A Hope in Hell

Tasha expected an argument at her claim to have no friends or family, but the man just nodded. He was in his mid-thirties — tall and wiry, with the edges of his face drawn in sharp relief by the shadow of a two-day growth of stubble. It was a kind face, but shrouded in sadness. When she had seen that sadness on the boat she thought he was mourning for her, but now she saw that he and melancholy were old friends. She knew the look — it was one she recognized from the mirror every morning.

"I can drive you home," he said.

Tasha looked away.

"No home?"

Tasha felt shame burning in her face. She had jumped in the river wearing a pair of Gucci boots and a set of earrings her father had purchased at Tiffany's for her eighteenth birthday. What right did she have to claim destitution, other than her lack of actual money? Her absenteeism and reputation for being difficult had caught up with her, and she had been fired from her sales job with a pharmaceutical firm. The ensuing Black Mood left her cowering in her room.

Neither an overwhelming Black Mood, nor being fired, were anything new, but this time she had been caught alone with no lover to protect her from herself. There had been no one to pull her together to file for unemployment, and no one to make sure her share of the rent was paid out of his own pocket. She had denied all inconvenient realities until she had been forcibly evicted the day before. It had been the humiliation of her ineptitude and helplessness, and the horror of a night on the streets, that had lead her to the bridge.

"My name is John. You can stay at my place until you can find something else."

"Mine is Natasha — Tasha. Thank you, but no." She allowed a quaver into her voice. "It would be too much of an imposition." Refusing the first offer was the polite thing to do. Her father had taught her that.

"Well, they are discharging you. You can't stay here. You can crash on my couch until we can get you back on your feet. It won't be an imposition, and I don't think I can let you leave alone."

She had failed at everything, including suicide. Her acceptance of help would be just more proof of her failure. Smart, capable women shouldn't count on a man to save them, her mother had always said. Her mother knew, having survived on her own when cut off from her family during the Russian-Afghanistan war. Her mother had faced death many times at the hands of the Taliban. Tasha herself couldn't even face life. There was no better proof she was not her mother's daughter, but was instead a defective changeling left in the crib of the child they had wanted.

"Well, are you coming?" John asked.

This time she nodded, while closing her eyes to avoid bearing witness to her own failure.

---

"What happens to him?" Tasha gestured to John.

Lilith shrugged her shoulders, which caused her breasts to do do interesting things. "He dies. Everyone dies eventually." She slowly walked over to sit on John's lap, extending her long legs down the sofa.

Tasha felt a sense of sorrow at the demon's sudden absence, but she disregarded it. "He doesn't want to die."

"No one does. Except people like you." Lilith kissed John on the lips, which he returned with a tenderness that made Tasha once more feel inadequate.

"What happens when he dies?"

"Damned if I know." The demon arched back into a bridge, presenting her breasts for attention by John's hungry mouth.

"No, I mean, does he get taken to Hell?"

"Why would we want him?" Lilith cupped John's face in her hands as he tasted the peaks of her nipples.

Tasha looked confused.

"Hell is not the place of your storybooks, little one," the demon explained while her hand worked John's cock. "It is not a realm of eternal torment where you are punished for your sins. It is another world, with physical laws very different from your own. We do not know what happens to you when you die, but none of you appear in Hell. Which is as it should be." The demon's smile showed more amusement than malevolence now. "The rent is high enough as it is."

Tasha looked at John, hopeful for her own death but fearing his. "John knows nothing of summoning your kind. How did you come to be here?"

Sharp cuspids flashed as Lilith smiled. "He is merely an after-dinner mint." She licked John's ear to emphasize the point. "I was summoned by a would-be warlock somewhere on the floors above, who thought to use me to convince two female acquaintances to lie with him. He erred in his inscription and I destroyed him. Then I felt the intensity of your friend's desires calling for me. My summoning will last another hour or so, and I thought I would release him from the misery you have caused. I have rarely met someone more desperate for sexual release. He spurned you, did he not? Why would a man so aroused refuse to bed you? Something about you must be very wrong indeed."

Tasha hung her head — a confession of the truth in the demon's words. It was her. This was all on her.

---

Tasha clutched her blankets snug around herself, warding off the memory of the river's cold. The couch was a serviceable bed, and faced John's room, where the light under the door indicated he was still reading.

She watched the light, waiting for it to disappear.

John's apartment was sparse, decorated in an Ikea clueless-bachelor motif, but Tasha didn't understand why. John had a good job for a tech firm (he had taken the day off to care for her), and was handsome in an aquiline way. He was fit, and had been able to capably hold a conversation with her, which indicated a surplus of brains and a lack of obvious social or mental defects. He must have had a woman in his life at some point, and by all of Tasha's understanding of what constituted an eligible bachelor, thirty-five year old women with tick-tocking biological clocks should have been lining up down the hall, but there was no evidence of a woman's touch. There weren't even any photos on the walls.

Tasha had pointedly done her most sexualized cat-stretch in front of him, and he had responded the way most straight men did — stealing a glance at her breasts and then concealing his embarrassment at the act — so he had passed her heterosexuality test with flying colors.

She was curious about him. His language spoke of education, and he worked days as a systems analyst, so what had he been doing on the quays next to the Michigan Avenue Bridge at three in the morning on a cold, December night?

He had declined to answer when asked.

The bare shelves were the most puzzling. Where were his books? The loss of most of her own books in the eviction had been the worst heartbreak. She had time to grab a few favorites and stow them in the back of her Kia (which would still be parked near the bridge if the city hadn't towed it yet), but selecting those few books had been wrenching. The rest had been thrown in a dumpster despite her pleading with her former landlord to hold them for a few days.

Tasha understood people by studying what they read. Their old college textbooks showed which subjects they were most proud of mastering. Their vanity hardcovers indicated which classic novels or pop science books they wanted you to know (or at least believe) they had read. The dog-eared paperbacks on the shelves in the corner told you what they actually did read. Motivational business books spoke of a desire for material success — but too many Ayn Rand books in the midst were the sign of a man who was sociopathic and proud of it. Too much fantasy and space opera signified a sexually insecure fantasy geek who at some point would want you to wear elf ears and a Princess Leia slave outfit, and fuck him while he called you "Daenerys". (Through trial and error, she had discovered they didn't like it when you responded with either "Aragorn" or "Han", and woe be unto you if you called out "Fuck me, Frodo".)

John did have a Kindle that he had taken to bed, but he couldn't have every book he ever owned in an electronic format. Where were the books he purchased and read before he purchased his e-reader? John didn't seem to have a single physical book in the house, except, a thin hardcover titled, simply and ominously, Grief, which lay unopened beneath his coffee table. An unwanted attempt at consolation after some much more unwanted loss?

John's bedroom light went off.

Tasha threw off the blankets and rose from the couch. John had promised to help her find her car and retrieve her few belongings tomorrow, so she was just wearing one of John's Northwestern University t-shirts, which draped down almost to her knees, concealing the lack of clothing beneath. Tasha had insisted on throwing away the clothes she had worn into the river, saying they would only remind her of the despair she felt, but the honest reason had been to make him dress her in his own clothes tonight, which he had done, claiming her as his own.

Taking a deep breath, she paced the steps to John's door, and pushed it open, quiet as possible. One of the virtues of weighing just over ninety pounds (when not soaking wet) was the ability to walk in silence.

John's form was visible in bed, facing away from her, toward the window. He had left space on the bed, either in anticipation of a nocturnal visitor, or because he wasn't used to sleeping alone.

She waited, certain he would hear her breathing, or sense her presence in some other way.

"Tasha, is everything alright?"

Tasha had already decided on the script. John had been a perfect gentleman so far. She knew the suggestion of being sexually rewarded for saving her would offend him, so she would have to give him a polite, flattering fiction, with enough truth that he would want to believe it. She kept her voice low, just above a whisper, adding enough sultry husk that if his brain didn't pick up her intent, his cock would. "I am just remembering the river. It was so cold. Even in the hospital, I didn't think I would ever be warm again. I can't sleep. I need the warmth of another person beside me. Would you mind if I slept in here? With you?"

John lay motionless for a few seconds, and she allowed him the pretense of considering her offer. He would accept. He would want to protect her, and she would hold him close, and then hold him closer when his inevitable erection appeared, and then...

He surprised her. "That would be a very bad idea," he said.

Tasha thought she had sunk low enough in life that it wouldn't hurt any more, but rejection still stung. She tried to recover. "Um, I am not sure what you had in mind, but I wasn't talking about sex, just not being alone tonight."

"We both know where that would lead." John sat up and turned on his lamp. He looked at her, and she saw his eyes do a rapid scan down her body, taking in the tenting of her nipples against the fabric of the t-shirt, and the exposed soft skin of her legs, which she emphasized by shifting from one leg to the other. She saw a grimace of pain and regret in his face. Was he regretting turning her down or letting her into his life?

Tasha thought about whether to feign offense, but found she didn't have the will for it. She just nodded, and turned to leave.

"Wait," he said.

She paused.

John seemed to be considering his words. "I want to make sure you understand. You are very vulnerable right now, and probably grateful that I am helping you out, and you think this is the only thing you have to offer. But you are wrong."

Tasha knew she should listen in silence.

His words were hesitant. "Two years ago — my house — it burned down in a fire — you wouldn't think dryer lint —" He swallowed and breathed again.

Tasha sat on the edge of his bed.

"The fire started in the basement laundry room. I was in the den when the smoke detectors went off. I could smell it wasn't a false alarm, and went looking for Jenny — my wife — after calling 9-1-1. She wasn't upstairs, so I checked the basement door, and by that time smoke was pouring from underneath."

Tasha extended her hand toward him on the bed — an offer of comfort which John declined.

"I wasn't even sure she was there, and gave up after the smoke blinded me three steps down. She didn't respond when I yelled. I thought maybe she had already left the house, but she hadn't. They... found her at the foot of the basement stairs. I only would have needed to walk a few feet through the smoke. I didn't save her. We were new homeowners, but I should have known to check the dryer vent. I should have known where my wife was, and not wasted precious seconds. I should have held my breath and searched the basement, crawling on my knees if I had to. I should have... died with her, if that was what it took."

Tasha felt shame flushing her face. She always felt this way when comparing her own troubles against those who had faced real tragedy, which made her feel even more defective and useless. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Wasn't that what you were supposed to say when someone told you a story like this?

John grimaced an acknowledgement. "You want to know why I was at the bridge last night? The winter after Jenny died, I considered doing the same thing you did. I stood on that bridge and looked down into the ice, knowing the pain would end. What pulled me through was the knowledge of how disappointed Jenny would have been if I had jumped, but it wasn't an easy decision. The bridge was a choice, you know? That night, the bridge was just a place I could use to end the pain. I couldn't see it the way everyone else did — a place to help people cross from one side to the other."

Tasha sensed that he was staging this as a moral lesson, aimed at her. He had planned on telling her this story at a key moment to shame her into wanting to live.

She wanted to call him on it. She had suffered the Black Moods since her teens, and no one who hadn't lived through the same had any standing to lecture her about how to live with pain. She frowned, and opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't do it. She lost the will, or the nerve. His loss was too much.

"I still have nightmares," John said, "and when I can't go back to sleep, I go to the bridge and force myself to see it as just something people use to cross over to something better."

Tasha could see the redness in his eyes, and instinctively looked away — men hated to be seen in weakness. It took her a few seconds more to notice the wetness on her own cheeks.

John looked her in the eyes, and continued. "So you really are giving me something. I failed my wife. I didn't realize until I pulled you out of the water how much I needed to save someone." He gave her a weak smile. "I was able to look at my reflection this morning for the first time in two years without feeling shame that I was alive. So, thanks for that, but it... cheapens it if I take advantage of you. You need to get yourself back on your feet, and that won't happen if you even think it's possible that we will ever sleep together — that you need to pay me back with sex." He closed his eyes slowly and reopened them. "Please don't take this as a rejection. I haven't been with a woman since my wife died, and you are... extremely... attractive. You have no idea how tempting your offer is, but you need to sleep on the couch. Please. Allow me that."

Tasha felt his eyes on her as she left the room.

---

There. Tasha flinched as she recognized her guilt. Sex had always been her tool. Men found the burdens of her neuroses lightened by having their sexual fantasies made real — which Tasha would grant in her desperation to keep them by her side. It was how she had secured all of her protectors, until John. She had respected his refusal that night, but it gnawed at her. Over the next few days, she had escalated — dropping hints of her most erotic sexual exploits (some of which were even true), staring at him with her most seductive expression every night before bed, and then sleeping nude on the couch. She had even swiped the dust jacket off of a hardcover of Fifty Shades of Grey (a proud member of the literati like Tasha had blanched at the prospect of reading the real thing) and wrapped it around her treasured Spanish-language copy of Hundred Years of Solitude, which she would then read in his presence while playing suggestively with her neckline, absent-mindedly biting a finger, and faking a sharp, shuddering intake of breath every few minutes.

John's discomfort at her actions had been obvious, but so had been his sexual arousal. He had continued to refuse her, but she elevated his libido enough to torment him, provoking what sounded like interesting dreams, and attracting a demon for whom John's heightened lust rang like a dinner bell.

His fate was her fault.

Lilith still awaited the answer to her offer of death.

Tasha made a decision and steeled herself before she spoke. This was a bargain that would absolve her guilt and give her peace. "Take me instead of him."

Something indescribable flickered in Lilith's eyes. Was it fear? Pity? Incomprehension? The demon's answer was less ambiguous. "My kind is bound by rules. We cannot accept the selfless offer of one life for another."

"Why? I am no hero. I am sick of living in this world — of fighting my Black Moods every day, and failing. My offer is selfish."

"Your quest for death is selfish. Your offer of sacrifice is not. You seek meaning in your death, which we cannot accept. Rules are rules." Her countenance now shaped itself in an imitation of sympathy. "I am sorry, little one. You cannot save him."

Tasha looked back at John. His normally kind face was corrupted by the hold Lilith had on him. He was almost unrecognizable. Her mind raced.

Lilith was a demon. Demons were creatures of temptation, opportunism, and deceit. The solution was obvious. "A contest then?"

Lilith raised a thin eyebrow. "Terms?"

"If you win, you get both of us. If I win, you just take me."

"You are mine either way? Win or lose?"

"Yes. I want to die, but will only give you my life in exchange for a chance of saving his."

Lilith parted her full, blood-red lips, and Tasha saw those sharp teeth again as the demon smiled.

---

"You have trapped yourself," John said.

Tasha fought to control her anger at his condescension.

"I am a systems analyst, Tasha, and I pride myself on my brain, but you are even smarter than I am." She had enjoyed establishing this by handing him a series of defeats in chess, Trivial Pursuit, and gin rummy, displaying both a near-eidetic memory and a head for strategy. "For some reason, you seem to just be stalling for time. You have to know there is no point in your plan to take life management classes, or in reading financial management books. You know how to manage your life, but your illness stops you from doing it. You need to address the root cause."

Tasha stared at John, keeping her face a blank mask. She had been able to steer Lance away from this path — he was a physicist, for whom matters of the mind were just an emergent property of a complex biological neural network, something which explained everything and nothing. Max — a doctor — had pushed far harder on medication, and her obstinence had eventually caused him to reject her. Would John behave the same way when he inevitably caught her flushing antidepressants down the toilet?

"Have you tried Zoloft?" John asked.

"Yes."

"How did it go?"

"I hated it."

"Can you be more specific?"

"I specifically hated Zoloft." Her anger was slipping through.

"Tasha..."

"Fine. I tried it for a few days, and I felt nauseous and sleepy, so I threw it away."

"You need to try them for longer than that. The side effects usually go away when your brain adjusts."

"That's the problem, isn't it? I like my brain better than I liked Zoloft."