Other People
by Neil Gaiman
“Time is fluid here,” said the demon. He knew it was a demon the moment he saw it. He knew it, just as he knew the place was Hell. There was nothing else that either of them could have been.
The room was long, and the demon waited by a smoking brazier at the far end. A multitude of objects hung on the rock-gray walls, of the kind that it would not have been wise or reassuring to inspect too closely. The ceiling was low, the floor oddly insubstantial.
“Come close,” said the demon, and he did. The demon was rake-thin, and naked. It was deeply scarred, and it appeared to have been flayed at some time in the distant past. It had no ears, no sex. Its lips were thin and ascetic, and its eyes were a demon’s eyes: they had seen too much and gone too far, and under their gaze he felt less important than a fly.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“Now,” said the demon, in a voice that carried with it no sorrow, no relish, only a dreadful flat resignation, “you will be tortured.”
“For how long?”
But the demon shook its head and made no reply. It walked slowly along the wall, eyeing first one of the devices that hung there, then another. At the far end of the wall, by the closed door, was a cat o’ nine tails made of frayed wire. The demon took it down with one three-fingered hand and walked back, carrying it reverently. It placed the wire tines onto the brazier, and stared at them as they began to heat up.
“That’s inhuman.”
“Yes.”
The tips of the cat’s tails were glowing a dead orange.
As the demon raised his arm to deliver the first blow, it said, “In time you will remember even this moment with fondness.”
“You are a liar.”
“No,” said the demon. “The next part,” it explained, in the moment before it brought down the cat, “is worse.” Then the tines of the cat landed on the man’s back with a crack and a hiss, tearing through the expensive clothes, burning and rending and shredding as they struck and, not for the last time in the place, he screamed.
There were 211 implements on the walls of that room, and in time he was to experience each of them. When, finally, the Lazarene’s Daughter, which he had grown to know intimately, had been cleaned and replaced on the wall in the 211th position, then, through wrecked lips, he gasped, “Now what?”
“Now,” said the demon, “the true pain begins.”
It did.
Everything he had ever done that had been better left undone. Every lie had told – told to himself, or told to others. Every little hurt, and all the great hurts. Each one was pulled out of him, detail by detail, inch by inch. The demon stripped away the cover of forgetfulness, stripped everything down to truth, and it hurt more than anything.
“Tell me what you thought as she walked out of the door,” said the demon.
“I thought my heart was broken.”
“No,” said the demon, without hate, “you didn’t.” It stared at him with expressionless eyes, and he was forced to look away.
“I thought, now she’ll never know I’ve been sleeping with her sister.”
The demon took apart his life, moment by moment, instant to awful instant. It lasted a hundred years, perhaps, or a thousand – they had all the time there ever was, in that grey room – and toward the end he realised that the demon had been right. The physical torture had been kinder.
And it ended.
And once it had ended, it began again. There was a self-knowledge there he had not had the first time, which somehow made everything worse.
Now, as he spoke, he hated himself. There were no lies, no evasions, no room for anything except the pain and the anger.
He spoke. He no longer wept. And when he finished, a thousand years later, he prayed that now the demon would go to the wall, and bring down the skinning knife, or the choke-pear, or the screws.
“Again,” said the demon.
He began to scream. He screamed for a long time.
“Again,” said the demon, when he was done, as if nothing had been said.
It was like peeling an onion. This time through his life he learned about consequences. He learnt the results of things he had done; things he had been blind to as he did them; the ways he had hurt the world; the damage he had done to people he had never known, or met, or encountered. It was the hardest lesson yet.
“Again,” said the demon, a thousand years later.
He crouched on the floor, beside the brazier, rocking gently, his eyes closed, and he told the story of his life, re-experiencing it as he told it, from birth to death, changing nothing, leaving nothing out, facing everything. He opened his heart.
When he was done, he sat there, eyes closed, waiting for the voice to say, “Again.”, but nothing was said. He opened his eyes.
Slowly he stood up. He was alone.
At the far end of the room, there was a door, and as he watched, it opened.
A man stepped through the door. There was terror in the man’s face, and arrogance, and pride. The man, who wore expensive clothes, took several hesitant steps into the room, and then stopped.
When he saw the man, he understood.
“Time is fluid here,” he told the new arrival.
The Judge's Robe
by Jonathan Gracza
The ocean of white robes was contoured by by the beautiful complexions of all present. Though only hands and faces peaked out of the various styles of white robes, the effect was an infinite expanse, a conflation of similarities and differences.
That was it. The end. Perhaps it was simply the eternal epilogue, or all that had come before was simply the prologue. They did not really know yet. All the crowd knew was that there had been a loud burst of what they supposed could be called a trumpet only because it was too harsh a sound to be attributed to any of the gentler instruments. It had been a long, constant note, as if the sound waves that all the pulsar stars produced had suddenly become audible. (This observation was of course only made by those who knew that pulsar stars created sound waves, many of which correspond to musical notes. The others did not know to make the comparison, but were unperturbed by their ignorance. Infinite wisdom was but a breath away, after all). However, regardless of how apt at comparisons members of the crowd were, the righteous felt sufficiently justified.
Suddenly, a burst of light that was more than light brought all to their knees. It was an explosion that drew the air out from all lungs present in a collective gasp. The light seeped into their skin, made them feel like they were engulfed in flames. After a while, the brightness seemed to dwindle, to recede into itself till all the light was contained within the vague shape of a human. The figure was beautiful and mighty to behold, and the crowd erupted with shouts of "Glory!" and "Hallelujah!"
No one knew how long the worship lasted, but after a time, the creature of light raised its hand to motion for silence. All was instantly silent as the grave.
"Behold," said the light in a voice of liquid gold. It glittered and scalded, running impossibly smoothly over the crowd. "You are my chosen, in whom I am well pleased!" The crowd erupted again, feeling the joy of their God wash over them.
"You, my faithful, have earned a place at my side. The time has come to cast out those who are not worthy of such a position!" At this, the crowd grew uncertain, though still cheering. That seemed like a rather safe response on this day of judgment.
The crowd quickly stood up and pulled back as a darkness formed in their midst. The collecting shadows slowly coalesced, and a form appeared, draped in black robes, face obscured as though hiding from the overwhelming light.
"The proceedings may now commence," the Light said and gestured to the crowd. "You are the judge, the jury, and by extension, executioner. Heed carefully all that I say, as their fate hangs in your hands!" The crowd grew still, embracing the solemnity of the moment. After a sufficiently long dramatic pause, the Light began, pointing at the dark figure.
"Their sins are many, some so creative even I could not have fathomed the depths of their depravity. They have sinned, they have sinned, they have sinned." The crowd murmured in agreement. Some even nodded their heads, though only slightly, as a reflexive reaction when talking to someone, encouraging the Light to continue.
"They have stolen simply for personal gain. They have committed fraud to line their own pockets." The crowd could feel the Light's gaze on them, and people started to shuffle uncomfortably.
"Does that not enrage you? Fine, let us go further. They have even, dare I say, voted for the wrong political party!" The humor was unmistakable in their God's voice, and the crowd laughed along jovially, taking the jest for what it had been. They somehow collectively felt when the lighthearted atmosphere faded.
"They have done far worse things though. They have hated. They have hated so fiercely that it burned their soul. They have hated so fiercely that they killed." The Light paused and pointed directly at one of the men in the crowd. "They killed your brother!"
The man the Light had gestured at looked shocked at first, then righteous anger spread across his face. "Murderer!" He shouted, and those nearest to him shouted with him. The chaotic yells slowly organized into a chant. "Murderer, murderer, murderer!"
The Light's voice grew louder so all could hear. "They are horribly depraved with nigh unspeakable tastes!" Their God pointed to one of the women in the crowd. "They raped your little sister, over and over again!" She fell to the ground weeping and screamed "Rapist!" Soon others took up the frenzied chant. "Rapist, rapist rapist!" "Murderer, murderer, murderer!" Someone in the crowd shouted "Thief!" and those around joined the cacophony "Thief thief thief!" "Liar!" another shouted "Liarliarliar!" and it joined the chorus of judgment.
The Light's voice boomed in unison with the chants. "I lay the charges at your feet! What is your judgment?"
"DEATH!" The crowd screamed, and someone rushed forward and struck the black robe. The crowd surged toward the black robe, shrieks of judgment indiscernible by then. They slammed into the dark figure and started beating him with their hands, their feet. Some began to tear off their robes and started lashing the darkness with them, once again unashamed of their nakedness. Soon all followed suit, and their robes of righteousness became their tools of justice.
Their God motioned for silence, and those beating the form in the black robe stepped back, still panting. The Light knelt down by the shadow, and spoke softly, though all could still hear.
"Not one would show you mercy. Have you anything to say for yourself?"
The figure looked up at the light, cowl falling from the form.
"Bring in the next defendants."