Page 195 of Scrimmage

Ashland

I’m dead, I’m cold, and I can’t see.

No one said Hell was going to be fucking cold. Heat I can take, but cold? This really is the worst place ever. Next thing I know there will be fucking snow. I’ll be forced to draw dicks in it forever. That’s probably my specific brand of torture.

There’s beeping. It sounds like a submarine scanner underwater. It keeps pinging and pinging, and I want it to fucking stop. I want to cover my ears, but my limbs are too heavy. All I can do is stare into the back of my eyelids. Weird that they have them here.

Where the fuck is Satan? I saw that dipshit for a second, but he wasn’t taking fucking requests, and it’s honestly rude. I thought he was a joking when he tossed me here. You would think Sinclair has worshiped him enough to give me some brownie points or something. I try to at least speak, but my mouth is dry and everything fucking hurts. Typical.

I lay there forever, in the abyss of cold while my limbs go numb. This is pretty boring. There could at least be some creativity. I dig into my…mind? My soul? I don’t know the words yet. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to speak, or the cold has frozen my mouth shut. It’s not like I’ve seen anyone to ask questions either. I’m not a people person, but maybe I’m a demon person.

It doesn’t feel like I’m in Hell though, and after my initial experience I’m starting to believe I’m not. It feels like I’m in limbo, and I never really thought about that place. I never even considered it an option. Isn’t it supposed to be a waiting room with tons of people sitting around grieving their own death?

I try to remember the living part. It’s somewhere, but getting murkier by the second.

“Who named me?” I look up at my daddy. He has dark circles under his eyes and scruff on his face and neck. He’s sitting in the middle of the couch with a beer in his hand. I can smell the yeast on his breath.

“Your momma's drug dealer,” he snorts.

I look at my feet that are swinging on the chair.

“Cheer up, Ashton. Here, have a beer.” He pops the tab and hands it to me.

“It’s Ashland,” I whisper.

“Right. Ashland.”

I feel like I’m on top of the world. He’s never nice to me.

Ashland. I am Ashland.

“I don’t like it when you cry.” A little boy with chubby cheeks takes my face into his grubby palms. “I’m gonna sing you a song. That’ll make it all better.”

“I’d like that,” I sniffle, pulling him into my lap.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little starrrrrrrr.” His voice is like magic. “How I wonder what you are.” He pauses for a second in thought. “What are the next words?” he whispers loudly.

“Up above the world so high,” I sing.

“Like a diamond in the sky!” He belts it out of his beautiful little soul.

Sinclair. Devious little Sinclair.

“Let me see it.”

I look up at the teenage boy standing over me. “No, it’s ugly.”

He looks like he’s annoyed, but there’s a softness to him. He sits next to me in the bushes, holding his hand out. I unwillingly put the picture I drew into it. He puts it up to his face and squints, studying it. There are red and blue lights flashing and weird people in our trailer. The neighbors are standing around whispering.

“It’s not ugly. This is really really good. You even colored in the lines. Pretty sure I was scribblin’ everywhere until I was, like, nine.”

“Ms. Brown said it was scary.”

He tilts his head. “Nope. Your teacher is stupid. She just doesn’t understand art.”

“You’re not supposed to call people stupid.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes people are stupid.”

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