Chapter 2

“And the other thirty percent of the job?”

“Paperwork, time sheets, expense accounting.”

I huffed as I let my shoulders drop.

“This is hell, after all, dear.” Molly grinned. “But, it’s only eight hours a day. The rest of the time is yours to do with as you please.”

“And what does one do for recreation in hell, Miss Molly?”

“Oh, we have a marvelous health club. The sauna is top notch. There’s this fabulous old contraption with a boulder you can roll uphill, for an eternity if you want. And the lava flows are quite spectacular this time of year if you’re into that.” Molly lowered her Wayfarers just a bit and leaned in. “Though personally, I enjoy spending a bit of quality time down in the advertising exec’s wing now and then, with a book full of fine print in one hand and a red hot poker in the other.”

Molly sighed just a little as she said that.

At that moment, there was an unmistakable crunch of a power chord, followed by a long howl of feedback from what sounded like a vintage Fender Stratocaster, reverberating down the hall to my eardrums.

“Oh,” Molly said, raising her index finger skyward. “I forgot to mention the house band. We’ve got a conversion therapy tonight.”

“Probably not what you’re thinking, Miranda.” Molly laid her hand on my arm.

Rather than letting her console me, I pulled my arm away and rubbed at the sore spot on my wrist instead. Another power chord rang out.

“The conversion therapy is for the parents. Our theory is that everyone is born with an innate love for heavy metal and that some people just choose to…” Molly lowered her Wayfarers and tried to meet my gaze. “My humor’s not really working today, is it?”

“And if I’m not interested in the job offer?” I said. “Am I free to go?”

“Not exactly, dear.”

“But, you said I’m not a permanent resident.” I began rubbing the inside of my wrists again. The burning sensation had spread to both sides and the itching was driving me mad.

“Not a permanent resident. No.” I watched Molly’s shoulders slump just a bit. “But you do have your own restorative justice that needs to be addressed before you can go.”

“Well, let’s get it over with. Though, I still can’t figure out who I’ve wronged.”

To my surprise, Molly wrapped me in her arms and pulled me tightly to her chest for several seconds. It didn’t take long for me to snuggle in and nestle my head into her shoulder. She smelled faintly of brimstone, but otherwise her touch was warm and comforting. And when she finally straightened up again, I was reticent to let go.

She took my hand gently in hers and aimed us at a doorway that I swear wasn’t there just a minute ago. I shuffled along with her.

Inside, the furnishings consisted of only a table and two chairs. The table had chrome plated metal legs and a fake woodgrain laminate top, with some chips out of the corners that exposed the cheap particle board underneath. The chairs were in about the same shape with their vinyl seat coverings cracking and flaking at the corners. Over the entire length of one wall was a floor to ceiling mirror.

“It looks like a police interrogation room from some bad late night detective show,” I said.

“Everyone’s room is tailored to their needs.”

“Who’s behind the mirror?”

“No one. It’s not one-way glass, if that’s where your mind is going.” Molly shut the door and showed me to a chair.

I sat down and rubbed at my wrists under the table as I fidgeted in my seat.

“Where’s my accuser?” I asked. “The one I supposedly trespassed against.”

“It’s just us, Miranda.” Molly took the seat across from me.

“Can we trade seats?” I said. “I don’t want to look into the mirror.”

Molly shook her head. “Both parties have to be present. You have to face your victim.”

“Who’s that? You?” I leaned forward in my chair. I would have been on my feet, heading for the door, but my wrists were itching something fierce and for whatever reason, I didn’t want Molly to see. “I keep asking you what I’ve done to end up here and you keep giving me the brush off.”

Under the table, I slammed my wrists against my knees. The burning never stopped, but at least the sensation was different for a while. Molly slid her chair to the side, but said nothing. I stared at my face in the mirror and banged at the undersides of my arms.

The image of my face in the mirror began to dissolve. It was replaced by an adolescent girl with spiky blue hair, an over-sized T-shirt and ripped jeans. I blinked. It was still me, just younger.

“This is my offense? My bad teenage fashion choices? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Molly said nothing. The girl in the mirror struggled with a child-proof cap on a prescription bottle for a moment before dumping the contents into her hand. She slammed her hand against her mouth and turned to gulp a glass of water.

The scene in the mirror turned to mist. The girl’s mother—my mother—entered the room. She stood over the girl—me—weeping. She shook me and then pulled her phone from her pocket to dial. I didn’t have to look to know it was 911 that she called.

My face was hot. I rubbed a tear from my eye with the back of my hand before the itching of my wrists got so bad I was dragging them across the battered edge of the laminate tabletop for some distraction. The sensation was spreading up my arms.

“This can’t be it,” I said. “I told my mother I was sorry. We worked it out. I went to counseling for God’s sake. This can’t be it.”

The image in the mirror turned to mist once again before coalescing into my face again. This time I looked to be about the same age I am now. I was reclining in the bathtub.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I said. “Masturbating in the bath? That’s what I’m here for? Everybody does it. If you don’t, you go crazy and become a sexual predator or something. I’m sure of it.”

“Look closely,” Molly said.

I tried. Between dragging the insides of my arms over the edge of the table or clawing at them with my nails, I tried to discern what Molly wanted me to see.

The woman in the mirror slumped back, her head lolling to one side. I wasn’t looking at post orgasmic bliss. There was something very unnatural about her pose. Just as I was about to start slamming my arms against my knees again, I saw the blood—the blood on each arm that was oozing out of three long gashes starting at the woman’s wrists and extending halfway up her forearms—my forearms.

I looked at my own arms. “I don’t… I don’t remember that.” I looked up, but Molly was no longer sitting at the table.

She had moved around behind me. I felt her arms on my shoulders again, rubbing away the tension that had built there during this disturbing, otherworldly picture show.

I took another look at my arms under the table and watched the long, jagged scar tissue beginning to rise. “Did I…?”

“That’s my sin? Oh, shit.”

There was a knock on the door and I rolled out of bed to answer. And just like every morning, there was my favorite diminutive red-skinned demon with cloven hooves for feet and a tail with a mind of its own. He was holding a breakfast tray. “Thank you, Bob,” I said, and took the tray.

“Is that breakfast, honey?”

“Could you set it aside for a minute and help me with my stockings? I can never get the seam quite straight.”

I smirked, but I set the tray down and knelt behind Molly as she stood at the vanity, curling her hair. She was completely nude, unless you count the stockings she had painted on after her shower. “You told me you mastered that technique millennia ago.”

“But it’s so much better when you do it.” Molly let a lecherous grin cross her lips as she wiggled her bare ass in front of my face. I could see the smoldering of her eyes reflecting in the mirror.

“You know, Bob and I have been talking about forming a union and demanding better working conditions.” I extended my tongue and took a long, slow lick over the superbly toned skin of Molly’s right butt cheek, running dangerously close to the cleft.

“I thought you liked being my stocking girl.” Molly turned around and took my hands in hers. She coaxed me to standing and wrapped me in her arms. “You’re not a permanent resident, you know. If the working conditions are that bad—”

I silenced her with my lips on hers. And after a fierce battle of tongues, with my hands cupping her ass for several minutes, I think I convinced her I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Come on, I said, “Breakfast is getting cold.”

Molly dipped her chin and looked at me as if she were staring over the tops of her Wayfarers, a habit she had developed, I suppose. Her sunglasses were still on top of the chest of drawers next to where she hung her poker.

“Nothing really ever gets cold here, Miranda.”

I smiled and pushed Molly’s curls to one side to place my hand on the back of her neck. “Well, in that case, we’ve got plenty of time…”

I watched the corners of her mouth turning up as I leaned in to deliver my kiss.

“I’m glad you decided to stay,” she said.

“Me too.” I took Molly’s fingers in mine and led her back to the big, king-sized bed in the center of our room.

Molly says there’s a special wing for people who rate stories less than five stars.

Kidding aside, there is a riddle in the form of a song, with clues to its title woven throughout the story. If think you know what it is, post your guess in the comments.

And, if you really know your mythology, take a stab at the reference to the big, rolling boulder in the health club. The one that can be pushed uphill for an eternity.