Author’s note: It is a photo-prompt story, which used to have a photo of an office in the middle of a desert. But over the four years it gathered dust in my archives, I managed to lose the picture.
Disclaimer: Gothic content with references to violence–reader discretion requested.
This office doesn’t bear any sign, nor can I see any stuff to sell. All that I can see inside is that the place is neat. No dust, no wares. Only an antique phone and an old register sit on the table. Not sure what the old hag uses it for.
Honestly, I don’t even see the point of having an office in the middle of nowhere; I haven’t seen a single soul in the area for hours. So, who would drive all the way through this hot-as-hell desert to reach this office? But I’m sure glad to find it—anything is better than walking aimlessly with an open wound that still drips blood after so many hours.
I wonder why I had assumed I could find my way through the desert alone without the guide. I shouldn’t have killed him until I reached my new hideout. But he had somehow realised who I was and I acted on instinct, which was to kill. I was already wanted for 17 murders; one more wouldn’t change anything. Or so I thought.
I had slit his throat with the penknife as he had stabbed me in the side with a screwdriver. At least, he died quickly. I, on the other hand, have been in agony ever since—as if he is still twisting that damned screwdriver inside, even after the hours that I have spent blundering around in the desert.
I’m sure I had a cellphone when I started the journey, but I can’t find it anymore. It probably slipped out of my pocket when I lost consciousness and fell. Anyway, I can’t think of anyone I could call for help and where to ask them to come for me, for I have no idea where I am now.
The pain is driving me mad, and I would welcome death if it would bring relief. But it seems to be avoiding me for some reason, drawing out the torment. My money bag feels like it weighs a ton—I can barely move my feet. I want to take it off my back. Yet for some reason, I can’t make myself to.
When I finally found this office in the middle of nowhere, I was too relieved to care about the consequences of entering a building. My wound isn’t conspicuous and anyone helping me would certainly enquire. Thankfully, with more than four hundred thousand dollars tucked in, I have enough hard cash to bribe my way out of any situation. I just hope they aren’t too honest to bribe, or too corrupt to kill me while I sleep under any heavy medication I am administered.
I stand at the door indecisive as the old hag—I can’t think of calling her anything else, she is too ugly—manning the register eyes me with suspicion. For her sake, I hope she would help me without causing a trouble.
“I need a doctor,” I whisper. My mouth feels like a sandpaper, and my voice comes out raspy and breathless. I could kill for some water. I just hope it doesn’t come to that.
“I’m sorry but we don’t have that facility here.” Her drawling voice sets my teeth on edge. I don’t have forever! Her eyes have a dreamy look with no care in the world, which is weird. With the blood on my clothes, I had hoped she would be scared. That way, she’d do my bidding. But you can’t have everything, I guess.
So, I ask again, “I need a doctor. Call one. Tell him I need stitches, antiseptic and painkillers. I’ll pay whatever he asks for.” I add urgency to my voice, but it is a struggle, considering the crippling pain.
“You are a little too late for that, darling,” she drawls again, eyeing the wound.
The pain is maddening, and I think of pulling out the penknife again. But who would call the doctor then? So, I give her one more chance as I step in trying to look threatening. “Well, that’s for a doctor to decide!”
She adds with an exasperated voice, “Do you know what this office is for?”
“No.”
“Well, it is the receiving room for hell.”
“Receiving room for hell? You mean I will be sent to hell from here once I die?” I try to keep panic out of my voice. I never believed in heaven and hell. I always considered it as church’s way to manipulate unsuspecting people. But the prospect that they might actually exist is not pleasant for someone who is certainly due hell.
I am wheezing with pain, but she calmly continues. “Most people are better informed when they come in through the door over there,” she pointed at new door that just appeared on the opposite wall.
A man comes in through the other door, crying and begging for forgiveness, as the old lady quietly checks her register and then points him to the door I came in from, “For Thirty Years.” His feet lift from the ground against his will, and he is thrown outside through my door. Through me.
Looking at my stricken face, she says, “But there is always a special case like you who is sent directly.” My feet lift from the ground against my will, and I am thrown back in the desert, wishing for death as unendurable pain of bleeding wound forces me to double over, “For Eternity.”
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