The surface of Hell burned like Houston sidewalk in summer, and God wasn’t generous enough to provide shoes. How to minimize the pain? The woman knew how, or rather, after long enough, observed how. Skipping shortened the time that her foot was in contact with the ground, minimizing the pain. The crosswalks of Hell were full of these skippers, their grimace with every step a facsimile of a smile.

The woman had long foregone her embarrassment at the juvenile act. Her life before was defined by routine embarrassment, and in some odd way, the humiliation was comforting in its familiarity. There was no time to slow down, to stop, to breathe, because the pain would start again if she went still. She was doomed to this one activity, and the meaninglessness of it almost burned more than the ground. She refused to look down, because even the sight of the act was humiliating.

The sudden lack of pain with step surprised her, and she forced herself to look down, anticipating the loathsome, fleshy ground. Underneath her foot, however, was a man in black robes, the light on his crucifix catching her eye.

Startled, she stopped in place to take a closer look. The man is muttering to himself, rocking back and forth. His eyes are affixed in horror, glued wide open – he’s clearly unable to accept the reality of his situation.

She’s tempted to move on. She’s seen many first-timers before, and this one’s reaction is nothing new. But there was something about the man that compelled her- the wrinkle of his brow, the furrow between his eyes, rough calluses on his fingertips. Far from selfless herself, she imagined that this was what a selfless man looked like. She imagined some of that selflessness aimed at her. She sat down.

Her stay felt long, each minute weighing on her. There was a rhythm and a pitch to the priest’s muttering, she noted. Almost as if he was giving a sermon. But who was he giving the sermon to? Himself?

Like the flick of a switch, the man’s eyes dry. It’s been an hour of the man muttering, and she’s stunned by the abruptness of the change in his demeanor, almost transfixed.

She sees the priest’s lips open and close. A purposeless exhale, sound but no comprehension. Perhaps he needs water? Closing her eyes at her embarrassing naivete, she extends her water pouch to the priest, expecting him to take a few drops.

The weight of the bag leaves her with force. She opens her eyes to see the bag empty, half of it expended on the man. The man is making ‘grabby’ motions with his hand, almost demanding for more… The audacity of him!

This time, the man’s attempt to speak is fruitful, but a single word escapes his mouth, a hoarse little whisper limping into the air. “Dante.” Grabbing motions transitioned into an open hand, but the woman, still annoyed by the sheer gall of him, ignores it.

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“It’s a placeholder.” Dante’s voice is rough with disuse. “It’s commonly said that sins stain your soul, but it would be more accurate to state that sins corrode it. Every incremental sin tarnishes more and more of your identity until it disappears altogether, rust taking every part of you. Do you remember your name?”

Irritation surged within her- no thanks and now a lecture? She sought to refute him, to tear his mask-like condescension away, but she stopped to think. She could remember every aspect of her past life, but where was her name? She… couldn’t find it. Her cheeks grew warm.

“See? I’ve given myself a new name. What’s yours?”

Wanting to exact payment for her precious water (wanting consideration from someone else, anyone else), she throws the question back at him.

“Decide for me.”

“Well, if I’m Dante, I guess you could be my Virgil. Nice of meet you, Virgil.”

A grin splits across her face, because when in Rome. “Nice to meet you, Dante.”

Now that Dante’s conscious, she examines his body language, finding it unusual. His posture is deceptively casual, hands in his pockets. Where do they even keep pockets in clerical robes, anyways? Does he even know where he is? His reaction defies logic, isn’t he at least a bit scared?

Then she notices the trembling of his hands- the stiffness of his smile evident. She knew, then, that the priest knew where he was. That the priest could recognize the reality of Hell the first but is last to accept it. Why else would he be muttering for hours? But this is Hell, what need for pretenses does he have anymore?

“Well, okay, Dante. Or should I call you Father Dante? Can’t have been that good of a priest to end up in Hell…”

Perhaps it’s a little too soon to push at his boundaries Iike this, to play with fire, but Virgil finds herself desperate for an authentic reaction from Dante. She stares at Dante, waiting for his response.

He snorts, and Virgil finds herself disappointed at his nonchalance. “I wasn’t a good priest – I was a great priest. People used to line up at my door, offering riches beyond your imagination to be cleansed of their sins. I saved a hundred men a year from darnation by forgiving their sins, doubtlessly countless considering my lifetime in priesthood…”

“Anyways, I have places to be. Thanks for the water, though!” Dante moves to shuffle away from her, clueless of the direction he was traveling.

The nerve of this man – he can’t leave her just like that! “Wait! You owe me!”

He seemed to have stalled for a minute and turned. “I paid it back by giving you a name.” He kept going.

Scrambling for any excuse to keep him there, Virgil yelled at his rapidly disappearing figure. How in the world did this middle-aged man walk so fast?

“You’re going the wrong way!”

Abruptly, he turned, smiling ear-to-ear. “Well, my dear, why didn’t you say so? Mind guiding a weary poor old priest like me on the right path?”

Virgil scoffed, but did not protest, patiently waiting for Dante. His little burst of energy gone, his age seemed to weigh his steps, shuffling carefully across the bumpy surface.

She extended her hand his way and Dante took it, allowing her to guide his path. There was a kind of graceful humility in the way he accepted her help, a stark contrast to his prideful countenance earlier.

Virgil wondered what she wanted from Dante. Why did she care enough to sit beside Dante, waiting for him to acknowledge her? She hated to acknowledge it- not wanting give Dante power over her, but she knew.

In the deepest part of her heart, she knew that Hell was a lonely place.