Junipers—by Anastasia Jill

CONTENT WARNING: The following story discusses suicide.

I'm with the suicides; the psychotics, the schizophrenics, the crazies who pop pills and cut their wrists.

That is what I'm told while being ushered behind a velvet rope with an assortment of people, dime-store candies with flesh; moldy and nutty, missing pieces, smelling gross, probably tasting of medicine or bubblegum. A group of teenagers push to the front of the line, most of whom have blood dangling from their wrists. The man in front of me is missing a chunk of jaw. My stomach is bloated, foam sits around my mouth, but there's nothing else to show for my demise.

I hope this is a mistake. A near death experience of sorts. But I get to the front and a wristband is placed on my arm. "It glows in the dark," says a woman with a clipboard. She's blonde with a smile that's far too magnanimous. I can't look at her for long. That smile, it makes her look like my ex-girlfriend Trish, the entire reason I'm here. Instead of looking at her face, I focus on her t-shirt that reads 'Someone in Hell Loves Me Very Much!' 

It's like a tour of a fancy, private college. I'm given a folder, map, and room assignment. All of the suicides are shuffled like dominos down a slide and into a courtyard full of trees, green and spiky, peppered with violet berries. 

We are told not to eat them, no matter how hungry we get. The lights go off, and my bracelet glows with the word SUICIDE, like a gang sign. It's bright yellow. Such an odd color for suicide. 

**

My roommate is the man with the defunct jaw. Hell is co-ed. I guess there are bigger worries than fornication. 

"I'm Tammy," I tell him, trying to be polite.

His unimpressed eyes glaze me from head to toe. His voice is clear and concise despite the lack of mandible. "You look twenty-eight," he says.

"I am."

He grumbles and turns to his bed, flopping down. His comforter is a paisley green and red. It matches mine. 

"What did you do to yourself?" he asks after a while. 

"I thought in prison you weren't supposed to ask those questions."

"This isn't prison."

"Isn't it, though?"

 "Jesus Christ," he says. "I hate young people." 

"I'm not too fond of you either." This was meant to be a whisper, but he heard me. Guess there's no secrets in hell either. 

I take in the rest of the room with its lack of curtains, hardwood floors, and empty bookshelves. Our window overlooks a lake, not of sulfur, just a lake with water, the bubbles of fish, and little boats.

"This isn't what hell is supposed to be."

 My roommate grunted and said, "What did you expect, girlie?"

"Original sin, the land of fire and flame, a big red man with horns chaining us to wheels with knives."

He sighs, deep, like he's lived a thousand years. "You must be one of those good old Catholic girls." 

I don't give him the satisfaction of having figured that out. "This is like a vacation?" I say. 

He rubs a string of drool from a hunk of tooth then turns over, trying to fall asleep. My own hand raises to my mouth. The foam is still there, a rabid dog behind my gums. As I get up and walk out the door I get a peek at his packet. 

"Your name is Alvin?" I laugh.

He slams a pillow over his bloody head.

**

Walking around hell is similar to walking through downtown Winter Park, complete with dog doo, a giant 'NO DOGS ALLOWED' sign, and an overcast sky. It's hot and exhausting, the food is overpriced, and Beach Boys music plays on a constant, warping loop. At this moment, they're playing Good Vibrations. 

I walk and read my information packet, trying to learn about my new home, with a particular interest in a pamphlet about the Myths and Facts About Hell!

Myth: Hell is a bad people's place.

Fact: Hell is not bad. It can, in fact, be very good! In fact, hell boasts over a sixty percent acceptance rate, with most tenants staying for a damned eternity! 

Myth: Hell is full of fire and brimstone.

Fact: Hell was purchased years ago and is a privately owned corporation. It contains all the humane and cost-effective amenities you can find on Earth. 

Myth: I'm here because of God.

Fact: You're here because of you. We all have choices. Make the right ones, and you will reach 

your new salvation. 

Lines of the trees fall in line as I move, sprigs of leaves falling and getting stuck on my hair. At the end of the road is a chain-link fence. Mirroring this fence is another town, like the one behind me, except those on the other side have red bracelets, not yellow. They wander in various states of mobility, some without legs or heads, others with skin bright as orange peels.

My fingers fit through the open gaps. Nothing happens when they're on the other side until someone catches them. First, I have to double-take. She looks like Trish did fresh out of college. I take a closer look and let go of my breath; this girl is like my ex in the mundane traits only, blonde hair and dark eyes, they are the same height, but that's about it. 

This girl is much prettier. This girl has a smirk. This girl looks like she's been waiting all her life and death, just for me.

"The suicides and the non-believers are only together at dinner," she said. "You could get in a lot of trouble for fraternizing like that."

My hand drops from hers. "We're in hell. How much more trouble could I possibly get into?"

An eyebrow raises to match her saucy lips.

"How do you know I'm a suicide?" I ask.

"Foam at the mouth. Classic overdose. Plus the bracelet? Leaves no room for subtlety." If she were still alive, this was the moment she would have lit a cigarette. "Tell me, was it an accident?"

"An accidental suicide is an oxymoron."

She steps back and I get a better look; her skin is pale, flavored with moles and her eyes are two different colors, gray and Eden green. 

She points out that I'm staring.

"I'm not staring," I say. "I'm Tammy."

"Dad jokes?" It's both a question and an accusation.

I turn and power walk away from the fence as she yells out, "I'm Patti. See you at dinner." 

**

I don't see Patti at dinner. I don't know why that upset me, aside from the fact she was so pretty. Pretty isn't the right word. Captivating, maybe.

Turns out I'm still a useless lesbian, even in hell. 

I sit with Alvin because I don't know anybody else, and he's not interested in making any other friends. We eat duck l'orange with roasted vegetables. Somehow, the food stays in Alvin's mouth the whole time. We listen to Kokomo and enjoy a nice breeze.

I try to make conversation. "I didn't even eat this well back on Earth."

Alvin says, "Glad it took dying to reach your full potential."

I do not try again after that. 

He goes back to our room but I wander. Turns out hell has a library as well. The selection leaves much to be desired, so I settle for a few cheap romances and a bible.

When I go back to the room, Alvin is sitting up. We have somehow acquired a television in my absence. My 600 Pound Life is on. I can't believe we get TLC in hell.

Sitting on the bed, I ask Alvin, "What happened to you?"

His gaze doesn't leave the screen. "Gunshot wound to the head, not to be confused with a shotgun. They're different, you know."

"Why?"

"I was a writer and an alcoholic," he says.

"That wasn't what I asked."

"Too bad," he says. "That's the answer you get."

We watch the television as a doctor loses his temper with a defiant patient who refuses to obey his rules. At the commercial, I say, "The people across the way, the non-believers? Why are they here?"

"That is self-explanatory, my dear."

"No, I mean, why are they here with us? So close to me, it's weird, don't you think?"

"Jesus Christ." He laughs cryptically. "I thought the afterlife would bring me some peace."

The show comes back from the break. The doctor yells at a patient for sneaking a pizza into the hospital. "I was twenty-eight," I tell Alvin. "How old are you? Sixty?"

"Fifty-three." Then under his breath, "Smartass." A few more minutes pass and he asks, "Why did you do it? Your little partner break your heart?"

My throat closes. I don't want to talk about Trish or the break-up that led me to take my own life. "It's none of your business."

He accepts my surrender. We watch our program in silence.

**

My first full day in hell begins promptly at eight. We're not allowed to sleep in like they are on the other side. After getting dressed, I decide to skip the shower and find an iced coffee. In hell, this is easier said than done. The Starbucks is closed. The 7-11 has mice. Despite being the literal underworld, they're too affluent to slum with the low-grade stores like McDonalds or Walmart. I find an overpriced cafe at some point and get a drink before returning to the park with one of my books. 

In the morning, the park is different, full of wildflowers and dew drops. I find a quiet spot near the chain-link fence. I settle in and read, telling myself that I'm not waiting for Patti. It's a useless, futile refrain because I keep looking over my shoulder. 

Someone comes from behind and kicks the fence, scaring me into dropping the coffee.

 "They're Junipers," Patti says, standing above me. She sinks down so we're close together. The steel wire is all that separates us. "You keep looking at the trees. They're junipers."

I wipe the drink from my legs. "Were you a botanist in life?"

"A bartender, actually. But everyone knows about the trees here. Or else they learn." She peers between the holes in the fence and snickers at my book. "But... You're a Horse? You're really reading horse porn?"

My face turns red. "It was one of the only things left in the library."

She slides to the ground. Our thighs would be touching if not for the fence. Her back is against a tree, similar to mine. "You wanna go on a date later?" she asks. "It's not that hard to poke a hole in the fence. We have mini-golf over here."

"I thought we weren't supposed to mingle. Besides, we've only known each other a day."

"We're dead. And I owe you for the coffee, since it's my fault you spilled it."

After a while, I say, "I hate mini-golf."

"Who the hell likes mini-golf?" Her voice is gruff, like Trish's. "It's something to do. Just cover your bracelet as best you can, and no one will ask any questions." 

I should know better, but Patti is right. There is nothing else to do. I agree and tell myself it wasn't because she looked like Trish. I am falling, strange as it is. "You do owe me for the coffee."

Patti smirks again. "Meet me back here in a little bit." 

I go back to my room to get ready for the night. I got a good look at myself in the mirror for the first time since coming here. My skin is pale and covered in sores. My mouth doesn't close completely. Limbs are stiff, and the corners of my mouth, without their foam, are a droll purple-blue. 

Alvin comes back at some point. I wasn't aware he ever left. A torn up pad of paper is in his hands, and he looks like he's been crying. Abruptly, his focus shifts to me and my fling with Patti. "What you're doing is wrong," he says.

"We've all done wrong. It's why we're here."

"You young people, all suckers for a pretty face." When I say nothing, he continues, "You've clearly learned nothing from your life. I've heard the rumors, you know."

"Shacked up with one of Satan's secretaries, did you?"

"Word travels 'round here faster than a telephone, but it doesn't take a mental giant to see what's going on." Drool falls onto the front of his shirt as he condemns me. "You still haven't told me why you did it. There are suicides, and then there are suicides. You clearly did something else because God isn't that heartless."

I start before I can stop. "My girlfriend of ten years left me. I just…" My mouth hesitates, but still, I finish. "I wanted her to feel bad about what she did, so I killed myself."

The night is fresh in my memory despite the best effort to forget. Trish wanted to leave for a while. "You're too intense for me," she had said. "I can't deal with you like this. Maybe we should just be friends." 

 I had clung to her shirt, grasping at the muscles on her back. I couldn't see her face, but I buried mine in her hair. "I came out to my family, alienated them for you," I had said. "If you leave, I swear to God, I'll kill myself."

Trish pushed me off. "That's not my fault."

She left. An hour later, I took the fatal pills. 

"Good God," Alvin says after I recount the tale. "What's wrong with you?"

I grit my teeth and say, "I did nothing wrong." I find some bronzer and lipstick in a drawer, applying both until I look less like a corpse. "You're the one who came down here by playing Hemingway. Who are you to judge?" 

"I'm old enough to know that what I did was dumb, even if I don't feel bad about what it did to my family. That girl, Patti, is it? She was sent here to hurt you. She even smells like trouble you're too dumb to see."

"Take a look around, old man. This whole place smells like trouble."

I finish getting ready and he sits on the bed, turning on the television to drown out the sound of the song True to Your School. As I go out the door, he says, loud enough for me to hear, "What you smell isn't trouble. It's junipers and regret." 

**

The hole in the gate is the size of a quarter, but in hell, humans are like rats; our bodies are mealy and can fit through any surface. My bracelet is hidden under a sweater I stole from Alvin. The old bastard. Fuck him. He deserves it.

Patti and I play mini-golf, and it is uneventful. She wins, mostly because I suck at golf. We share a milkshake and a hotdog. Both taste like feet. The Beach Boys sing a medley of Do You Wanna Dance, followed by Don't Worry Baby and Sloop John B. 

Later that night, we sat under the trees. They snore a gust of wind. Patti locks her left hand with my right and with free fingers, wipes the lingering foam from my face. 

"So," I say.

"So."

"This is hell."

 "As we live and breathe," Patti says with a wink. 

I bury my nose in the warmth of her hair, leaving her crown damp. "It's not so bad. Not as bad as I thought, anyway."

Patti's face drops.

"There are worse ways to spend eternity. At least we're not being punished." 

"That's what you think," she says. "The non-believers? We're saturated with iconography. They show us the most beautiful creatures but hold their mercy just out of reach. It sucks. The murderers suffer murder themselves. The thieves come and go, but their hands are cut off every day."

"And the suicides?"

Her eyes shift then close. "I don't know. You're the first one I've liked."

The trees shield us while they sleep. Patti breaks off a branch and eats several of the berries before offering me one.

"Alright, this is the first Christian rule not to break. Even a five-year-old knows that."

"We're in hell. How much more trouble can we get into?"

I eat a few berries, the blue skin and juices exploding in my mouth. A wave of sweetness comes over me, and I tell Patti everything: about Trish leaving me with no explanation, the overdose that wasn't meant to be an overdose. "I didn't know I would die," I say. "I just wanted to scare everyone."

"Everyone? Or just Trish?"

"I don't know." My hand disappears under the grass. "I didn't mean for it to go this far."

 "None of us do," she says. "That's why we're here." She wipes sticky fingers on her thighs before pulling up her shirt. Her torso is mangled. She tells me, "Car accident. I met Jesus in the hospital. At least, I think. I was too stubborn to admit he was...you know."

"You're the only person I know who would doubt Jesus Christ to his face."

Her smile is tainted by berries. "You barely know me."

"And you don't know me. That's a good thing." 

We end the night with a kiss. Her lips taste both like fruit and pepper. When we part, I've left foam on her mouth. She licks it up like Kool-Aid.

**

What no one tells you about hell: Satan isn't an overlord. He's more an assistant manager called when things turn sour. His office is full of toys and posters for plays at Hell's Theatres. Bold cursive script declares the choir 'To Die For!'

Satan leans back in his reclining office chair, crossing one leg over khaki pants. He stammers over the accusations. "Eating berries is against the rules, as is fraternizing."

"I'm new?" I try.

"I know you read the pamphlet." A computer behind him dings with an email that he ignores. "You're to stay away from Patricia. And no more eating the berries. Those things are expensive."

My lungs are a ghost pounding the walls of my chest. 

No. He can't take Patti from me.

"I can and I will."

I'll die without her!

"Sweetheart, you're already dead. You can't manipulate me." He pushes his glasses up his nose. "You have the option to repent." 

I did nothing wrong.

He turns to the computer. Without repentance, I'm ignored. 

I stomp out of the office and back to my room while foaming at the mouth. In hell, this is apparently how I grieve. My bedroom door slams again when Alvin comes back in. His face is the color of a STOP sign. He's procured a gun, somehow, having gone mad again. 

"Barrel to the roof, like it said in the books." It takes one moment to pull the trigger. He blows his brains out. When it's over, he gets up and changes his shirt.

Once he's clean, he looks at me and says, "I guess I'm not sorry for my choices either." He grabs the same papers that caused him frustration and begins to write again. I become uneasy, grab a book, and decide to leave while I still can.

Walking out of the room, the non-believers are no longer visible. A large cardboard partition separates us and them. I sit under the tree and stay there for a while. How long? I don't know. Hours? Maybe days? I try to distract myself with a book, but most of the time I watch the wall, waiting for Patti to reappear, knowing full well I will not be given that chance.

I realize that hell, this is what I did to Trish.

A tree bends down and hands me a branch. I cut the branch, lose myself in a mouthful – no, an overdose of berries. I didn't know this was possible until my stomach toils and tumbles under pallid skin. I vomit. I cry. I defecate. I pass out.

"Okay," I concede for the moment. "I repent, I repent." 

I wake up a few minutes later to the warmth of the sun. 

AUTHORS BIO:

Anastasia Jill (she/they) is a queer writer living in the Southeast United States. She has been nominated for Best American Short Stories, Best of the Net, and several other honors. Her work has been featured with Poets.org, Pithead Chapel, Contemporary Verse 2, OxMag, Broken Pencil, and more.