Chapter 10
Memories and New Friends
It had been over a month since the dreams started, and whatever subconsciousness is controlling it is becoming impatient. As such, the dreams had become quite different.
Ego was no longer bound to a single chair at least, so she took that as a step in the right direction. She was, however, stuck being dragged down memory lane. She watched her four-year-old human self sitting in church. Her mother sat next to her while her father stood at the lectern, giving that week's sermon. The first dream was predictably jumpy, but the emotional transitions were potent. The calm she felt sitting in the sermon, listening to her father preach the word. The happiness in the narthex afterwards, where she could talk to everyone with a smile and laugh. The drive home, where she sat in despair, not wanting to go home.
Their home was very quiet, as she was an only child. Her mother had complications giving birth, and was forced to have her tubes tied. Both parents tried not to show their resentment in public, but the house was always different. They lived in Florida, but the chill in their home seeped into her bones.
When she was home from deployment, her mother merely ignored her most of the time, only giving her the time of day to scold her for stepping out of line. Her father was less aggressive, but more critical. He would pick apart everything she did wrong while they were out, things he would never call her out for in front of others. As they were often the only two people in the house (when he wasn't bringing "friends" over), it was often filled with an eerie silence.
This particular memory was painful to sit through. It was her fourth birthday, and everyone at the church gave her good wishes and even a few gifts. At home she was permitted to open them, but her father would nit-pick at her being 'greedy' by accepting them so eagerly. Her mother scolded her for being so happy, saying she never considered how miserable the day was for her parents because it was the day she lost her ability to have more children.
"You're so selfish, Elizabeth," her mother reprimanded. "You don't think of anyone else but yourself, and on a day like today!" It wasn't the first year she heard that, but she heard it every year until the day she left that household at 18, never to return. The day she died, she had been 32. She hadn't so much as heard any news regarding her parents for 14 years. For all she knew, they were destitute and living in the swamps as savages. That was her preferred image of them, anyway. Or running for their lives from an angry mob; after all, she did give him a nasty surprise before she left. Knowing him though, he probably talked his way right out of it and is still hypocritically preaching about forgiveness and tolerance while her mother's dysfunctional womb forgot that it had ever given life, aided by a drinking habit her mother started as soon as her military career ended shortly after Eliza turned ten.
Eliza… The name she chose for herself. Before that, she lived a double life, and her dreams progressively walked her through that over the course of a week. Before turning 14, she actually made friends with some anarchists, who she rolled with on occasion to cause chaos when she needed to blow off steam. Oh, if her mother had ever known, she would have beaten her to within an inch of her life. Or maybe she would have simply disowned her. That's what her father would have wanted; she was sure of that.
To her parents she was Elizabeth, the curse upon their house that ruined the large family her parents wanted. To her friends she was Lizzy, a firecracker who enjoyed taking out all her pain and frustration on others. One night, however, she was dragged into a memory that she honestly had almost forgotten.
A friend of hers, who had brought her into the fold of the anarchist group, had started cutting himself. Before this, she had never seen someone she actually cared about get hurt like that. But the thought of hurting himself that way…
She watched her 13-year-old self grab his wrist. She had just had a growth spurt, and at the time was a couple inches taller than him. She felt impressed, actually. She forgot how imposing she could be when the situation called for it.
"What the fuck is this?!" Lizzy demanded.
"I-it's nothing," he lied, trying to wrench his wrist free of her grip. He was utterly unsuccessful.
"Don't you fucking lie to me!" she yelled. "This is bullshit! You keep this up…" she got right in his face, her voice dropping to a venomous hiss, "I'm gonna take a knife and drag it down every single cut you make!"
She remembered that, after that day, no new cuts had appeared on his arm. It was amazing how well that bluff had worked, actually.
Though it was so long ago that Eliza honestly wondered if her younger self had been bluffing at all.
The trips down memory lane were taking a toll on her during the day. She had been in a touchy mood lately, and everyone gave her space. Everyone, that is, except for Alastor.
"Are you sleeping well?" he would ask from time to time. "You look like death warmed over! Is the bed uncomfortable? We could find you a better one! Or maybe the hotel is too quiet? Hell help us all once this place opens up! Which reminds me…"
Alastor took that opportunity to inform everyone that, if they wished to make use of their newly acquired sponsors, they would need to officially open for business. Charlie joined him in announcing that they were having a reception the following week to celebrate the hotel's finished renovations, and to draw in potential guests. And after that moment, both Vaggie and Niffty became insufferable.
Niffty was more hyper than usual, excited to finally open but also anxious to finally get some real men into the hotel. Alastor was like her father, Husk was her drunken uncle and Angel was… Angel. She needed more, and would not let anyone hold back while preparing for the celebration. Vaggie could barely control her agitation with both Alastor and Angel, the latter of which was little-to-no help with prep-work. Then, Angel one-upped himself on her anger scale.
He brought his friend Cherri to see the hotel.
When the anarchist walked in, Vaggie about ripped the spider in half, which pissed off his cyclops friend immensely.
"Who's this bitch?" she asked, whipping out a small bomb out of thin air.
"This is Charlie's bang," he dismissed the moth. "Just ignore her." Then, just to rub salt in the wound, he added, "Treat her like furniture."
"Araña bastardo," she growled, whipping out her spear. Upon seeing the angel weapon, Cherri lit the bomb and prepared to throw it at the pissy little moth.
"That's enough of that!" Alastor rose from Cherri's shadow, his hand reaching up and snuffing out the bomb's sparkling wick. "If you would be so kind as to not completely obliterate my establishment, I would be most grateful."
"Holy shit," Cherri said, backing away from the Radio Demon. "He's fuckin' here?!"
"Yea, Radio Daddy helps run the place," Angel explained.
"You ain't bein' forced to stay here, right?" She looked at her friend.
"Nah, I told you before: free rent," he stuck out his tongue at Alastor, who returned his look with a glare. "He's no fun, though."
"I can be plenty of fun," he countered. "Your idea of 'fun' is simply disgusting in the extreme, and something of which openly repulses me."
"So says the cannibal," Angel retorted.
"Try to eat him, and I blow this hotel sky-high," Cherri warned, putting the bomb back to wherever she called it from.
"I wouldn't touch that meat with Vox's hands, let alone ingest it" he reassured her.
"So now that we're all friends an' shit," Angel began, "Where's Eliza? My friend 'ere wants to meet 'er."
"Why?" Vaggie asked, accusingly.
"Because." Angel's simple, vague answer was infuriating, and he enjoyed the pissy moth's rage.
"Is that all?" Charlie asked, attempting to defuse the situation. "Are you also interested in joining Angel at the hotel?"
"Nah, just gotta make sure the shrink ain't fuckin' with my mate, here!" she grinned, nudging Angel playfully.
"We would all be better off if she were, I think," Alastor teased. Angel shot him an annoyed glance before ignoring him.
"Well, she's out at the moment," Vaggie said, dryly. "She left a few minutes ago. Alastor says she likes some Cannibal Colony place called, um…"
"Plaisirs Crus," he answered, gleefully enjoying her discomfort. "But she said she wished to try somewhere new, did she not? She's out walking the town, looking for a new experience! She's been rather testy lately, so I'd leave her be."
Angel proceeded to call him out for prodding her for a reaction every day, and the group didn't get much done for a while as they argued.
Eliza sat at a table at the Devil's Diner. It looked interesting enough, and she needed to get away from the hotel. Now that she had a computer, she had spent much time familiarizing herself with Hell's media platforms. Most of it seemed to be owned by Vox, that demon who visited the hotel a little under a month ago. They hadn't seen him since, and at first Vaggie blamed Alastor for losing a potential investor. The long lecture that followed told the therapist a lot about the volatile relationship between the two overlords, and she was honestly surprised there was no bloodshed.
She sipped her tea and sighed. It was so nice to get out every now and then. But as nice as the ladies of Plaisirs Crus were, she needed a break from them, too. She missed her dear crow, however. It still refused to follow her too far away. She was about ready to give up hope on it, accepting that she would only see it at the restaurant.
Now that she was away, she could focus her thoughts on what has happened over the last month. Her second appointment with Angel had been rather amusing, as he used his snark relentlessly to divert the conversation away from his question.
"Do you think I gotta stop being gay?"
She often wondered what the hell God wanted from people like him. Back when Angel died (apparent in 1947), he had been beaten by his family (which it turned out was, indeed, part of the Italian mafia), and overdosed in a closet. He talked about it so casually, as if it wasn't even his life he was talking about. He had completely disconnected from his previous life, which simplified things in her opinion. Still, the pursuit of redemption would require her to dig into it a bit.
They had ended their session early again, but only by about 5-10 minutes, which was much better than the first time. Vaggie was pleased, at least.
A commotion outside the diner brought her out of her thoughts. A familiar looking black limousine pulled up to the bank across the street. Paparazzi crowded around it like maggots on a corpse, and she briefly felt bad for whoever was inside.
Then she saw a television on a large man's body and her pity evaporated. It was Vox.
She went back to her tea. If anyone would love the buzzards of journalism, it was the TV Demon. During her perusal of social media and surfing the web, she learned very quickly that he drank in the good, bad and ugly that came with being the center of attention. Voxnet, Voxtagram, Vogitek… So much of Hell's technological advancement was branded by him, but his name being on all of it was very telling. He could never stand being forgotten.
One thing Eliza had been having fun with was guessing how other demons died. Her own death was a shot through the heart, where now a rose grew out of her chest. It seemed to her that the soul often directly reflected the sinner's previous life. Appearance really seems to matter here, and so she observed quietly.
Charlie is the princess of Hell, the daughter of Lucifer and Lillith, so she was not included in the line-up. Besides, had she been human, she would never have ended up in Hell. If the last month taught her anything, it would be that her biggest fault was how naive she was. She truly believed her people had a chance at salvation, and deeply cared about demons who thought nothing of her in return.
Then there was Vaggie. Her obvious distrust towards all men she came into contact with suggested that she may have been abused by one or more in her life. Her missing eye led Eliza to believe she had been shot. She spoke fluent Spanish and English, but she wasn't sure exactly where she was from. She wasn't very familiar with the different cultures of Central America. However, she doubted her distrust towards men would be enough to condemn her. Her willingness to jump to violence at the drop of a hat, however, certainly was. If she could control her temper, it's possible she'd make quick progress towards redemption, should she desire it. Still, she and Charlie were tied at the hip, so honestly Eliza didn't see her willingly pursuing a one-way ticket to Heaven. Not unless Charlie could come, too.
Angel's death was already known to her, but his spider form was a mystery. Apparently the souls of his family typically took the forms of spiders, so she wondered if family ties mattered in some way. His discolored eye was also a curiosity; perhaps a sign of the beatings he endured? Would dying with a black eye really make that much of a difference? Or did he get them so regularly that his soul adopted the look as a permanent mark?
Husk was alcoholism, of that she had no doubt. He lacked any telltale spots on his body that suggested any form of violent end, but his ability to chug bottles before hitting the floor suggested an extreme tolerance. His soul's resemblance to a deck of cards, however, suggested that alcohol was not his only vice. She also noticed he practiced magic card tricks when he thought no one was looking.
Niffty… was an enigma. Getting the girl to slow down for any length of time to talk was nearly impossible. Perhaps once the reception was over, she would calm down a bit. She was heavily judgmental, that much was clear, and an absolutely hopeless romantic. In fact, Eliza likened her to a lewd housemaid. Still, even with her constant obsession with cleaning, a couple things did get her attention. One is that she's very fond of using cleaning chemicals, which cause Eliza to choke. She often needed to air out the building, and tried to mention it to the tiny cyclops who merely brushed off her concerns. The red stains on her dress was the other clue. They looked like blood, though the one on her skirt was shaped like a poodle. Between the obsession with sanitation and suspicious stains, she wagered that she died of chemical poisoning, even though her initial thought had been three shots to the chest. She seemed to be from an earlier time, maybe the 40s or 50s, when chemicals such as asbestos were used without fear, but if she had worked for a mafia or similar crime organization, getting shot was not off the table. She couldn't quite make up her mind on those two options.
Alastor was a rather unpleasant one to ponder. Rosie mentioned once that he had a moral code, unlike most other overlords. He's also openly cannibalistic, and cares little for when he kills. A moral killer usually suggests a serial killer; one that pursues victims that fall within certain, self-imposed specifications. The deer motif, however, was a mystery to her. The antlers and ear-shaped tufts of hair were the most obvious, though she noticed one day that he had hoof-prints on the bottom of his shoes. There was also his aversion to touch, at least touch that he didn't initiate himself. Angel had tried to slap him on the shoulder after telling a joke, and almost lost his arm, but Alastor didn't mind invading the space of others on a whim. Although, Husk was the only one who seemed to be allowed, which made her wonder how they ever got close enough for him to get away with that. Maybe it's just because it was Husk; there's always that one person that gets away with things that others simply can't. No particular reason aside from "Yea, it's him, he can do that. Anyone else gets slapped."
Vox was someone she had only met once, but with as obvious as Hell seemed to be, she guessed that a TV fell on his head. Why else would his head literally be a TV? Anything else about him, however, she could only guess if she got to know him better, which was unlikely to happen.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
Eliza looked up from her thoughtful stare and blinked at the TV Demon, who smiled down at her.
"Uh, no," she answered dumbly, recovering far too slowly for her taste. He sat down across from her, and she took another sip of her tea.
'Speak of the god-damned devil,' Id laughed in the background.
Eliza cleared her throat. "I saw you across the street. Do the buzzards always follow you?"
He laughed at her comparison, opening his arms wide. "Being a celebrity has its perks!"
"Hardly a perk," she argued light-heartedly. "Seems like such a pain, but I suppose it takes a certain kind of… personality to appreciate all that attention."
"Should I be offended?" he joked. He put his left arm on the table and propped his large head up with his right. Eliza had to say that he was a rather engaging man.
"I didn't mean offense," Eliza dissuaded. "Although, are you saying I'm wrong?"
"Not really," he answered dismissively. "I'm just not used to people calling me out. Most people don't like speaking up to an overlord, you know." He leaned back in his chair and put his right arm over the back. "What makes you so bold?"
"I died just over a month ago," she informed him. "Maybe it's just because I'm so new."
"Before or after the Cleanse?"
"The day after."
Vox gave a hearty laugh. "Way to dodge a bullet, girl! Can you imagine the bad luck of all the poor bastards that drop down during the Cleanse?! Ha!"
"Do the angels ever give you trouble?"
"Nah, they tend to just kill any demons in the streets," he told her. "Having a giant tower dedicated to your empire definitely has its advantages."
"And demons come crawling to you for a job so that they can be safe," Eliza added, sipping her tea.
"Exactly," he agreed. "Most are desperate to hand over their soul. Better than being erased, wouldn't you say?"
"No."
He was silent for a moment, studying her. "You'd rather be erased than have someone own you?"
"Yes."
He laughed. "At least if someone owns you, there's a miniscule chance of freedom down the line. Whether it's because you paid your debt or your master decides to feel generous, there's at least a glimmer of hope for you! Someone shoves an angel spear up your ass, all other possibilities fly out the window!"
"Become erased and all my troubles come to an end, or hang on to my survival by selling myself to someone who's likely a sadistic freak. Oh, what a tough decision." She snapped her fingers sarcastically.
'You've been spending too much time with Angel,' Id teased. 'That's totally one of his moves!'
"So… You're not afraid to die?" Vox leaned in. "How did you die, anyway?"
"I was shot," she answered. He blinked, backing up and looking her up and down. He didn't hide when his gaze lingered on certain, very feminine parts.
"Where? There's usually an X or something." Eliza pointed at the rose on her chest. He leaned in to take a closer look. "What in the… I mean, I've seen some weird marks on people, but a rose? That's new."
"Really?" She looked down at it, lifting it up to get a better look. "Huh. I guess I didn't think about it."
"I wonder what it means," he mused, more to himself than anyone else. "Hey, if you ever find out, feel free to let me know! I'm curious, now."
The two spent a little more time talking before he looked at his watch. He sighed before standing up, offering a hand to her. She took it and stood as well, and he gave her another kiss-shock to the knuckles.
"Do you realize how strange that feels?" she asked, smiling as she lightly shook her hand.
"I've been told it feels pretty damn good, actually," he said with a wink. "I hope I run into you again! I often don't have anyone who's willing to just shoot the breeze with me."
"I would love to," she agreed.
"Do you have a phone or something? Perhaps I'll give you a call the next time I have the freedom to get away."
"I… don't have a phone of my own," she said, awkwardly. "The only one I have is basic, in case I get in trouble. It can only carry the two numbers already programmed into it."
"Aren't you getting paid?" he asked, incredulously.
"It's a charity organization that hasn't properly started yet." Then, a thought occurred to her. "We have a reception next week to celebrate its official opening. Would you like to come?"
He smirked mischievously. "While I love any opportunity to piss off my rival, I don't want to piss off Hell's royalty. If I show up, I don't think the hotel will survive the fight, and I don't need to get on Charlie's bad side. Not sure how strong she is, personally, but she's Lucifer's daughter, and his spitting image at that. No need to find out if looks are as far as the genetics run, you know?"
"Fair enough," Eliza smiled, hiding her disappointment.
"But," he added, mischievously, "I could always send a spy. They could carry a voxcam on them, giving me a direct feed of the reception. Is that alright?"
She perked up a bit. "It'll do," she teased.
"Wonderful! Well, you won't see me, but I'll definitely see you. Take care, Eliza. I look forward to seeing how things go." With that, he turned and walked out the door, leaving her to stand there thinking. She looked down at her tea-cup and briefly wondered if the attention was forced. Like he was only talking to her because he had to. That's how it usually worked. Still, she enjoyed his company, so she didn't mind finding out if they would actually be friends or not. Or more, from the way he looked at her a couple times.
Vox returned to Porn Studios, where he went to his room and fed his beloved pet hammerhead, Vark. He put a hand on the glass, and the shark passed his master happily. He sighed and checked his phone. Two texts from a producer, 10 ad pitches, a random dick-pic that wasn't Val and, therefore, was deleted before ever being viewed (though he did take note of the sender to punish later), and a 666 news update for severe weather tomorrow.
He sat down and sipped a shot-glass of scotch. One would never think that his TV screen permitted the ingestion of any form of beverage, but it went into his mouth and down his throat as if his face weren't just a 2D picture. Same with food, which was nice. Yet Val still found ways to crack the damn thing.
He thought back to Eliza. She was sweet, he had to admit. Not bad looking, either. Still, he would never turn his back on Valentino for someone he barely knew, even if she was someone he wouldn't mind seeing again.
There were very few people he could say that about. There were also very few people that would openly (albeit politely) call him out for being an attention whore. Vox smiled to himself. Being an overlord is awesome, and he would never say otherwise, but it is so refreshing when he finds someone not afraid to speak their mind, especially to someone like him. Usually demons like that don't last long, but she felt different, somehow. Only time will tell, however, so he took another sip of scotch and went back to thinking about business.
