Come on, come all, to witness the annoyance and unhappiness of Liz Bushman!
Aka, a history paper.
Canto I
I have always hated Mondays, and the worst one I have ever encountered would have to be the one that occurred merely a few weeks ago. Despite the fact that it was in my sophomore year—my pre-calculus class did not meet on Mondays, thus giving me a two-hour lunch—even the two-hour lunch could not make up for the fact that I somehow found myself in Hell.
It is all Mr. Orgill's fault. I maintain that it is his entire fault, and I always will maintain that it was his entire fault. Curse you, Mr. Orgill!
But, I digress. More on that subject comes up later in my tale of woe and distress and utter unhappiness.
As I said, I ended up in Hell at 7:45 AM on a Monday morning, at the time of the day when I hate Mondays the most. Therefore I was in an evil mood when I stepped through the doorway of the lecture hall and found myself staring at a person I would never have thought I'd meet in my life, let alone on a Monday morning.
So though I was then officially not yet quite in Hell yet close enough for the area to be interesting, I found myself staring at the person in front of me far more than I was the scenery.
"Hello Miss Bushman," he said disinterestedly, staring intently at me and biting his thumb.
"Uh… hi," I replied brilliantly. An awkward silence stretched out for a few moments as I gaped at one of the coolest manga characters ever created.
"I would take it that Miss Bushman is surprised to see me?" he asked matter-of-factly.
"Well," I replied dryly, never at loss for a snippet of humor, "I suppose it would be a great surprise to suddenly see a long-dead manga detective on a Monday." Remembrances of excellently-drawn manga panels scrolled through my head, most of them having to do with said detective's death.
"Yes, I would think so." He was chewing his thumb again, shifting from foot to foot (both of which were bare) as he usually did when portrayed in the series I'd known him from.
"Well," I said, gathering my wits (and the polite niceties my mother had drilled into my head since the day I was born), "it's nice to meet you Mr. Lawleit." I politely offered my hand, which he grasped between his thumb and index finger before shaking it briefly.
"Please call me L," he replied, still staring.
Having finally come to terms with the fact I was talking to a manga detective—a dead manga detective—I looked around, realizing that I was in somewhere definitely not the lecture hall at Fresno State.
In actuality, I was standing some distance away from an immense black gate, the kind that is square in structure even if the gate itself is arch-shaped. It looked rather like one I had seen in India, but there were no carvings or ornamentation to speak of.
The road—if you could call what we were standing on that—led straight up to it; to either side there was nothing but flat brown ground, an immense plateau of nothing. Trees were none-existent, plants even less so; and there was absolutely no chance of wildlife in the vicinity. Behind me, the road stretched on to a dark forest, a great distance away.
Lastly, the air through the gate was hazy, like a tinted window. That is, a tinted window that was very dusty and had not been washed in quite some time.
"Where am I?" I asked, curious despite my shock.
"That is the Gate of Hell," L said, slouching indifferently, turning to view the object in question.
"I see," I said, and I did see the gate, but unfortunately, not the point. "So… why am I here?"
"I have no idea," L replied, turning back to face me, "although I hypothesize that you are going to have to undertake some journey similar to Dante Alighieri."
"I see," I said again, only this time I saw both the gate and the point. "Do you know who set me upon this journey?"
"No," said L blankly. He frowned. "Though I'd like to see who authorized such a trip."
I dispensed his comment away for future thought, mused through what I knew of Dante'sInferno, and asked yet another question. "Does this mean you're my guide, like Virgil?"
L went back to biting his thumb. "Yes," he said. He eyed my backpack, which, it appeared, I was going to have to unfortunately carry along with me all the way through Hell. "Do you have anything sweet and or remotely containing sugar in there?"
"I have a diet Pepsi," I said, "but it's mine. And there's no sugar in it anyway."
L glared at me. "Miss Bushman is very cruel," he said petulantly, putting his thumb back between his teeth. He turned around and ambled in the direction of the black gate. I followed, as his actions clearly indicated that I was to follow him, even if he was annoyed with me for not giving him sugar.
As we neared the gate, the haze became more defined, until, as we stood directly before the gate, the haze seemed to be a solid wall, albeit a wall made out of some substance that looked disturbingly familiar to the smog that blanketed L.A. almost daily.
The gate loomed large and black overhead. I glanced nervously at it, seeing an inscription in the stone that I hadn't seen before. It read:
I am the
way into the city of woe
I am the
way to a forsaken people
I am the
way into eternal sorrow.
Sacred
justice moved my architect.
I was
raised here by divine omnipotence,
Primordial
love and ultimate intellect.
Only those
elements time cannot wear
Were made
before me, and beyond time I stand.
Abandon
all hope, ye who enter here.
Needless to say, none of this assured me in the least, and even the pirate-y-ness of the last line was not enough to raise my spirits even a little.
"I have to do this?" I asked unhappily, rereading the inscription.
L looked back to the spot we'd been standing in before. "There's nothing for you to go back to," he said.
I myself looked back as well, and saw only a dusty track winding its way through dead flatlands to a forest. No sign of a door or a lecture hall in sight—L was right.
I sighed, and turned back to the smog wall, eyeing it distastefully. No sense in dawdling, I told myself. So I settled my backpack more easily on my shoulders, and strode forward, L bringing up the rear.
Going through that wall was one of the strangest things I have ever experienced. It hit me, and then gave, like walking through a giant balloon wall or something. When I broke through, I saw an entirely different world: sights and sounds assailed me instantaneously, and I came into the dim light of the Vestibule of Hell.
Character Guide:
L:
Name: Lawleit [pronunciation: Low-light
Aliases: L, Eraldo Coil, Deneuve
Occupation: Detective
Age: 27
Manga: Death Note (Shounen)
L is a genius detective from Death Note. He was investigating the Kira case, main suspect Yagami Raito, when he was killed indirectly by Kira in the seventh volume of the series.
L hates socks, and loves anything sweet. His general manner is apathy to anything beyond his interests. He had three successors at an orphanage run by Waltari, by the aliases of Near, Mello, and Matt.
He is also rather ruthless, and doesn't care by which means he captures the criminals he pursues, although he keeps innocents out of it. Most of the time.
Description: 5'10", very messy/spiky black hair, circles under eyes (insomniac), ¼ Japanese, ¼ French, ¼ Italian, ¼ unknown, barefoot or wearing shoes without socks, loose long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and is slouched over half the time.