It Hath Hell

I keep thinking about Reese. (He’s my lover, my life, my soul's mate, my always.) You would think, I think, that everybody in heaven was happy, but I just can’t seem to get him out of my mind.

They have these machines

(I call them machines, because I don’t know what else to call them. There isn’t really any technology in heaven, they don’t need it. Some people, mostly teenagers, might consider this hell because of it. I don’t know if there are any machines in hell either. Some people take pleasure in travelling down the long, cramped stairs that wind towards the basement, to gawk at hellions being punished while comfortably seated in cushioned chairs, sipping fruit juice. But not me. So I don’t know, maybe they do.)

that allow you to ‘effectively’ recreate your living loved ones out of epheme (the Angels tell that epheme is what dreams are made of) and your memories. But let me go on record to say that they can’t even produce a pale imitation of Reese.

“Henry,” the not-Reese would say, “do you think Isabelle will ever approve of us?” Isabelle is my younger sister. She disliked Reese from the moment she set eyes on him. Yet, he adores her and has tried countless times to (unsuccessfully) gain her approval.

I already know that, regardless of how realistic he looks and feels, he is not Reese. Reese has never called me by my first name, never, except once, about two weeks ago. He’d looked down at me, face haloed by his dark curls. “Henry,” he said, choking back what I thought were sobs, “don’t...” I never got to hear the end of sentence.

He preferred to call me Ri.

“Ri,” I remember him saying, “the world is just one big circle. It goes on and on, repetitively, with no end in sight.” That’s another point against the epheme imposter. Reese has this confident way of looking at the world like he believed everything would just fall into place. He never doubted that Isabelle will approve.

He told me once, what he thought she would say when she finally ‘gave in’. She would, he foretold, come up to me and say these words, exactly: “The world is a lot bigger than I thought it was, maybe you were lucky to find someone you loved.” I’ve always thought that Isabelle was mature for an eight year old girl, and his assumptions reflected my opinion.

I told Reese what I’d say in response. “Ah, but with the world being so very, very big, there are more people that can love you!” Then I’d tickle her and she’d giggle and when she next saw Reese, she’d give him a kiss on the cheek and hug him tight. Reese would say “Now what’s all this?” and then we’d all laugh.

“Of course she will,” I answered not-Reese, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. He smiled in a way that had made my heart feel like it was about to stop when we were landlocked. (Landlocked is what they call being alive up here.) Now, however, I merely smiled in return. I don’t know if it’s because he isn't my Reese, or if it’s because I’m up here, but his smiles don’t make my legs turn to gelatin like they used to.

Funny, I really didn’t think I’d miss that. But I do. I miss his earth-shattering confidence. I miss his ‘Impress Isabelle’ missions. I miss his voice and the easy way he used to erase the silence. I miss hearing him say that he loved me. I miss being able to say it back to him. I miss being alive. Mostly because of him.

All at once I started to cry. Not-Reese stops mid sentence and turns to me worriedly. He pushes me and I stumble into something soft, trying to see through my tears. The something soft is my favorite chair, I register dimly as I land on the arm of it. It’s a bright red, with gaudy blue accents. Clashed horribly, but it was soft like you wouldn’t believe. I had it copied from my apartment with epheme.

“Ri, honey, don’t cry,” not-Reese murmurs into my ear as he sits down on the chair and pulls me onto his lap. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, letting him rub circles on my back and speak quiet, nonsensical words to me in a soothing voice. Exactly what I used to do for Isabelle when she was sick. I stopped crying but left my arms wrapped tightly around him.

Suddenly it hit me like a ton of bricks, the implication of what he’d just said to me. I pulled away from him, thoroughly shell shocked. “Since when?” My voice cracked hideously. Ri, the inescapable nickname he gave me when we first met. It was one of the things I hadn’t been able to persuade the not-Reese to say, no matter how hard I tried.

“Since just now,” he said softly, reading my mind like always. He could answer questions before I even knew I wanted an answer. I reach up a hand and run it through his hair. He leans into the touch and shuts his eyes, and for a moment, I was just glad he was here. Then I remembered where I was. Where we were.

“How did it happen?” I felt like I was in the middle of a giant game of tug-o-war. Reese is dead. Dead, and here with me. I was torn between ecstasy and grief. I was happy, happier than I’d been since I first came to heaven, but some part of me, still landlocked knew that Reese was dead. Dead and gone from the world. Gone from his family, and friends. “Please, I need to know.”

“She said it, she did, our little Isabelle,” he says instead, and for a moment I wonder on Earth what he’s talking about, “She said to me that the world was a lot bigger and a lot emptier than she’d thought it was, and that maybe, we were lucky to find each other. She’s right, you know.” He hugs me, voice muffled by my shoulder. “I am so, so much luckier than I deserve.”

Hesitatingly I asked, “Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m alright, silly goose. I’m in heaven with the love of my life. Well, afterlife now, I suppose.” Reese says, lifting his head to smile wryly at me. I chuckled. “I love you Ri, so much,” he whispers. The words, so loud and declaring when we were landlocked seem hushed and private now.

“I missed you.” I was crying again. I wasn’t sure if they were happy tears because he was here or sad because he was, at the same time gone. “I missed you so much.” I say again, not sure he heard me.  “Don’t leave, for a while. I don’t think I could handle it right now.”

"I couldn't either." Suicide. That's how he's here. In that moment, I can see it, clear as day, all the events leading up to it. Then in a flash, it's gone.

“I couldn’t either.” In a moment, I can see it clear as day, everything that could’ve happened up to the inevitable suicide. It’s why he’s here. Guilt overwhelms me. Then in a flash, it’s gone and the guilt recedes.

“I’m glad,” I say, “that Isabelle approved.” There’ll be plenty of time for me to get the truth out of him later and slap him for being so stupid. For now, I simply was to enjoy having him here with me.

"Me too Ri, me too." I intertwine our fingers gently, staring out the window as I whisper words of a poem I thought I'd forgotten long ago. Words that I never thought I’d feel akin to, but I do.

"Might heaven hath it's own hell, unbeknownst to mortals, that shall burn with a fire all it's own."