BURN IN HADES by Michael L. Martin Jr. Page A

soon split open from all her blinking. She splashed gross fresh water in her eyes. They sizzled with steam and began to itch. The more she scratched them, the more her vision blurred. She kept her staggering pace and in less than thirty minutes, she made it to the beach almost by shear memory.
    The edge of the world met the beginning of the white void. The northern islands of paradise, Mag Mell, hovered in white space, while the southern islands of Jannah rested in sparkling waters. The islands of Aaru divided void from ocean. Half of the main island of Aaru floated above the white void while the other half sat on the crest of Anima Falls, an endless waterfall where the entire Oceanus emptied into the white void.
    Pure light emitted from deep within the void and was too bright for her to stare at directly or even indirectly. It was not meant for her, and she was jealous. She forced herself to look into it, and the light seared her eyes and bruised her lids.
    Black robes waving in the breeze caught her attention. An Ankou waited down the road in front of its ferry. The pale horses that drew the boat across the white void to the various islands neighed.
    She approached the Ankou. The top of its pointy hood rose way over her head. Its robes fully covered its gaunt skeletal frame, shielding all the dead from the sight or touch of the being.
    She would have stolen its cloak for her own protection from the piercing light, if Ankou’s weren’t so powerful. They worked for Death itself, one of the few deities that could keep the master at bay.
    She paid the Ankou an object of the dead to ferry her over to the floating islands of Mag Mell. She tucked herself into the dark corner of the cabin area of the boat and shut her eyes until she arrived at her destination.

    The ferry docked on the main island of Mag Mell. She tumbled out of the boat in a rush and proceeded to trample over endless vegetation, kaleidoscopic gardens, and virginal forests. Paradise was the real Hell. The fresh air scalded her lungs. It felt like hot coals swam in her chest with every breath. The water was too poisonous for her to drink. Holy water burned demons to Nothing.
    The righteous paraded around in the nude with the attitude that covering up was a sin. It was sickening. Not that they were naked. She was no prude. Outside of paradise, it was she who was young and beautiful among mangled beasts, pitiful souls, and deformed demons, but every soul in paradise was younger, more beautiful and more vibrant than she. Not one gray hair or wrinkle existed on any of them. Not an ounce of fat on their bones. Muscular chests chiseled on the men. Succulent breasts flaunted on the women. Compared to them, she was an old crone.
    Their constant music playing and partying drilled through her head like an iron spike. Her temples throbbed, and her forehead pulsed. Even the white rabbits hopped to the beating drums, the tooting flutes and, worst of all, the plucking harps. She imagined snapping those strings and strangling the harp player. No one would even notice.
    They were all so busy frolicking and serving themselves that they weren’t even cognizant of the fact that a demon walked in their midst. The same way the light blurred her vision, their joy blinded them to the corruption walking right past them. That annoyed her more than her suffering. Pain she could handle, but no one ever ignored her.
    But it may have been more than just blindness to evil. She was that unaccepted in their world. They ostracized her with such intensity that they physically could not see her. Their glances slipped past her, around her and through her as if she were invisible. For a second she wished one of them—any of them—would acknowledge her existence.
    She climbed up to her employer’s tree house and dry heaved before she walked in.
    Rowings lay in his bed fast asleep. He was bald on the top of his head with hair on the sides that connected to his scraggly beard. His Tribulation uniform