Father told me not to drink, not to gamble, not to lie, not to whore. It leads to the Devil, he said. You'll end up in Hell, he said. He forgot to mention - or didn't know, which seems altogether more like him - that the Devil wears atrociously bright clothing, is green, and has very strange nicknames for people, and Hell is an odd hotel with confused and infuriating people, not all of whom are even English. Although one was, which certainly does confirm the Hell hypothesis; after that, the Devil was hardly a huge step. But stranger folk are in Hell than the Devil and the English: slaves and young women with curious words and accents and all of them wearing clothing that looked decidedly odd and possibly indecent.
And it's not just the people who are odd in Hell. Things happen there; they change your voice and make it strange and accented oddly. Not good and proper and Irish like it ought to be, but unidentifiable. Only the English bastard talked properly, but it seems the rest of them found nothing wrong with their speech. It is possible, as they seem to think, that they are from the future, but if so it is a future I want no part in, unless the English have been driven forever from sweet Eire. No, it seems unappealing; the place was high-class and impressive enough, but all the same unattended. Perhaps machines took care of it all, or perhaps it was the fault of the shining demons outside, racing by and shining ominous lights and making noises less intelligible than a man outside a pub.
The people seemed nice enough, though; the girls were strange but not unappealing. The one was quiet, with a very strong accent, and she kept talking of weeds and other odd things. The other was loud, brash, and bossy; Father would have called her a whore, and perhaps he was right, for she seemed to be quite flirtatious. But her manner was different than a whore's. She had pride and courage and certainly she was more attractive than most whores, not at all aged by a life on the streets or in taverns. No, she was no whore, though she had that English prick drooling all over her.
Hell is a strange, strange place, but not like Father said it is. It isn't hot; it isn't cold, either, though. It's you that's cold in Hell, inside rather than out, like they've taken away the part of you that made you who you were, and it's frightening in ways I can't explain. Maybe that's why they say it's hot; it seems that way, by comparison to how you feel inside, and it's an easier thing to tell a child. Better for them to fear Hellfire than to know the truth: Hell isn't painful, or unbearable, it is just inexplicable and strange.
And it's not just the people who are odd in Hell. Things happen there; they change your voice and make it strange and accented oddly. Not good and proper and Irish like it ought to be, but unidentifiable. Only the English bastard talked properly, but it seems the rest of them found nothing wrong with their speech. It is possible, as they seem to think, that they are from the future, but if so it is a future I want no part in, unless the English have been driven forever from sweet Eire. No, it seems unappealing; the place was high-class and impressive enough, but all the same unattended. Perhaps machines took care of it all, or perhaps it was the fault of the shining demons outside, racing by and shining ominous lights and making noises less intelligible than a man outside a pub.
The people seemed nice enough, though; the girls were strange but not unappealing. The one was quiet, with a very strong accent, and she kept talking of weeds and other odd things. The other was loud, brash, and bossy; Father would have called her a whore, and perhaps he was right, for she seemed to be quite flirtatious. But her manner was different than a whore's. She had pride and courage and certainly she was more attractive than most whores, not at all aged by a life on the streets or in taverns. No, she was no whore, though she had that English prick drooling all over her.
Hell is a strange, strange place, but not like Father said it is. It isn't hot; it isn't cold, either, though. It's you that's cold in Hell, inside rather than out, like they've taken away the part of you that made you who you were, and it's frightening in ways I can't explain. Maybe that's why they say it's hot; it seems that way, by comparison to how you feel inside, and it's an easier thing to tell a child. Better for them to fear Hellfire than to know the truth: Hell isn't painful, or unbearable, it is just inexplicable and strange.