“Well, it’s not really Hell,” the thief known as Clementine said. She sat on his headstone, her dangling legs blocking his surname and date of death from view. All I could see was:
Christian
B. September 1st, 2004
“But in my opinion it’s worse than Hell.” I looked up from his headstone to watch her face. She avoided my eyes. “Cause Hell is for the damned but this place... anyone can end up there; sinners and the saints, the good and the bad, the god-fearing and the devil-worshipping... even if he’s not there it’s a good place to start.” Finally her golden eyes raised from the ground and she looked directly at me. Her gaze burned through me, almost literally, “but you will have to be careful. There are many things in that place that would love to gobble up that weak, defenseless sliver of soul that still belongs to you.”
