Hornet [1]

The young lady shut the door behind her, short hair damp and matted by the dreary weather. She caught my eyes and, although startled, gave me a curt nod.

“Sorry, this is—this is the place?” she said.

The room was sparsely decorated, save for two leather chairs and a coffee table in between, perilously offset from their midpoint. Paint pried itself off the walls near the corners, the room itself worn thin.

“Oh, no worries,” I replied. “We can go back outside if you want.”

“I’m good, thank you!” she laughed. “Sorry. You’re the one who put up the ad in Ponce, right?”

“There are lots of ads there, ma’am.”

“Oh, sorry, let me show you.”

The woman fished a crumpled flyer out of her designer purse and unfolded it recklessly, her wet fingertips liquefying the paper wherever they touched. She handed it to me briskly.

I cringed seeing the bold, bleeding colors and quickly tucked it in the cushions of my recliner. Most businesses were losing customers now; demand was at an all-time low worldwide, so I hadn’t exactly been swimming in cash when I’d made it.

I pulled up my clipboard, clicked my pen, and straightened my glasses. Monetary constraints be damned, I had a job to do.

“Alright. Name?” I asked.

“Damia.”

“That’s it? No last name?”

“Hornet. Sorry.”

I jotted it down: ‘Weirdname McStupidface’. And then I scratched it out and wrote ‘Damia Hornet’ instead. Don’t tell her I did that.

“And why are you here?”

She averted her gaze, sharp but unfocused. “Well, I think I… I don’t know, I just don’t feel confident I’ll make it.”

“Pride is a sin. So you’re on the right track,” I said.

“You’re funny.”

“Don’t flatter me, I might get prideful about it.” I reached out for a handshake over the table. “I’m Katsuma Pharaoh. You’re my very first guest.”

Damia Hornet was a funny-looking girl. She had soft skin and long, dark eyelashes—probably extensions, but I wouldn’t have made a bet on it. A patterned silver dress nearly reached her heels; pointed jewelry trailed down from her ears.

She shifted from side to side in a manner unfit for her confident fashion choice. You’d think someone dressed like that would have places to be and flings to fly, yet here she was in my cozy little office.

“…Miss Hornet, you can sit down, you know.”

“Whoops.” She quickly took a seat, like she’d been awaiting my invitation. “Sorry.”

She said sorry a lot. Let me count… four times so far. No, five. Almost missed the third one.

Over-apologizes, I wrote. Could relate to her doubts. Her clothing indicates she pretends to be more confident than she is. Worth exploring.

“Okay, Miss Hornet. Tell me a little about yourself.”

“Well, you already know my name,” she began. “I’m an actress. I was a side character in Mighty Maddie. Did you ever watch that show?”

“No. My little sister did, though.”

I don’t have a little sister. Truth be told, I’d never heard of the show at all. I would certainly be doing some research afterwards to keep the lie solid—but you didn’t hear that from me.

“That’s nice!” Damia said with a smile. “I’m trying to get involved in more adult movies, but I still look too young. Which is usually a good thing! But for me it’s not.”

“What kind of films do you star in now?”

“What?” she asked. I was pretty sure she heard me the first time, but I asked again.

“Oh, they usually cast me as the spunky tomboy. I’m doing side work on a couple of sit-coms.”

“I wouldn’t’ve guessed. I was thinking more…” What can I say to butter her up? “…Kick-ass action hero?”

“That’s what I want to be! But the only action gig my agent found was a big villain. Obviously I declined, because being the villain makes people hate you…”

Wow, she was dumb as bricks. Noted.

“Okay, Miss Hornet,” I continued. “Anything other than your blossoming acting career that makes you think you’re going to hell?”

“Like I said, it’s just this feeling of dread.” Damia twirled a lock of dirty-blonde hair between her fingers. “And it’s not like I think I am for sure. I just… well, you said you could help, right?”

I took a sip from my steel water bottle. “I can’t help if I don’t know what I’m working with. You’re gonna have to give me a little more than vague, menial troubles.”

She breathed in to speak, then stopped. Her eyes moved to the moldy ceiling as she thought out her next words.

“I… just don’t think I’ve done enough.”

“Is that so?”

“Well, it all happened so suddenly, you know? Most folks don’t really do any lasting good till they’re old and grey, and now I’ve got to do it all in a year?”

I nodded solemnly. “It feels unfair.”

“Exactly! That’s what no one else gets. It’s not fair!”

“But you’re still willing to try. I know a lot of people who aren’t.”

Damia crossed her arms and directed her green stare back at me. “I thought I’d be like that, too. But when eternity’s on the line, I’m not gonna just sit there.”

“How long is eternity to you, Miss Hornet?”

She stared. “Uh… forever, I think. Why?”

“How would spending forever in hell feel? Do you think you’d get used to it?”

“No, never. I think they’d keep coming up with new ways to torture me, forever and ever… And I don’t like that. That’s why I’m here.”

“Right,” I said. She seemed perturbed by the question, but it was a burning—haha, get it—thought in everyone’s minds. I’d mulled it over in my head since the Second Coming.

You probably know how it’s been recently. You might be excited for eternal life; you might be making the most of your time until you’re banished to hell. I’m not here to judge you either way—that’s God’s job.

I’m a psychiatrist, if the clipboard didn’t clue you in. And to be more specific, that’s just what I got my degree in. I rented this apartment a few weeks ago after I got hired in Atlanta—the weather sucks down here—but the office closed down after you-know-what.

Transportation networks kind of shut down too, and I figured the eleven-hour drive back to Baltimore wasn’t worth it, especially with the literal apocalypse traffic on I-75. So I was stuck in the Peach State, finding out just a little too late that southern hospitality only exists in the suburbs.

Rain gently lapped the grimy window and obscured the streets outside. The boob light above us flickered, and I wondered whether I’d paid the electricity bill, before ultimately concluding it probably didn’t matter.

“So, um… what can you do to help?” Damia asked.

“You want a list?”

“Sure! Sure.”

I tore a rectangle off the bottom of my sheet and wrote for a couple seconds before setting it on the coffee table. I slid it towards her with two fingers, but even on the far edge, she could barely grab it.

“You need to push that desk to the center,” Damia said. “It’s been bugging me since I walked in.”

Well, that’s a little rude. I took another swig from my bottle. “Ah, I’ve been meaning to. But go ahead and read that list out loud for me, Miss Hornet.”

She scanned it over and furrowed her brow. It was that look you get sometimes when you make a funny joke at the wrong moment. But in this instance, what I’d written wasn’t a joke at all.

“It says ‘nothing’. And that’s it.”

“Yes, because there’s nothing I can do to help you get to heaven. Not directly, at least.”

“What about indirectly?”

“Now we’re talking.” I motioned for her to hand the empty list back. “From what I’ve read of the Bible, God judges your character and actions. I’m not Christian—well, I wasn’t until, you know—but your fate is gonna come down to how much you’re willing to change for it.”

I again started scribbling on the lopsided scrap of paper, though this time more thoughtfully. Damia listened carefully as I explained what she ought to be doing.

“I have no idea what qualifies as sin. I don’t think anyone does. But anything you think might be, you’d better avoid. If you need some examples: hooking up at a bar? Probably a sin. Getting stupid drunk? Probably a sin. Killing people? Definitely a sin, so don’t do that.

“There’s something in the Bible about rich people going to hell, so go ahead and start giving away that cash if you’ve got it. Heck, I’ll be your charity if you can’t find one you agree with. Maybe I’ll pocket the funds and funnel them into getting this ‘office’ refurbished. Your donation could be the reason that the table's centered next time you check in.

“So here’s your list: no cursing, no lying, no badmouthing, and always consider how your actions impact others. Basically, be perfect. I want you to start a journal and write down all the good and bad things you do every day, and we’ll go over it next time. Got it?”

Damia’s jaw hung a little open. I pictured a little drool coming out, the way you’d see in a cartoon. “…That’s a lot.”

“That’s why I wrote it down,” I said, handing her back the list once more. Her struggle to reach it really made me consider buying a bigger table. “Any questions?”

“Uhm… three.”

“Shoot.”

“Are you gonna give me the journal, or should I buy my own, or…”

“Do I look like I have the money to hand out journals?”

She shook her head. “Sorry I asked. Second question: when should I come back here?”

“Give it two months, to the day. My email’s on that list if you need to contact me before then.”

The girl picked up her purse and stood up, wobbling on her heels a bit. I didn’t envy her one bit—young and dumb during the apocalypse? I wouldn’t even know what to do with myself. Though, she had a hope about her I wished I could emulate. The folly of youth.

“And, I hate to be the stickler, but how much do I owe you? You know, for trying to help me out and stuff.”

Well, I hadn’t honestly thought about it yet. I hadn’t posted a rate on the flyer, so anything was fair game. You don’t seem like the judgy type, and even if you are, I can’t tell. Obviously I marked it up.

“I was thinking around five-hundred…”

“Oh, okay,” she said quickly, tapping something into her phone and staring at the screen intently. “Of course. Yeah, let me get that, sorry.”

While she dug out her wallet and fingered through the cash, I took one last glance at her. I could tell she was an actress by the way her skin gleamed even in the dreariest setting (my apartment). Her dress and her smile told me she was in control. But her mannerisms told me a different story: one of a scared young girl, staring down eternal torture and trying her hardest to escape it.

When she finally handed me the money, I blinked in confusion. She’d given me change? Why? Before I could call her out on it, she was already halfway out the door. In a split-second decision, I instead bade her farewell.

“Oh, yes, great meeting you too,” she said. “Thank you!”

“Yep. Keep in touch.”

When the latch clicked shut, my posture collapsed. I shook my flask and brought it to my lips, the bitter aftertaste of vodka stinging my throat. When I finished it off, I decided to start counting the cash, just in case she’d overpaid.

And she had—by a lot. It totaled six-hundred and thirty-three dollars, plus sixteen pence. No, I don’t mean pennies. She’d handed me British pence. The American bills were right, but… out of curiosity, I checked Google for the conversion rate.

“Hah!” I laughed aloud. I couldn’t help it. Damia had done the conversion backward and used the wrong currency for the change. Mentally, I circled the ‘dumb as bricks’ note I’d made earlier. But hey, an extra hundred never hurt anyone—especially not me. And if she really was British, her fake accent had me fooled.

I set the cash on the coffee table and walked over to the cramped bathroom. I leaned over the sink, poured some water on my hands, and wiped my face. As water dripped down my flush cheeks and off of my dark hair, I stared myself in the mirror.

The way I think, it’s predetermined where you’re going. It’s all God’s plan anyways, right? Free will is an excuse for people to pretend their lives could have gone any other way; I’ve been me for my whole life, same way you’ve been for yours. I know my own trajectory—and let me tell you, it’s not golden roads and pearly gates.

I don’t know how to work with good people. It sucks when they know it and rub it in your face. It sucks when they don’t know, because they’re naïve and they’re frustrating. Good people make me realize how bad I am, and I don’t like thinking about that. Admit it, you don’t either.

I don’t know how to work with bad people. It sucks when they don’t care to change. It sucks when they do, and then ultimately fail because they’re addicted, or they’re just tired of trying. Bad people make me realize how good I am—no, how much better I am than they are—and that makes me feel even worse.

But people like Damia, I know how to work with. They’re just good enough that they’ll try and keep trying. They’re just bad enough that they can’t rub it in your face, even by accident. Smart enough to know they’re the problem, not enough to know how to fix themselves. They’re in the middle. I call them the Aethers.

I’m not an Aether. I practically belong to the underworld. But I don’t think those sorts of people should go down with me. If I can save one person from damnation, I’ll be happy burning in the depths of hell. It’s probably the most noble thing I’ve ever thought about doing.

And, hell, maybe I’ll find some drinking buddies along the way.