Page 14 of Where Light Cannot Follow

"Remember, I'm here," I whisper.

He shrugs. "Certainly."

"No." My voice hardens, darkens, and he hesitates again. If this is the only language he understands, then I'll speak it. The dialect of authority and absolutes, power and control. He doesn’t know this realm intimately as I do. "It's crucial you remember, Dante. Don't lose yourself. And don't forget, names have power. You can use mine to anchor yourself if needed."

"Yes, yes," he mumbles, reaching for the handle.

The door opens into absolute darkness.

PART III

“He who learns must suffer.

And even in our sleep pain

Which cannot forget falls

Drop by drop upon the heart.”

—Aeschylus, Agamemnon

7

DANTE

My feet clip to a stop. I'm relieved they produce sound again, though I register that Virgil's movements beside me remain silent. Darkness surrounds us, oppressive, total, yet somehow I can still distinguish his features. This Roman poet, millennia dead.

I've decided to engage with this scenario solely because no alternative exists. Whether I've genuinely died and my afterlife guide happens to be some antiquated writer I vaguely recall from college, or he's merely a coma-induced hallucination, the distinction is irrelevant. He's the only variable I currently have to work with.

The pragmatic approach: gather data, assess the situation, identify exit strategies. Standard business protocol applied to extraordinary circumstances.

Something pulls at me to step forward. I plant my feet instead, refusing to move. I’m not a man who follows impulses, certainly not ones imposed by external forces. This new space at least lacks the bog's repugnant stench, no more rotting organic matter making the air viscous in my lungs. Though something lingers at the edges. A hint of a scent I might have known once, then forgotten.

"Why have you stopped?" Virgil asks.

I turn toward this man, this cashmere-clad poet who speaks in riddles and sports the slightest hint of a receding hairline. Somehow it doesn't diminish his attractiveness, which is deeply frustrating. If my unconscious mind conjured a companion to endure while disconnected from reality, logic dictates it should have produced someone useful rather than beautiful. Someone like Warren Buffett—disciplined, analytical, a man who built an empire through calculated risk and unwavering principles. Someone whose presence would serve a functional purpose beyond cryptic philosophy.

Not this overly patient optimist who stares at me with such earnest expectation it grates like nails on glass.

"You didn't answer me. Why do I deserve hell?" He opens his mouth, but I continue. "I don't claim moral superiority. However, I've committed no grave injuries worthy of eternal punishment. Is this because I wasn't religious?"

"Religion has nothing to do with hell," Virgil answers solemnly.

"Then why am I here?"

The possibility has been crystallizing that perhaps I did die. The shrieking tires, the lights, muffled conversations about checking for a pulse... and my conspicuous lack of one. The fact that I'm trapped with this man, trudging through a cesspool while he pontificates endlessly about love and music being life's currency, does in fact sound precisely like my version of hell.

"Hell doesn't exist, Dante."

I ignore his continued omission of proper titles as I close the distance between us. He yields a step but not in retreat, more like he’s creating space. "Hell doesn't exist?" I repeat flatly. "Then where are we?"

"Hell," he answers with that same maddening earnestness.

I'm not given to passionate outbursts, but my fists clench of their own accord. My jaw tightens. I have the strongest urge to punch him directly in his dimpled face. Perhaps I do deserve damnation.

He seems to register my frustration. "Both statements are true. I'm afraid there are some things I cannot discuss, not even in whispers, in this place." His voice drops lower with each word. "You'll have to accept my word."

"What value has a poet's word?" Ire sharpens my tone.