you count the rapes.
The rapes didn’t affect him any more than the murders did. He wasn’t gonna get raped. Therefore, it wasn’t a problem he would experience. He could walk anywhere, wear anything, drink, party, whatever he wanted, even at one of those frats, and suffer no ill. He hadn’t even seen anyone he knew in those folders.
He got out of bed and went into the bathroom. He urinated, then looked at himself in the mirror as the toilet flushed. He briefly contemplated the fact that he still needed to pee, which didn’t fit his idea of the afterlife, but if he got to drink beer, then this was the price one paid. He didn’t really need to shave, and his eyebrows and nose hairs were properly maintained. The shower would be practically a formality more than anything. Still, he thought it best to do so. After all, this was Hell. He may have brimstone farts from the coffee yesterday.
As he dried off, he heard a police siren coming down the street. He went to his window and saw the black and white car slow before a house diagonal from his. The side window was good for watching the scene. The patrolmen got out of the car and ran up to knock on his neighbor’s door. An older man opened it, probably mid-fifties, wearing a white tank top and a blue bathrobe. He looked very concerned and showed the police into the house. They came out a few minutes later, escorting the man out to the lawn. One officer talked to the man who seemed distraught, while the other cop called dispatch. Mitchell couldn’t hear anything being said, so he opened the window.
“…another suicide.”
The microphone at his shoulder crackled.
He squeezed the send button. “Yup. Young woman. Blonde this time.”
The crackle answered.
“Will do.”
Mitchell got dressed and stepped outside. He went over to a couple men standing on the sidewalk. Everyone was watching the two officers talk to the older neighbor. He nodded toward the trio.
“Anyone know what happened?”
The man next to him shook his head. “I thought I heard a gunshot about ten minutes ago. Now, there’s a cop car, so I imagine I must have.” He turned to Mitchell. “Did you hear it?”
Mitchell shook his head. “Nope. I was in the shower.”
The man sighed. “Is that gonna be what makes this Hell? Being woken up by gunshots and sirens every morning?”
Mitchell frowned. “I hope not.” He looked at the men on the sidewalk. “How long you been here?”
“Two weeks, six days. I was born in that house.” He nodded to the ranch house behind him. “I’m Alvin Martin.” He stuck out his hand.
Mitchell shook it. “Mitchell Freeman.”
The other two men nodded greeting. “Sherman Peterson. This here’s Walter Timmons.”
Mitchell shook hands with all of them. “Y’all married?”
“Nah,” Sherman nodded to the man being interviewed by the police, “But Howard there managed to get himself a girl. No doubt she’s the one who died.”
Mitchell’s brow furrowed in thought. “I thought I heard the police say suicide.”
“Oh, probably. I don’t know what’s wrong with these women, but they keep blowing their brains out.”
“Do… do they come back?” Mitchell looked at Howard, who really looked like a man going through Hell. “The rules say you come back.”
Alvin shook his head. “Not the women. That rule’s just for the men. I’ve never seen a woman who killed herself show up again.”
Walter took a deep breath, his arms folded across his chest. “I saw a woman do herself in at a restaurant. She was one of the servers and a fella at the bar grabbed her hips and pulled her over to sit on his lap. She squirmed real cute and he asked her for a kiss. We were all laughin’ cuz he was kinda drunk. Next thing we know, she’s got a gun an’ we all thought she was gonna kill him. Instead, she put it up under her chin and boom!” He mimed the gesture.
Sherman nodded. “We were regulars there too. She was a spitfire. I called her Hot Lips because she always wore bright red lipstick. We went back there the next day, thinkin’ she’d be there but she wasn’t. She ain’t never showed up since.”
Mitchell watched as an ambulance turned the corner, siren blaring, and noticed a hobo come around the corner and look down the street. He watched the ambulance stop, then cast his gaze upon Mitchell and his neighbors. The man had worn eyes saddled with too much insight. Mitchell looked back across the street, then realized he didn’t want to see the woman’s remains get wheeled out. He saw two paramedics, male, get out of the ambulance, and he wondered why anyone would choose to stay in that profession if they could leave it. This was Hell, the Afterlife. There was no way cop or paramedic or fire fighter was a job you’d stay with. It’s not like people called those for happy reasons. Then again, maybe those men felt they were supposed to be punished, and this was punishment.
Maybe they were about ready to give their explanation of the problem to a woman, and this was part of the final step. He wondered if he could give his explanation to a woman who was dead, or did they need to be able to validate it? Regardless, he didn’t want to see a bloody sheet first thing this morning. He nodded his goodbyes to his neighbors and went back inside.
This Hell is based a problem plaguing men and women.
Mitchell pulled up Google search and typed in problems facing men and women.
No results matched your search. Did you mean problems facing men or women?
Mitchell frowned. He typed in problems facing women.
No results matched your search.
Case sensitive? Mitchell typed in mortality of women .
No results matched your search.
He took a deep breath, folding his hands on his desk blotter. He looked at the reflection in his monitor of the billboards outside, the focused upon the screen.
Rape and murder of women.
Still no results.
Women’s rights.
No results.
Women voting.
No results.
Mitchell ran his fingers through his hair. How could there be nothing about women on the Internet?
He typed Women sex, then deleted it. He knew what that would produce and it would be unhelpful. He sat back, tapping his fingers on his lips. Something we deal with every day.
He typed in men and women.
About 36,300,000 results (0.52 seconds).
That’s more like it. Mitchell looked at the entries.
This is not specific to any gender.
Well done. You have identified a problem that had been identified a million times. Now what is your solution?
Why are you whining about this when there are more important things in the world?
I don’t know if these people can ever be changed.
If any man tries to grope me, they’ll get a foot slammed somewhere they really don’t want it to be.
We can all say, “Men should not do that in the first place,” but this is the same as me leaving my car door open with keys in it and saying, “People should not rob.”
What about cleaning adverts portraying men as clueless idiots? Do women really believe no man has ever been propositioned or felt up at work?
I don’t know anyone in my office who behaves that way… I just can’t believe that happens regularly… I’ve never worked anywhere where these attitudes would be tolerated.
I don’t think demonizing all men is going to help.
This is just another example of the conspiracy.
Mitchell frowned. These were all things he believed personally. He didn’t see how this was Hell, yet again. What was the lesson he was supposed to learn? He read through several results, even venturing onto the mythical page two of a Google search. The names were different on the commenters so they weren’t the same results. Gary5x5. LeonardtheLeopard5329. Prettyface2. Lipsandhips4. TheDoctorIsIn. John316. John319. Tons of Johns. Pretty much, there were hundreds of people saying the same things.
“The Hell here must be in trying to figure out why this is Hell.”
He pushed back from his desk and poured himself another cup of coffee. He marveled at how he kept thinking he smelled cat poop, then realized it was just his coffee brewing. Then he would get up, go to this cat-poop-smell producing machine, pour this liquid into a mug heralding his job here at the Boise State University Security Office, add creamer and sweetener to this rancid fluid in order to put it to his lips and into his body. On purpose. A lot. He even went to other places to get this concoction made by other people and paid one-thirtieth of his annual salary to do so. And still , that was not considered the Hell he dwelt in at the moment.
A knock on the door brought his head up too fast and he spilled hot coffee onto his jacket. “Ugh. Great.”
Alan stepped in, concerned. “You okay, chief?”
Mitchell grabbed a napkin and blotted the dampness from his jacket. “Yeah, just overthinking stuff.” He looked at Alan. “What’s up?”
Alan raised a hand carrying three new manila folders. “Reports from Campus last night.”
“Anything new?”
“Three suicides, three rapes.” Alan set the folders on the desk.
“Geesh, hasn’t anyone ever heard of robbing a convenience store?”
Alan laughed. “I guess not.”
Mitchell looked at the pictures of the crime scenes. “Has BPD been called?”
“Yeah. These are our copies. Investigations are already closed on the suicides.”
Mitchell flipped to the third folder. “And the rapes?”
“Same ole, same ole. Doesn’t remember anything, it was dark, got knocked out.”
Mitchell shook his head, frustrated. “What’s wrong with these girls? Why are they going to these places?” He looked at Alan. “Don’t they know by now? Don’t they talk to one another? They need to take steps to protect themselves, yet they keep going into these situations like they think they’ll be okay. Travel in packs, hold their keys in their fists, avoid dark streets. Something. Anything. ”
Alan shrugged.
Mitchell exhaled, trying to calm down, then opened the fourth folder and stopped. “Hey, I know her.”
Alan cocked his head to look at the picture more right-side up. “Oh yeah. The barista. Hit when she was jogging and came to as the guy mounted her. Guy wore a ski mask. Why wouldn’t she see something like that, right?” Alan gestured to the beautiful day outside. “A ski mask, in this weather?”
Mitchell glanced at the details of the incident and the description of the attacker. “I just saw her yesterday. She made my coffee.”
“Speaking of which, do you mind? We’re out in the break room.”
Mitchell scowled at the folder. “Huh? Oh yeah, be my guest. I need to cut back anyway.”
The victim was left bleeding and said she feared moving due to the amount of blood on the ground around her head.
Alan poured a cup. “Yeah, she was found passed out in a puddle of her own blood. The guys who found her took pictures of the scene before they touched her.”
Mitchell looked up. “Pictures?”
“They said they thought she might be dead and heard you needed to take pictures. Idiots uploaded them to their Facebook pages before calling the cops.”
Anything that goes on the Internet is there forever.
Mitchell turned in his chair, looking again at the billboards. Those pictures of Cutie would be on the Internet, swapped around internationally. Mitchell shook his head.
“This is more like Hell for them, and we’re their tormentors.”
Alan stepped over to look at the view. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Mitchell looked at his coworker.
Alan returned the look. “I have that same thought every day now.”
He went to the student center to get coffee every day, but it was a week before she showed up. If she had been in the hospital, he figured she would need time to heal and he hoped her boss wasn’t a total jerk and let her have it. He was glad to see her behind the counter when he got in line. She wasn’t working the cash register this time, but was making the orders. She wore a BSU baseball cap, probably to hide the stitches.
He stepped up to the counter.
“Hi, Mr. Freeman. What can I get for you today?”
“Tall vanilla latte, please.”
“That will be $5.95.”
He handed her seven dollars, waving off the change. Cutie glanced at the cup with his order written on it while she finished steaming the milk for a different order. Her look was fixed upon the task, like she was drowning out all other sounds. He bent to get into her peripheral vision.
“Hey, Cutie.”
She glanced up, startled. “Oh! Sorry. I was… focused…” Her brow furrowed, then cleared as she forced a smile. “How are you today, Mitchell?”
“Fine. How are you doing? I heard what happened. I just wanted to come by and check on you.”
She swallowed, glancing around. Her eyes flicked from face to face around her, like a gazelle surveying a grassy plain. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Are the police doing anything?”
She shrugged. “They said there isn’t enough to go on. There were no witnesses.”
“Oh.”
She picked up a white towel with a pale blue stripe down the middle and wiped off the chrome nozzle where the steam came out. “It’s fine. Happens to everyone.”
He watched her a moment, noting how haggard she looked. She had aged overnight. She finished up the order she was on. “Hank.”
A young man in a green and yellow Packers windbreaker came up to the counter. He reached out for the cup without looking up from his phone and Cutie flinched away. Hank didn’t even notice. Cutie went back to her orders and a minute later, lifted Mitchell’s cup onto the counter. He reached out for it and held out his card.
“Here. In case you need to talk or you need help. Okay? It has my cell number on it, too. Call anytime.”
She took the card and nodded, reading it. She pocketed it and smiled a little more genuinely this time. “Thank you.”
Mitchell patted the counter, smiling, and went to work.
The ringer was as insistent as an alarm clock and he picked it up, not recognizing the number. That didn’t surprise him since he was, you know, in Hell and all. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pressed the green button.
“This is Mitchell.”
“You said to call if I needed to talk.”
He sat up, turning on the light. “I did. What do you need?”
Cutie sighed. “I… I don’t know what I need…”
He nodded, keeping his tone reassuring. “We can figure that out. Do you want to meet for coffee?”
“I don’t actually drink coffee.” She snorted. “Isn’t that funny? I’m a barista and I have no idea what the stuff tastes like.”
“You’re not missing anything.” He leaned forward, listening to the background. In his room, he could hear a clock ticking, but through the phone, it sounded like she might be outdoors. He could hear cars driving by and the thumping of techno through carpeted walls and cinderblock. A young man’s voice shouted something but all he could hear was “slut” before it Dopplered away.
She sniffed, a mucus-clogged snuffle that betrayed her tears and mental state.
He wanted to say something to reassure her, but he kept drawing a blank. He had no real idea what she was going through. “Where are you?”
“Outside the China Blue. I didn’t want to sit in my apartment.”
China Blue was a college bar downtown, a real meat market. It didn’t sound to Mitchell like a particularly safe place to be. “Do you want me to come down there?”
Silence, then, “Yeah. Would you mind?”
“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. You stay outside and don’t move.”
He got pants pulled on over his boxer briefs and slipped on socks and shoes in less than a minute. He grabbed a jacket and his keys and bolted out the door. The lights were in his favor and he got around China Blue right about when he said he would. At first, he didn’t see her, then she caught a glimpse of the BSU cap against a wall. Four guys surrounded her, talking to her. They were too close and he stopped the car, throwing it into park. He opened the door and stood up.
“Hey, step away from her.”
The boys turned, backing away and giving her an opening to run through. One of them grabbed her arm and she slipped out of her jacket like it was a second skin and bolted for the car. The boy held up the hoodie and shouted something, but he was drunk, and Mitchell didn’t understand him. He got in the car and engaged the transmission. The boy looked at her and raised the hoodie to his face, breathing in her scent. She shuddered and Mitchell drove off.
“Do you need to go to the cops? Report that jacket stolen?”
She shook her head. “They’d say I took it off and gave it to them.”
“Well, that’s one way of putting it. Where do you want to go? Home?”
She shook her head. “Definitely not. My roommate had a guy drop by to visit and I just couldn’t be in the room with him.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t really know. I just felt…”
He nodded. “It’s okay. We’ll go to my office. There’ll be some officers there and we’ll have one of them sit with you until you feel like heading home.”
“Thank you.”
He pulled into the office parking lot and they entered. A few officers, larger men that worked out, were filling out paperwork while Bennie fielded the dispatch desk. He looked up as Mitchell came in.
“Chief? What are you doing here at this hour?”
“This young woman needs a place to crash, so I’m gonna put her up in my office.”
Everyone stared at her, but she shied away from most of them. Mitchell walked her down the hall. The small, two-person couch in the room looked big enough to take care of this girl. She didn’t take up much space as it was and seemed to become even smaller as the night wore on and she shrank away from people. He got a blanket and pillow from a closet near the break room.
“We have these for folks in just this sort of situation.” He shook out the blanket and draped it on her shoulders. She flinched as he touched her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She shook her head. “I know. It’s just, I can’t stop it, you know?”
He nodded. He had seen it before. PTSD. It was common enough for him to know he shouldn’t say it was PTSD to her. People always associated the condition with warfare and reacted poorly when you treated them like they had a known mental condition, even if they had seen combat.
“It will get better.”
She looked at him. “Will it?”
He motioned to the couch for her, then pulled over a chair from the desk. “Can I ask, how long have you been here?”
She glanced at the floor. “All my life. I was born here.”
“No, I mean,” he pointed to the window and the glaring, well-lit billboards, “here. ”
“At BSU?”
He pointed to the billboards. “Hell.”
Her frown returned, touched with wary confusion. “Hell?”
Mitchell blinked. “Yes. This is Hell.”
She looked out the window, scanning the horizon. “I… don’t understand…”
He glanced outside, then back at her. “Can you see those billboards out there?”
“I can see one.” She pointed to a small one with the current football coach encouraging fans to Get in the Game!
“You can’t see those?” Mitchell waved at the Rules.
She stood. “I think maybe I’ll head home now.”
He stood, putting his hands on her shoulders. “No, I’m sorry. I’ll go and let you sleep.”
She shuddered at the touch and he withdrew his hands with a snap, which she also flinched from. She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help.”
He ran his hands through his hair, then down his face. “Yeah. I just suck at it tonight. There’s coffee over there if you need it.”
“I don’t…” She sighed, sitting down. “Thank you.”
“Do you want me to close the blinds for you?”
She shook her head. “No. I want to be able to see my surroundings if I wake up.”
He nodded and left. He got out to the front desk and turned to Bennie. “How has it been tonight?”
“Relatively quiet. Only two rapes, one suicide.”
Mitchell looked at the clock on the wall. 1:38 a.m. It was still early.
He walked out to the parking lot and looked at the billboards. It was like looking at Vegas. They couldn’t be missed. Maybe we are the only people here, the only souls. That seemed unlikely, but if she couldn’t see it, maybe not. He’d give it more thought tomorrow. Right then, he was too tired to actually think.
The next day, he decided to head over and the see the barista. This time, she was behind the counter with the other girl and a man in a manager’s uniform. The nametag on his shirt said Edward Roosevelt.
“What can I get for you, sir?”
Mitchell looked over at Cutie, who was working the espresso machine while the other girl did the whipped cream, sprinkles, and handed out orders. It was busier than usual, and the barista was getting flustered, which confused Mitchell because he’d seen her get coffees out at record speed before. The girl beside her gently took one of the cups from the line-up of orders and started helping on the line.
Cutie reached onto a stack and popped a lid on an order. “Albert.” As the order was taken, she looked at the other girl. “We’re almost out of lids. I’ll be right back.”
Edward watched her step away from the counter and took advantage of a slight break in the flow of customers. He went to the barista, just out of sight of the register. Mitchell stepped to the side where the Airpots held vigil, grabbing a Nifty Nickel to “read” as he leaned against the counter to listen in.
“Look, you need to pick up your game here, missy. I understand you had some tragedy recently, and that’s why I’m here, but you’ve got to shake this off.”
“Yes, Mr. Roosevelt.”
“You can’t let this define you. Now, if you don’t get with the program, you’re out on your ass. Got it?”
She swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Roosevelt.”
“Now clean yourself up. No one wants to look at a sad chick.”
He swatted her butt and walked away, unaware of the flinch she hid when he did so. She wiped her cheeks and blinked, looking up to the ceiling as she got herself under control. She walked forward, and Mitchell looked over the little glass wall separating them.
“Cup lids.”
She started, and looked at Mitchell, who smiled. She relaxed. “What?”
“Cup lids. You came back here for cup lids. You’re almost out up front.”
She nodded, snapping her fingers. “Right.” She turned and got out a sleeve of lids. “Thank you. And thank you for your help last night.”
“Anytime. You still have my card?”
She nodded.
“Mitchell,” called the other barista.
They looked at the front counter and she smiled. “That’s you.”
“That’s me. You take care.”
She nodded and waved as he left with his latte.
When he got to the office, he passed the lady at the front desk and smiled, then saluted Dispatch with his coffee. Alan was on the phone and lifted the files from the night before. Mitchell nodded and grabbed them on the way by. He got into his office and was again greeted by the billboards. He looked at the little couch, the blanket folded on it and the pillow on top. He set down his coffee and pulled out his phone.
“BSU Security Front Desk.”
“Hi, it’s Mitchell. Can you come back here when you get a second? Bring the gal from Dispatch when she gets a free moment.”
“Both of us?”
“Please.”
“All right…” the dispatch officer drawled, uncertain.
Mitchell was halfway through the last report when the two women came in the door.
“Ah, I am trying to decide if I need to get glasses. Can you ladies read off all the billboards you see from this window?”
The women looked at each other, then scanned the view.
Dispatch nodded to the left. “Get in the game.”
Front Desk nodded. “That’s all I see.”
“What about the names of those businesses over there?” He pointed to the area behind the billboard that said Welcome to Hell.
“Walgreens. Chipotle. The Dutch Goose.”
Dispatch nodded. “And I know that’s the Pie Hole over there, but I can’t read it from here.”
Mitchell looked. The billboards blocked nearly every one of those signs for him. “How long have you been in Boise?”
“All my life.”
“Born and raised.”
He took a deep breath. “Well, I guess you know a good optometrist then. I do in fact need glasses.” He turned back to them. “Thank you, ladies.”
They nodded and left.
Alan came in with another file. “This just got finished.”
“Rape or suicide?”
“Rape. Library.”
Mitchell closed his eyes.
Mitchell reached for the pot of coffee, then set it back down. He put his dirty cup by the extra one and picked up the business card there. He pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Hey, Carl. Mitchell Freeman here, from BSU Security.”
“Oh hey! How are you, my friend?”
“Good, good.” Mitchell frowned, then leaned against the desk. “Actually, that’s a lie. I believe I’m setting up residence in ‘Not Okay’ these days.” He cleared his throat. Carl didn’t interrupt him. “Carl, you… I got the feeling, looking through your Facebook and everything, that you’ve been here a while. All the stuff you have photos of show you not aging. You changed your hairstyle three times and, well, guys simply don’t do that. I’ve had the same haircut since I left the police academy. Only something, I don’t know…”
“What’s your question, Mitchell?”
Mitchell swallowed. “Have you ever tried to get out of here?”
Long pause. “Yeah. For the first, I don’t know how long, I tried to get out of here. I was a Coroner, back in the 70s. One of the groundbreakers. But when I got here, every day, I saw women with half their heads gone. Every day, a dozen. I lived in Salt Lake City then. I can’t even imagine what it would have been like in Los Angeles or New York. Part of why I chose Pocatello was because the population was so small, I might be able to cut my chances of seeing a girl in pieces down to single digits.”
“What about the rules? What about the explanation?”
“I tried. I looked everywhere. I even partnered up with guys. We never got close. All we got was more women. Dead women. Ya get numb to it after a while. Then, after about twenty years, I decided I had had enough of hosing brains off my tables. So, I quit. I decided to go back to school and try something else. Dentistry. I didn’t see brains, but I was pretty damned sure my fellow dentists were doing something shady behind their closed doors. No nurses in there, which wasn’t odd at the time. But then I realized I never had the same patients more than twice, if they were women. Nurses and assistants streamed through like fast food customers. Finally, I left that too.”
“For coaching?”
Carl probably nodded, based upon his voice when he spoke. “Yeah. I figured I’d walk carefully, not go in any rooms without knocking and waiting. I decided that, once these deaths and rapes were past five figures and running at six, I was done trying to figure out what Hell wanted. Whatever ‘Heaven’ promised, there was no way it would wash away what I experienced here.”
There has to be a way. It says so in the rules. “How much do you trust the rules?”
Carl sighed. “Every rule seems to be provable except the one about getting out.”
Mitchell hesitated. “Even the one about dying?”
Carl didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.
It was after dark when he left the office. He’d managed to talk to every person in his department on every shift. Every man saw the rules, every woman couldn’t. Granted, there were only three women total working there, but he had walked the campus and asked about one-third of the folks he met. He was using a clipboard and marking down the answers to make it look like a marketing survey. He even dared to ask couples who were walking together what they saw, even though he suspected he would cause arguments and possible domestic violence over the questions.
He went to his house by way of the Pie Hole this time and was surprised to get a call from the barista as he opened his door.
“What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to thank you for helping me last night. And today. You probably saved my job.”
“Well, anything I can do to help. You okay now?”
She was silent, then, “I just wanted to say thank you.”
A stab of fear struck just below the ribs. Something in her voice… He forced himself to smile so it would show in his tone. “I have pizza.”
A moment, then “Excuse me?”
“I”—he gestured to the two slices of pizza, as if she could see him—“I have pizza, from the Pie Hole. Would you like to come over and have some?”
“Pizza.”
“There’s far too much for me. Seriously.” He grabbed his keys. “I can come get you, you can help me out with this problem, and then I’ll take you back home. What’s your address?”
She gave him an apartment house near campus and he was out the door before she could change her mind.
“This is more than you can handle?” She looked at the two slices of cold pizza on the coffee table.
“I’m used to salads and red wine.”
She smiled, which made him feel better. “Yeah, I’ve always gotten that vibe from you.”
“I can microwave it.” He picked up the small box.
“Thanks.” She looked around. “So, clearly, you don’t have a dog.”
He walked into the kitchen. “How could you tell?”
“You left pizza unattended for an hour.”
He nodded. Good observation. Could he even have a dog? “Do you have a dog?”
“No. Our apartment doesn’t allow them. Noise ordinance.”
“Maybe if you had a dog, you could have taken it jogging.”
He regretted the words as soon as he said them.
Silence came from the other room, then he heard the front door open. He came out of the kitchen and went to the open door. She was at the bottom of the front stairs, looking around.
“I’m sorry. That was a dick thing to say.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
He rolled his eyes in embarrassment. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean…”
“I know what you meant.” She turned and she was holding a gun pointed under her chin.
“Oh God.” He put his hands up. “Don’t…”
“Why not?” She blinked and tears ran down her face.
“You have so much to live for.” He took a step toward her.
“Do I? I have a lifetime of groping and cowering, of being blamed and lied to. I’m ‘damaged goods,’ according to my boss, and should make sure I hide this so that I can still get a husband.”
Mitchell looked at the gun and gauged if he could grab it from her or if he should knock her out to end the encounter. She already had a head injury. She’d probably drop pretty fast and if he hit her, so if it knocked her head away from the gun barrel, it wouldn’t kill her, even if it discharged. Ordinarily, he would never think about hitting a woman, but he was doing it to save her life. He looked at her eyes and saw her looking at his right hand. He started to follow her gaze when she spoke.
“I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”
Mitchell looked up just as peace settled into her eyes. Then the sound and shot left the barrel and went through her head. The bullet made a black mark on the flesh under her jaw and he felt the tremor as the lead exploded through her brain, emptying her skull through a sudden, unfashionable hole. She fell back toward the cement and a fine red mist coated his teeth and face, iron and copper painting his tongue. He watched her fall, his confused brain noting that her head still had the stitches from her previous injury.
It all came back to real time with a splat. He stood there, the barista dead on his walkway of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, blood and brains hitting the concrete several feet behind her. He had a small willow tree in the front yard that looked like it tried to catch her but missed. One of the thin branches dripped onto the grass beside her. Doors opened around the neighborhood and men came out to see what happened. One or two women were amongst them, but never more than two standing near each other. Walter was on his cell phone, but Mitchell couldn’t understand his words.
When the sirens arrived, they managed to get him to look up. Apparently, at some point he sat down. His hands had tiny spots on them. His palm on his left hand matched the back of his hand and his knuckles on the right. He realized that he had made a fist to punch her right before she shot herself.
She must have thought I was just like the others.
His eyes wandered up to the sky where several bright bars of light shone off billboards that were just out of sight.
Every day, he looked at those billboards and they were exactly the same, but they meant something different. Every day, he would remember that he was in Hell. He tried to help a woman and she ended up fearing him as much as her assailants. He would look at files with rapes and suicides and see that the two often coincided. He eventually left his job and that house and just drove, but he discovered it wasn’t any different anywhere else. He determined that the women here weren’t real and that it didn’t matter what he or anyone did to them.
After all, it wasn’t their Hell.