"Do we have to dress like that, too?"

I roll my eyes, leaning on my flaming pitchfork that I haven't polished in eons.

She's talking about my ominous black cloak. "No. This is a uniform. But we have a––" I pause, stifling a yawn. "Non-warrant insurance policy that if your clothes or any other possessions are burned, disintegrated, ripped, eaten, bloodied, and/or stained by supernatural goop, urination and/or puke, we at Hell Corp. are not responsible for it."

"But what about my Prada purse! This thing," to emphasize her point, she shoves it in my face. I blink and take a sip of lukewarm coffee (all the coffee in Hell Corp. is lukewarm). "––costs way more than what you'll ever make in your entire life!"

"Good thing I'm not alive, then," I deadpan.

She scoffs, and her soul flickers. Her friends glance nervously around them. Good, good. Look at the flaming pools of lava, look at the chains and torture devices. It's what I've been looking at for millennia. Last week, I had assembled a crew to do a bit of dusting––you know, just to add some sparkle and make it feel more like home––but the job had only lasted a day. Demons are lazy as heaven. 

Rob told a joke about that last Wednesday: how many demons does it take to assemble a light bulb? Two. They both rip each other to shreds and their haunted, cursed blood electrifies it and effectively kills everyone in the house. I had let out a small, awkward chuckle and Rob laughed, and a bit of drool had come out of one of the many, pussy holes in his face.

One of the friends nudge the angry girl. I can't really blame her feelings. I've been here for eternity and I still can't stand the stench.

"Hey, maybe we should ask the scary dude some other questions," he says.

I frown. It's fine. It's not like I haven't been rudely misgendered before. And he had to call me scary. Did he not notice the little flower pin I had on? I thought it was nice. We had a bunch of hippies come in the other day, and one of them had gone up to me and said "you're pretty sick, Death. Now that I'm totes dead, I want to give you my pin. Hendrix wore this at Woodstock." Although Hendrix had most definitely not worn it at Woodstock (the pin said Made in China on the back), I still felt honoured to wear it.

At the thought, I glanced over to the cannibal room, smiling fondly at the hippie's screams (he was a mass serial killer and would lure clowns to his house by cat-fishing).

"Ask away," I tell the guy, now in slightly better spirits.

"Why are we here?" Ah.

I sigh and shift my attention to my computer, which is a foot thick, 40 years outdated, has been at maximum space for ten years, and is in great need of a software update as well as a screen replacement. The keys clack loudly at my extremely long talons. Unfortunately, they're not acrylics and are 100% demonicTM.

I squint at the neon red text on a hot pink background (all computers in hell automatically set to non-contrasting fonts and backgrounds). "It says here you started the Tie-Pod challenge and...didn't do your taxes. Your Eternal Punishment, or E.P. as we refer to it here, is flesh-eating poultry while listening to accountants incorrectly explaining the procedure of buying a house you cannot afford––topics range from mortgages, down payments, etcetera etcetera. Does that sound alright?"

"No."

I glance up from the computer beneath the hood of my black cloak. "Well, are your E.S.'s accurate?"

"What?"

I let out a loud, exasperated sigh, removing my glasses. To be The Devil. "E.S.'s Eternal Sins. Did you commit those?"

He sputters. "Well, kind of––where's your proof?"

"Hold on, let me handle this." The angry girl from earlier shoves him aside, stepping forward. "Can we speak to your manager?"

This was going to be a long day.

For years, I've dreamt of going to the human world. Screw being the grand ruler of all souls, demons, and anything evil. The Devil needs a break, too. And pumpkin spiced lattes? We always have people coming in, asking for them. What's up with that? Are they a food? A game? A type of sweater? I don't know, but I would like to at least see it.

There is literally a holiday dedicated to me and I can't even go to it. I wonder if people would praise me if they saw me. Do they dress up as me? I shutter. That would be so awesome if I weren't highly insecure.

I roll my head back. I'm often bored like this. When you've seen over a 1000 public tortures, there's not much else for entertainment. Another public dismemberment? Ugh. However, we do have the last episode of every single sitcom.

I think I have depression. Can The Devil have depression?

I tap my talons mindlessly on my wooden couch, then take off my cloak, a little overheated from the smoky atmosphere.

Over the years, I've done my best to make a little hideaway for myself. Like the hippie, sometimes the rockstars who come in will donate their stuff to me, or I'll have the occasional Satanic worshipper. I wonder if they'll let me send a message to the world to stop sending pigs. Stop sacrificing pigs. It's enough. Sacrifice cupcakes or brooms. Not enough people die with brooms (although you would be surprised how many do).

Back to my apartment: I have some signed albums and jewelry. I also have a huge collection of motorcycle leather jackets, but I'm too shy to wear them (Rob would definitely make fun of me). I also have one of those sunken living rooms, but I instantly regretted it after I got it because I kept tripping on the one stair. I even have a collection of vinyls, ranging from folk to 90s european techno, but they're all chipped and only have one song on each.

This is Hell, after-all.

"Hey, man." My voice cracks on man, and I wince.

I've approached the hippie––the one that gave me the pin. A name tag is stapled to his forehead and it says "DEVIN". I feel awful at the thought I didn't know his name before.

His head nods back, but because it's slightly decapitated, it flips backward on his neck, shooting a rocket of blood. I awkwardly hurry to fix it.

"Thanks, Death," he says as I step away when I'm sure it won't fall off again, and I feel all warm at the remark. "No p-pro-problem."

Did I just salute?

"So, how's Eternal Punishment?" I lean on the railing, slouching a bit over it, trying to look relaxed.

"Are you okay, D?"

"Cool." I step away from the railing, "I'm totes cool."

Devin smiles, brushing away his rotting blond hair. "Niiice. Now, I gotta be true with you. Eternal Punishment is sick, D."

I frown. "You like it?"

"Yeah, D. It's awesome. You know, when you first said all that, how it's gonna be pain and The Devil's Wrath and everything, I was like woah. That's scary, D." He widens his eyes.

I furrow my brow, waiting for him to continue. "Okay."

"But then when the dude started eating me, that was also scary, D."

"Right."

"But then I thought, hey, I'm in hell, and a demon is eating me like a Big Mac. That's sick."

"Okay, well good for you, Devin, see you later."

He grins, with half of his teeth missing in gaps black from blood. "Lates, Death."

I smile and turn around. When I get back to the front desk, I send a quick email to Devin's demon to put him up at a higher level with a recommendation for the medieval piranha pools, and consider what he said.

Devin likes hell. Who ever thought someone like Devin would find it "sick"? Since his case is recent and hasn't been sorted and trashed yet, I pull out the folder from my desk's cabinet—although it takes me a bit to get it loose. I take a sip of old, starchy coffee and mull over the information. According to his file, he's been chopped up, put back together, eaten then fully digested and resuscitated by painful, dark sorcery. This should have been a nightmare for him.

He talks to me like I'm cool, purely because I am Death. So why have I never felt this way? Last week, I tried to add some sparkle to Hell. I wear a flower pin from a murderous hippie. I'm insecure and have panic attacks often. If only the world knew The Devil has been on a waiting list for a therapist for eleven years, and tried goat yoga once because they heard it releases cortisol through the meditative sounds of their bleating. 

Maybe it's because I don't belong here. Maybe it's because I'm not meant to be Death.

I shoot up from my desk, sending the chair careening back. The computer rattles as I take in deep, ash-filled breaths, as I feel a weight in my bare, bony ribs lift suddenly, and it's absolutely exhilarating.

"I'm not meant to be Death!" I cry, and laugh, a real laugh.

I'm going to Earth. It's not a hard decision to make. I could never go to heaven, and that leaves no other choices. Anyways, I've always wanted to go to Earth.

My only problem: I don't have a human body. I could easily take one from the skinning room, but it wouldn't fit properly and the skin wouldn't be fully attached together.

I blink, suddenly feeling stupid as an idea arises. I quickly search for my calendar. It has puppies on it, and all of the eyes are scratched out with red X's. I flip through the pages, comparing time and calculating distance around the Sun in my head versus position of the stars and the last flaming, poisonous rock-rain...

Bingo! Tonight is Halloween!

I'll go to Earth for a day. If I don't like it, I'll just return back here. If I do (hopefully), I can find a living body that fits my likings and possess it.

It's a genius idea, or in the words of Devin: absolutely sick, man.

A few, long, boring hours after battling three hellhounds, an army of zombies, and giving the rest of my vinyls to Devin––then watching him get brutally tortured to ensure he receives his E.P. (this time, it's Rob who does it, and he makes him try to assemble a light bulb with another demon)––and the elevator is only one floor from Earth. Mariah Carey's All I Want For Christmas plays on a feed-backed loop and by the time the elevator doors ding!, I've heard it two hundred and seventy-three times (time is paused within The Holy Lift).

I absolutely love it. I haven't heard any new music since they stopped making vinyls, and CD players were always simply too banged up by the time they got here.

But here isn't Hell Corp. anymore.

Here is Earth.

My dead, nonexistent heart trembles with excitement. The doors open just upon twilight. I see The Sun, streaked with brilliant strips of orange and gold for but a moment, the sky electrified with warm rainbows and streaks of pink clouds. I don't think I've ever seen so much colour in one place before (even more than Devin's tie-dye shirt!). A second later and it's dulled to cool, lavender-hued tones.

I'm on a beach I think, except the sand isn't black and there's no pools of lava or sea monsters. It's just calm waves, crashing onto grey rocks, and I've never heard a more peaceful sound. If I had working eyelids, I might have closed them to appreciate it.

"Hey!" I turn around, about to summon my flaming pitchfork, when I realize it's just a human and not a rookie angel trying to kill the ultimate BOSS.

"Um, hello," I mumble, still slightly panicked. The person in question is wearing a cropped tee with a flaming skull and the word "D&D" on it. Ah, a devil worshipper. I can trust them.

"Nice outfit," They remark.

I puff out my chest. "Thank you, devil worshipper."

They pause, then grin, crinkling their eyes which are surrounded in rings of black. If I hadn't been Death and can thus sense all dark energies, I might have thought this was a demon.

"My friends and I are having a playing party at nine. It's at Broadway and Longroad. They would love your costume. You should stop by." I have no idea what they just said.

"Sure," I reply, wondering if this person is a colleague of Devin's. However, I definitely do not look like a clown, so I'm okay.

The person winks, popping their gum. "See ya later, White Walker."

Thinking it's probably just another one of my nicknames, I shrug the odd comment off.

This city––or at least, I think it's a city––is so cool, and it's weirdly not too far off from Hell. The streets stink and people yell at each other from moving death machines which roar annoying sounds. Flying creatures hog leafless trees and shoot white pellets at the ground and occasional pedestrian, dirtying the sides of foggy windows. There are lines into stores around the corner, where people in unpractical wear have to wait uncomfortably in the bitter wind.

I learn that a pumpkin-spiced latte is something you should fight for. Amazingly, there's signs declaring it's greatness everywhere. I conclude it's propaganda for a new religion, which explains its demand down in Hell.

There are decorations for my holiday plastered on windows and along streetlights and door-fronts. It ranges from giant orange fruit with carved out expressions in all formats to pictures of bats (although they look nothing like the exploding ones I'm familiar with). Children wear witch hats and colourful costumes, with more and more youthful laughter filling the streets as the sky continues to darken. Candles are lit, as if preparing for a hauntingly beautiful ceremony.

I get many comments on my appearance. Some are cheekfully witty, others congratulate me on my "cosplay", and there was one highly inappropriate, slightly sexual remark I won't honour repeating.

I feel sorry for the ones sitting on the sidewalk with paper cups in front of them, huddled in poor mockeries of coats and blankets and homes. I don't have anything to offer, so I place a mild, harmless curse on them that might attract angels to search them out and offer their aid, however much it innately disgusts me.

It's a little exhilarating. I've never done that before. I know my work is dutiful, I ensure revenge is doled out on any act of evil as I squash it out of existence, delightfully delivering upon my threats to those who stray far, far away from goodness. But I never get to help directly. Death itself trying to aid the homeless? Who knew?

I get lost in something called a JC Penny for a while. I have a little fun haunting the bathrooms––you know, relaxing the pipes on the toilets, standing behind people's reflections just on the corner of their eye as they wash their hands. Their screams remind me of home.

Just as I walk out feeling very satisfied about myself, my stomach rumbles. It sounds like what one might describe as "a cat dying from constipation" and I get a concerned look from the woman beside me. "It's okay," I laugh. "I don't have a stomach."

She doesn't seem to like that and hurries away from me. I sigh.

Maybe I need a better disguise.

I go back into the JC Penny and steal a couple items (oh no, I'm going to go to Hell!). It's a neon purple dress, with those little orange fruits. I also get a few matching necklaces and a bowtie for some formalness. When I twirl, I actually appear as if I have lungs.

Wanting to show off my new outfit and do some more good, I spend the next hour hunting down serial killers, perverts, murderers, and animal abusers. Fortunately, I only get a few large drops of blood and two teeth on the dress.

I suddenly remember the whole root of the endeavour and, although I was able to fill myself partially on my victims, I decide I must try human food.

Many of the roads are closed for holiday-related events and store-owners stand proudly in front of their shops with sales, samples or bowls of sweets. I eat veggie dogs (I'm vegan, of course), spring rolls, roasted corn, and lots of delicious candy that makes my fangs hurt but my belly warm. Many people ask to take photos with me (most are drunk), and when I'm offered free drinks, only 27% are drugged–––I've never felt more worshipped and supported and loved by the world.

I wonder what Rob would say if he could see me now. Me, as my true self. He would laugh at me, and tease me for a few hours, but then he would go home and he would still think awful things of me, but then I imagine him crying a bit and wishing he were a bit more confident and that instead of mocking me, he should've been clapping. Yes, Rob would clap. I think Devin would've, too, at least, before trying to run away and lure some clowns. Then I might've have to drag him back to Hell kicking and screaming and break all his fingers. But he would've clapped.

I laugh and twirl. A few people yell at me, but I know it's just their way of showing love. When they say screw you, loser they really mean I love you, you're amazing, keep being you, darling.

I don't think I can ever get enough of this.

Eventually, I figure out what Broadway and Longroad is. It's an intersection, and there's a restaurant here. Robust women walk around in sparkly platforms with strongly-proportioned hairstyles and thick makeup. They're very kind and when I ask about the party, they take one, slightly-judgemental look at my outfit and, with a "Sure, honey" direct me to the back. One that looks like Dolly Parton asks what my beauty regimen is because my cheekbones look fabulous. I awkwardly reply I don't have one. The other one, whose hair is like cotton candy, offers me a chuckle and a tube of pink lipgloss. "Here, honey," She says. "Every queen needs one."

I smile back, refraining from saying I'm not human and thus have no gender, and accept the tube with sparkling eyes and a heartfelt thank you. I plan to cherish the beautiful gloss forever.

At the back of the restaurant, I find the woman from earlier. She's dressed much differently, wearing plastic horns and armour decorated in scales. There's others too, dressed in their own odd and magnificent ways. I suddenly don't feel so out of place and relax beside them, attempting to understand their language. There's laughter and familiarity, some ask me how I made my cosplay and it's so original. The woman––whose name I learn is Aisha––stands on tiptoe and tries to peer into my eyes and find the seam in my "mask", or where I hide the batteries for it. A youthful-looking person with bright blue hair asks if I want some pizza. I thank them as they turn around to go retrieve whatever pizza is.

Suddenly, a man I hadn't seen before steps within the room. All I see are wings of white and then someone cries, "Ange––"

It's a trap.

The room explodes into darkness.

Aisha must have recognized me.

My cloak fills with eerie red light as rage pours off of my bones in waves.

These aren't "geeks", they're hunters.

The ground rumbles as I stare into each, horrified set of eyes, cowering beneath chairs and tables and in the cloak of corners.

None of them are safe. And they shall feel my wrath.

I rotate my head around and scream, a deep gutteral thing ripped from my ribs. Light bulbs shatter in vivid, electric sparks. Blood slowly leaks out of human eyes, creeping down their cheeks like tears of death.

It is Death.

It walks up to the person in white (now red), clutching another hunter. It raises its talons, now black as night and dripping in ink, ready to tear them down with the force of gravity peeling down wooden sideboards, swirling with a venomous wind, when––

"ANGELO!"

I pause. "Angelo?"

The man drops to his knees, sobbing, choking on his stuttering voice. "Please, please don't hurt me. Please." A wet patch gradually descends down the length of his pants.

My eyes widen in realization.

Everyone's eyes are on me and I suddenly feel very conscious of my dress which has turned black. Did I scare people? I really hoped I hadn't hurt anyone's feelings. Oh God, they hate me now. I shift from foot to foot, "Um, okay, should I leave? Unless I can stay for another game? You know what, I think I left my cat running at home, so I––I should go."

I take a hesitant step back, wincing at everyone's looks (why are they still staring at me?), then quickly leave.

The front of the restaurant is void of life, and the floor and walls are streaked with blood (oops). Outside are flashing lights in red and blue, but I slip into the darkness easily.

Every step is with a great, lonely sadness. Many of the shops have closed their doors and blinded their windows, with only the twinkeling pumpkins and lights and purple confetti an indication of the fun that had occurred only hours ago. Above, the sky is black and empty, an infinity for the many buildings to stretch into.

I am alone. A few bloody tears slip out as I feel my bones rattle with violent shivers. Little creatures scuttle along the roads, slipping out of sewers, scouting for trash. A breeze cools my senseless cheeks.

Pressure on the back of my neck, thin and sharp––"Give me everything you got, darling." I turn around and meet their eyes, evil and greedy and dull as they scan my dress. I've seen that look before, know it well, down in my home's fiery depths.

I attack, shoving their back against the brick wall. The knife drops as I grab the scruff of their shirt and toss them into an alleyway. Then I leap into the darkness and pummel them with everything I have until they're beyond a crushed, bloody pulp. I punch and punch, connecting my fist with splintered bone over and over and over again, screaming with tears as I bring my fiery and utter devastation upon their wretched soul.

Where do I belong?

Punch.

Where do I belong?

Punch.

Where do I belong?

Sucker-punch.

I yawn and then it stretches into a roar as my body lifts toward the night sky. The city is beneath me, hell has become me.

And I am the Devil.

––––––

@antiheroesgalore Prompt:

You've been the Keeper of the Dead for eons, but you were never very good at the job. The dead have such demands you'd much rather spend Halloween visiting your favourite haunts. But this year, things don't work out as well as they do each year.