Leslie couldn't stay up forever. Finally, days later, sick from stress and caffeine, she gave up. Sleep hit her like a sledgehammer. She wasn't surprised to find the nightmares chasing her, waking her in a cold sweat at 4am. More unusually, though, there was a sharp pricking in her left thigh. As she moved, it bit deeper. A bug! She flailed in place, flinging off the covers and slapping her leg. Only when she turned on the bedside lamp did she see the culprit: a needle stuck in her flesh.
"The fuck?" Leslie muttered, peering at it. Oh. Of course. From the time she sewed new pockets in her clothes. She looked some more. The pain wasn't that bad, now she'd taken her bodyweight off it. Because it wasn't bad, a few moments of experimental flicking and tapping occurred, before she finally removed the needle. A tiny bead of blood swelled at the site.
Briefly, she wondered if it was normal, to aggravate a wound like that. Then she remembered she was in Hell, in a rabbit's body, with a shorn patch on her back, because a sadistic overlord wanted a view of the marks he made there. Nothing was normal anymore.
For several hours after her morning jog, Leslie kept the needle for jabbing herself with - discreetly, of course, in public areas. It took her mind off being tired, and she could handle the pain. The ease with which she handled it was so novel, so curious. It made her think that the worst part of Alastor's games wasn't the pain itself, but the anticipation of it.
By now, Alastor should have verbally invoked the car crash, as feared, and he hadn't done so… but he did commend her for enduring his play. This was relatively new. Leslie would hiss and moan, submitting to the sharpest points of him, and when he finally withdrew with shallow breath and blood-covered lips, Alastor forgot to be a cocky smartass. Then, and only then, he would shower praise upon her.
"How splendid," he said, trailing gloved fingers over his own teeth-marks. "I wish you could see… and you took it beautifully, dear. My brave little bunny."
Leslie knew what it was. Positive reinforcement. She'd all but encouraged him to use it in the past: "Less stick, more carrot". Insidious though it was, she tried to ignore the implications. For the moment, he was proud of her. Her tolerance for pain was improving.
Her tolerance for being surprised, however…
"Boo!"
"Argh!" Leslie jumped, halfway along the second-floor corridor as Alastor appeared before her. "Don't do that!" She shimmied around him, heading to her room.
"Shouldn't you be downstairs? Your class is in 20 minutes!"
"No, that's tomorrow."
"Ah, I don't think so."
She stopped, rolling her eyes, and took out her phone to confirm the date… then frowned. He was right. Wednesday. Somehow, she'd lost track of time.
"Oh shit," she said. "Er… so that means I'm-"
"Twenty-eight, yes!" Alastor laughed at her confusion. "Chronologically, at least. Physically, you shall stay as you are until an exterminator stabs you to death!"
Leslie nodded. "You know, a simple 'happy birthday' would suffice."
He continued to laugh as he came close, to pat her on the head, and she smelled the cologne on his shirt cuff. It was nice. And they were alone in the corridor. Leslie sent him a soft, make-me-happy kind of face. Two winks was all she needed.
"Don't get your hopes up," Alastor responded. "It isn't that time yet. But I did get you something!"
"Oh, thanks. You didn't have to." A pause. "What was… uh, what?"
"You're wearing it."
Glancing down, Leslie felt a tug around her neck. With difficulty she removed the offending article. It was a pendant choker, black velvet, with her name on the charm. "That's cute," she said. "Bit like a dog collar though, don't you think?"
"The hotel address is on the other side," he said, grinning mischievously, "in case you get lost!"
He wasn't joking. "Oh, you utter, utter bastard."
Alastor swept theatrically away, dodging the half-serious punch she aimed at his ribs. "Better run along, my pet! You'll be late for your students!" And he left in a soft rush of air.
Leslie grumbled to herself as she went to get changed, tucking the choker into her pocket. My pet, he'd called her. Based on the quasi-collar, he might have meant it literally.
o - o - o - o - o
That evening, Angel did his best to drag her to a club, insisting he knew an ideal nightspot. Leslie had seen some of the clubs here in Hell: squalid dens for unbridled smoking, drinking and god knows what else. Dour-faced demons sulking in the darkest corners, and perhaps an intoxicated few taking to the floor in dangerously high heels. During peak hours, would the floor be sticky, like it was at Hades, or would it be slippery wet, liable to send dancers sprawling?
"The fuck kinda clubs…?" Angel trailed off in disgust. "C'mon, Les, I'mma celebrity! Used ta the finer things! We'll go ta Lustie's. They got these fuckin' cocktails that come in mirrorballs. It's ridiculous."
"I don't know…"
"What, ya worried about bein' groped? I got guns."
Moved though she was, Leslie insisted on staying in. "I don't want the hangover," she said. "Why don't we watch a film in your, er, boudoir or something?" So within the hour, they were under Angel's bedcovers, watching Some Like It Hot as Angel nursed a bottle of pre-mixed alcohol. The label read 'Tears of Bacchus: an insolent 35%!'
"New necklace?" he asked, midway through the movie.
"Uh, yeah," she said, fondling the choker. Prank gift or not, it was very pretty, and nobody had to know the secret significance.
"Where'd you geddit?"
Leslie panicked. "I don't know."
"Pffft. 'And what's ya first name, Mr Burns?'" Angel sat up, beaming. "Oh my god, you're bangin' Mr Burns! Ha ha!"
She watched him cackle and roll onto his side. "That's just... untrue on many levels," she said - but Angel was laughing too hard to hear. All eight of his eyes began to water.
"Ah fuck, I bet Bambi drives his car at twenny miles an hour! I bet it's still gotta brass horn!"
"Angel!"
"AHOOOOOGA!"
God damn it, it was too easy to picture Alastor, goggles over his face, in some antiquated auto. He really was that old. Leslie might have laughed if it wasn't so sad. "I hate you," she said.
Angel pulled himself back up, the fit of hysterics almost over. "Oh my God… hey, Les?"
"Yeah?"
"I do worry about ya fuckin' Bambi, y'know. Demons is somethin' else," he said. "Ya never know what you're gonna get."
Leslie blinked. "W-what do you mean? Like STIs? We hashed that out after the hellpox thing."
"I mean like havin' a knife for a dick."
"What the fuck?! Is that a thing?" Leslie felt her ears prick skywards in alarm, and Angel moved to tug them down.
"Nah, nah, don't worry! That's 99% not gonna happen. In all my years, I've seen like… one blade dick."
"Jesus Christ… gimme that," Leslie said, and gulped from the bottle of Bacchus.
"So… he ain't rough with ya or anythin'? He's treatin' ya OK?"
The look on his face was so annoyingly sensitive all of a sudden. When she'd had her fill, Leslie tossed the drink back to him and fixed her gaze on the chest of drawers, which was vomiting clothes onto his fluffy rug. "Angel, if I can choose one day not to talk about this, can it be today?"
"Fine, fine. Oh hey, best scene's comin' up! Watch! I love this bit. Watch-watch-watch." They continued with the film as Leslie tugged the neck of her hoodie, making quite sure Alastor's landscaping was concealed.
o - o - o - o - o
Next day, Leslie joined another teaching session, led as usual by Vaggie. As she entered, Ginerva gave her a rather chilly look, and she turned, expecting to see Kain's seat empty. It was occupied by one of two new faces; this one was a robust demon in electric-yellow and black clothing. More importantly, his face was upside-down; he saw her looking and his eyebrows jumped briefly to his chin. Leslie gave him a nod and sat down.
"Now," Vaggie said, and smiled thinly to indicate the need for sensitivity, "we have some new hotel guests, and they agreed to introduce themselves and perhaps share their reasons for checking in. Now, I don't want anyone to give them grief; we all have regrets about the life we led. But...what do we say?"
"Self-improvement is a sign of strength," most of the group intoned.
The other new face, a sickly-green demon, close to Vaggie stood up. "Hi," he said. "My name is Craig, and I've done a lot of bad shit. I mean really bad shit. The childhood serial-killer trifecta. Then as an adult, I stole, beat up homelesses..." Yes, Leslie heard him right: homelesses. "Wanted to do worse, like fucking kill some people. But that was wrong, and I'm hoping the Big Man can see that."
"Trifecta whatnow?"
"You know the ones," Charcoal said, making circles with his index finger, "child behaviors that predict how fucked they are. So arson, animal cruelty, and wetting the bed."
"Nah, man, I thought the third one was trying to fuck your siblings or some shit."
Vaggie held up her hand. "That's… not helpful, OK? Thank you Craig." She gestured to the man in yellow, who remained seated as he talked.
"Y'all can call me Decider," he said. "since getting a new name seems to be a rite-of-passage." He sighed. "So, I'm either here 'cause of certain bad habits, or 'cause I cheated on my, uh, wife? I mean, I feel like a piece of shit… and don't get me wrong, I want out of this hellhole, but more important, I want us to end up in the same place." He pointed up. "Maybe some of you can appreciate that."
Leslie was reminded of Aoife, Kain's "bitta stuff" back home.
Vaggie nodded. "Thank you for sharing. So… we all have regrets. Things we wish we'd done differently, hard as it is to admit. We all want to get out of Hell, but that alone isn't enough to get you into Heaven. It's easy to be sorry when your ass is on fire. What we should do is think about who our actions really hurt in the land of the living."
Leslie tried. She thought of her friends, her family, and Karlton of course. What had she done? Hadn't she always been decent to them, helped them out when they needed it? Maybe she'd bitched about some friends behind their back, but…
"Who'd you hurt when you were alive, mamita?"
Vaggie's single eye narrowed at Greg's question. "Well," she said, "I have had a violent disposition. Most of it was self-defense. Some of it wasn't. But I realize it reflects badly on me. You know, I'm more than that. Now," she continued, "who here died because they were doing something wrong?"
Many raised hands.
"Does overdosing count?" Decider asked.
"Oh, definitely. No offense."
"Not entirely your fault," Leslie said, trying to make him feel better. "It's a physical dependence."
The newcomer turned to her. That topsy-turvy face of his was difficult to look at. "Thanks," he chuffed, "but my wife made enough excuses for me."
"Not your girlfriend?" she asked. The group was largely silent, grateful for an excuse not to own up to past iniquities.
"Not so much. Fuck, man."
"Hey, hey, I can sympathize." She hesitated, wondering how much to reveal about herself. "Someone I knew had a problem, but he got clean."
"Ha. That's what he told you?"
"No, I mean… I know he did."
"Maybe he was clean. Maybe he wanted you to think so." Decider leaned forward on his chair. He had a slow, easy-going sort of cadence to his voice. "It's just one of those things, like… People want you to get better, so you don't tell them you've got worse. Then suddenly it's a secret." To her surprise, a few members of the group nodded. "And especially this last year, I've been so down… When that happens, you want something to take the hurt away. Like Novocain for a broken tooth."
"Yeah, no, I get it," Leslie said. She took a deep breath, trying to stop the emotion coming into her voice. Bad memories. "Sorry. Been awhile since I thought about him. I hope…"
"I'm sure he's fine. And hey, I get it. I miss my girls too."
"Lots of luck for this guy's cheating heart," Ginerva said, "still can't choose between them. Your name's a bit ironic, eh?"
"Hey, I'm trying to change myself," said the new guy, slightly slumped in his chair, arms raised. "Plus, it's like… you wouldn't get it. It's an inside joke."
Leslie stared at him. What she was thinking wasn't possible - it didn't add up - but she felt haunted somehow. She stared at Decider, looking for something that betrayed the man she knew. He had a stranger's body, a stranger's voice, but the subtler signs were so familiar.
It couldn't be.
"What kind of inside joke?" she asked.
Vaggie interjected, sensing trouble. "We should really get back to the lesson. Decider, if you-"
"Nah, chill, lemme tell her," he said, peering at Leslie. He, too, could see how spooked she was. "So… I always listened to a lot of metal, grunge-type stuff. Uh, Korn, Nirvana, Foo Fighters… and System Of A Down. This one song of theirs really kicks ass. I sang it on the way to work, in the car, gym locker room, you name it. But, thing was, I had the lyric wrong-"
"Toxicity," Leslie interrupted, shaking. "Right? Because Serj, I think? pronounced 'disorder' a bit weird, but it sounded cool to you, like The Decider was some vigilante, so you kept singing the word wrong."
A frown broke on Decider's upside down face, making his eyebrows crease in the wrong direction. There was a horrible pause as he put the pieces together. "Lellybean?"
Leslie's hands flew to her mouth. She made an ugly noise, startling even herself; her chair legs squeaked on the floor.
"Wait." As though the realization had somehow splashed into his lap, Decider stood up. "No, no, hold up. It's… You're not supposed to be here. You weren't supposed to come here!"
She barely registered the demons chattering around her, the high laughter from Crymini. Vaggie quickly marched over, grabbing Leslie by the shoulder, and then to Decider, hooking a finger into his belt-loop as she yanked him up. "Meeting adjourned!" she yelled, and pulled the pair into the corridor.
