Infernal Paradisio

    Imagine the home of Satan, but like if Satan had some type of dope superpower, like a Super-

Satan, you know? Where he just has all kinds of wacked up heroes locked up in his crib.

Sure…... rent-free, but pain-ful. It’s no surprise that Satan's home would be a looney bin. No pun

intended but... this shit? It's hell if hell is an underground dungeon bound by black titanium and

carpeted by checkered tile rusting at the seams.

As I am shoved by two “men in black” looking guys, both tall as hell, fat as can be, and balder than a Chinese crested dog, I stumble into deafening silence. As the Proto-Adamantium doors shut behind me, I can hear the screams, the shivers, and the pain coming down each of the eight hallways that were conjoined where I was standing. Then all of the sudden, I turned my head to the left to see a urine-soaked straightjacket, some cream-colored cloth pants with shit stains on the ass, and a pair of red socks that looked like they had just been through a hacksaw with 20 holes in them. The weirdest part? They were floating, nay, they were levitating my way.    

As the stench of dying skunks lying in a New York subway started drifting closer and closer, I warted the wafts away by swiping my hands in a karate-like fashion. Like Ralph frickin Macchio up in here. As I start to dust the dirt off my shoulder because of my dope moves, my brush was interfered by a f****** soccer dad. Yup, mid-shoulder brush and freaking “Bill” cut me off. 

“Hey, buddy,” patting my back as I had just had a tough run on the field “welcome to your new home.” Leading his hands down the hallway to the right, I followed to where his mitts were pointing which led down to the abyss. On my journey to my cell, my hell, my everything in between, I crossed multiple peoples rooms, and oddly enough, just like the museum of natural history, the patients were in glass chambers, as if exhibits for people to look at while they nod their heads, scratch their chins and tilt their head justtt a tad to the right.  

Immediately, we crossed an all-white room. A large box lined with white leather pillows, an all-white stone floor, and well… that was it, besides the human all hunched over in the corner. He was shivering, constantly looking back as if he were running, hiding from something. As we continued our march down the hall and passed his chamber, I saw a plaque, a black piece of granite ingrained with “fear, panic, paranoia”. 

Where the hell am I? 

What the FUCK is this place?!

Who the HELL is in that room?

Thoughts of confusion, deceit, anger, and, dare I say, even fear crossed through my brain. I'm someone who has been through the wringer, quite literally. Had my arm chopped off? A few times. Been hit by a bullet train? You betcha. But this place has got me shitting myself. Trying to get my mind to wander, I try to think of happier things, like chick-fil-a and playboy, and I am victorious... until about 20 feet later when I walk past another “exhibit”. 

This time, we got a rainforest type of vibe. With lime green Kobak trees, vibrant purple giant water lilies that are scattered around with some passion flowers making it a dark green dungeon with fragments of color, fragments of life. The only thing missing was an obese bear named Baloo and a snake with a speech impediment, though there was a wolf-like being. Odds that his name was Mowgli and that I was seeing a real-life Jungle Book were low, but the hairy, lonely, and angry man hiding behind the big leaves of the tree frightened me. No animals in this place yet… he has scars all over his body? Fresh wounds on his neck, claw marks all down his hairy legs and bruises up and down his big burly and sweaty arms? His plaque read “self-harm, masochism, depression”. 

Hmmm.. what the hell is this place? An institution?! NAH! Seems more like a public display of mental problems. My brain is hazed as we walk past the other rooms to mine.

Soccer dad halts at a steel vault, “And… here you are patient 03486. Bienvenue à votre nouvelle maison monsieur!"   

“You're kidding me right?” I respond, looking him dead in the eyes with pure disheartenment. “Listen, buddy, I'm not mad, I'm disappointed. What the fuck is this? How the hell am I supposed to live here?!” fighting the urge to leap forward and grasp my hands around this man's little baby neck, I withdraw. 

“Excuse me, sir, this is your home, we are here to help” forgetting about this bullshit I calmly nod my head. Why make an enemy out of the person that chooses how I live, you know what I mean? I ain't tryna shoot myself in the foot. “It's really not as bad as you think. Your room will become one with you, trust the process. But...that's not all I have to offer.”

“Oh? Is that soo...” I say with reassurance in my voice, excitement in my eyes, and a pep in my step. That “pep” was temporary as soccer dad fed me more bullshit, literally and figuratively.

 “As a welcoming present, I give you… drum roll please! “ pulling something out of his pocket, while I slap my legs back and forth creating the fastest drum roll he's ever heard I'm thinking… is it keys to a brand new light orange McLaren 650S?! Or maybe a Nike gift card, or a… a… PUPPY?! “Cut the drumroll please!” He pulls out a paper Gatorade cup.”Your medicine.”

Oh, Goodie! Woooo!

Man, fuck this. I snag the cup, pop the pills then turn my back and enter my home. A cellar that echoed with every breath. My room wasn't empty, for there was a coral-like colored slip of paper on the floor so of course I preceded to pick it up and give it a lil peak : *insert photo of flyer* 

As I murmur the final words on the paper “...because they are wrong.”, I look up to see a different room, no steel walls anymore. Am I tripping? I'm not in the “Infernal Paradiso” no more. I'm in... my house now? And not my current apartment but my childhood home at 938 Mathews St. In Atlanta. 

“Fasi?”

“Huh?” frantically examining my room, “Who's there?!” 

Then, they whisper again, “Mufasa, it's me.”  It was then when my panic turned to sorrow, my fear morphed into guilt, and my eyes drowned in tears. Long curly black hair, big emerald green eyes, a sweet little helpless voice, it can't be.

“Frankie...how, when, Frankie!” reaching my arms out to wrap my body around this ghost, this girl, my baby sister, I fall back onto myself, after all, she is a...ghost.  

“Fasi, what did you do?” She looked heaven-like, with blue lilacs in a field of black curls, twinkles in each of her pouty eyes, adorned in a white silk gown. “How could you do that to me, you were supposed to be there for me.”

“Frankie, I've never forgiven myself, I miss you every day, every second of every minute.” And just like that, the guilt all flushes back in the bat of an eye.  

I turn to my right to see myself, in my boy's crib. A “Saturdays are for the boys” poster dangling on the wall, a broken, yet fully functional pong table and a 60 inch Samsung TV fill my room. You see, when I was 21, still living in Atlanta but out of my family's house, I stayed at Kennan's house. We spent every weekend there just drinking, getting with girls, and watching the games. It was March, so obviously we tuned in to March Madness on the regular. So there we were the night of March 26th, 2017 watching Kentucky v. UNC in the Elite Eight. Sippin our Ronas and betting a month's worth of salary on this game, we were thriving. Now, watching myself from an outsider's point of view, I see my phone ringing off the hook, but I couldn't hear it. It was on silent. Of all nights to be shitfaced and of all nights to have my phone on do not disturb, it was the one night my baby sis needed me the most.

Next, I turn my head to the left to see Frankie, lying on the cold bathroom tile floor with her back against the baby pink walls holding her head in her hands. I hear the crackle of her breath, the hurt in her cries, the puddle of tears growing larger and larger, and my voicemail tone. Next to her on the sink is where lies the weapon, the killer, the pills. Her curls were bunched up into a high pony that was getting messier as she grasped her hands pulling on her hair. She was wearing my clothes, my Atlanta Hawks sweatshirt, and my black Nike sweats.  

“C’mon Fasi, I need you, answer me, please?” she whimpers as she cuddles up in my hoodie. One voicemail goes by, another voicemail, the click of her acrylics frantically typing on her phone. She was texting me, calling me, face-timing me, reaching out to her big bro when she needed him. But where was he? Drunk, eating chicken wings, and watching a fucking college basketball game. There's a reason she calls me Fasi, like Mufasa, she was my Simba, I was always there for her. Sure she's my little sister, but I protected her like she was my daughter. I never got to see her pop the pills, until just now. 

After about an hour of nonstop hitting my line, she gave up. The screams of agony filled my cell, echoed in my head, and just like that, she emptied out my OxyContin bottle from the time I got my wisdom teeth pulled. That bottle was full, but not full much longer. She washed the killer down with a liter of Pepsi as the final call went to voicemail.

Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. Mufasa is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options...beeeep.

“Why didn't you answer Fasi? I needed you, you promised me you'd be there for me. Why weren't you Fasi?” 

Why weren't you Fasi is all I hear as storms of guilt, storms of pain rush into my head and can't escape, they're trapped. A scream escapes my mouth as I grasp my head downward and crouch. Then a huge buzz struck the building. “We are now commencing rec. time, please evacuate your cellars and head to the gym.”

I wipe away my tears as my cellar/childhood home front door slides open and I follow the arrows projected on the screen to go to the left. Then, for the first time, I see the other “inmates” locked up. The man from the forest dripping blood from his wounds as he escapes the Amazon. The man in the white leather room, looking back and forth with every step, panicking with every breath. Then of course the girl with bright red curls and fire protruding from her fists with burn marks all up and down her arm, PLUS about 15 other fucked up people in this fucked up place. 

Anyways, following the arrows, I reached the rec room. Like the gym from the great cinema of Coach Carter, it was the most normal I've felt in here. Getting welcomed to the stench of sweaty gym socks and vomit, I felt normal again! I walk on this creaky old wood and pick up a torn basketball. Start dribbling, you know, through the legs, behind the back, all of that. Dribbling a ball so hard to prevent my screams, to prevent my guilt of my baby sister. 

About 15 minutes later, we got the pickup game going. Both teams are very... interesting. The Neanderthals (my gang) vs. Untouchaballs, who were the “cool kids” but fuck them. They had these kinds of unfair powers. The passes they would throw were extra fast ya know, even came with the sound effect of a zoom like we were in Space Jam or something like that, and I mean... I wouldn't be complaining, but I am because MJ made no sort of appearance at this rodeo. Where is Juicy Jordan at? Anyway, long story short, the game didn't last long...we lost just in time for the second BUZZZ to run through the building marking the end of rec time and I was over it. I follow the arrows back down to my cellar, and “soccer dad”, holding my meds hands me my pills, then I go back home and walk into my past. Every time I enter my cell, it's the same. The same story replaying in my head, same guilt, same picture, same stupid ass person I was being. Why couldn't I of just put down the Corona and answered my fucking phone? I crouch in the same position, pulling out the same sections of my hair just sitting, waiting for something, anything to happen.  

I struggle to fall asleep, but end up being victorious and soon start the new day off refreshed. I eat my yummy pancakes with m&ms, go to change then head over to rec time to get my ass beat in some ball. Man, lemme tell you, them pancakes traveled fast! It was time to hit the shitter just as I was re-entering my cell. 

 *WARNING the following program contains scenes that may be difficult for viewers to stomach*

So I'm on the toilet, right? Doing my thang ya know, letting the juices flow, taking a nice lil dump emptying my stomach fresh for this new set of pills. I get up to flush and KERPLUNK meds go RIGHT into my shit. My lil white pills stumble directly in a brown haze and if you think I'm really gonna fish through my own feces to get one day's worth of meds... you got me fucked up. I end up flushing everything down the toilet, the piss, shit, and pills then leave the bathroom. Hey hey hey, don't lie, nobody fucking washes their hands anyways, it's time to dip. I leave the men's room then enter my cellar. But this time it was different. No more hair-pulling, no more screams, still guilt and shame, but no voices in my head, and I see no game on the tv and no person on the bathroom floor. Is it done? Is it my time? Am I free?

Feeling like a ton of bricks had been lifted off my shoulder, I enjoyed the rest of my night in peace for the first time in months. No more haunting, no more visions.  

This morning, the morning of March 26, I woke up to the jangle of the keys in my cell door. It's...Soccer Dad here with a big ol’ tray of eggs and bakey, “Good morning Bud, how'd you sleep? I know todays a tough day for you.” he said with trustful eyes while handing me a dirty napkin. 

Confused as to what he meant, I responded “Huh? Why would today be rough, what day is it?”

“It's March 26th.”

My stomach dropped, my heart got heavy, but I was still confused. Doing my best to conceal my emotions and bottle them up, I gazed up into his eyes, “what's that mean to you? How do you know what went down on March 26th? How do you know my past?”

Sitting down on my right and laying his hand over my shoulder, Soccer Dads' trustful eyes morphed into devilish ones, “Fasi, the guy in the forest? We found him in an alley behind a pizza hut in Chicago with a needle in his arm. He beat his wife then she left him for someone else and his home became a cardboard box. The little buddy in the white leather room? He's looking over his shoulder in fear of those who target him, those who own him and his body. We all have our own pasts, our own stories, our own mistakes. Now you buddy, you killed your sister and you gotta live with that every day. You have to live with the fact that a college basketball game took precedence over Frankie's life, you have to live with that regret, that shame, that gui-”

“ENOUGH. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?”

“We all have our demons son, but there's no escaping them. No matter how hard you try, the guilt will hover over you like your own shadow, chasing you until you can't handle it anymore. You must live with them.”

He hands me a paper Gatorade cup filled with three white pills. 

“Take the pills, face your demons.”

Is this the devil? 

I sit back, lift up the cup, and cheers!