A/N: I really ought to be working on C&C, I know, but I decided to try NaNoWriMo again this year, and therefore started writing this. Hope you enjoy.

Apple

I was five, the first time I went to Hell. You know, it's really not as bad as everyone makes it sound. People (the rare few that believe me) always seem to freak out at the idea of a five-year-old being sent to Hell. First off, kids that age are little terrors; they deserve whatever they get. Secondly, I wasn't sent. I was sent for.

It was my first day of school, I think. Maybe a couple of days later, I'm not sure. My memories from that age have sort of been compressed, and Hell and kindergarten always seem to share the same space in my mind. Starting school is hard for any kid, I guess, but it was beyond awful for me. For reasons which will soon become apparent, I was born with horns. Two nearly straight, thick, black horns. Well, when I was born, they were two little, blackish bumps. But by the time I started school, horns. The other kids teased me, called me a monster and stole my recess snacks – all of which would have turned out okay, except that then I tried to impale one of the little bastards and ended up being sent to the principal's office, while my teacher called my mom.

That's when it happened. I was in the waiting room, sitting in one of those nasty, orange canvas chairs and staring at the woodgrain panelling above the principal's door and all of a sudden, it felt like someone had grabbed my sweater and was tugging me backwards, into the wall. My eyes closed and when I opened them, I was in Hell. Simple.

Well, not just anywhere in Hell. I was standing on the shore of the Lake of Fire. The Lake of Fire is, in a word, beautiful. Imagine an endless sea of camp-fire embers, bright and burning, the intensity of colour fading in and out, like the light is breathing in the dark - and so thirsty for the fire, that it gives away nothing—that the air around is completely black. Imagine Hell stole a piece of Heaven, and corrupted it into exquisite perfection. That is what I saw, the first time I was in Hell.

Of course, at the time, my reaction was more along the lines of “Oooo, pretty.”

But I was lost in it. I have no idea how long I just stood there, staring, unconcerned with the fact that I had been pulled out of the office, or the fact that I would almost certainly be in trouble for getting this close to open flame. Then I felt a hand on my back. It wasn't until I gasped that I realized I'd been holding my breath.

I spun around and saw, well, pretty much nothing. The Lake of Fire doesn't give off a whole lot of light. From what I could make out, I could tell that the weight on my shoulder wasn't a hand; it was more like... at the time, I thought it was a snow brush with really short bristles. There was a muffled, buzzing whisper, then the room lit up. The cavern lit up, I should say. The top of the cave was so high I couldn't see it. There were torches all along the shore, like a million Tiki lanterns, marching boldly into eternity.

Also, there was a giant praying mantis standing behind me with its hand on my shoulder. I regarded him for a minute before asking if I was dreaming.

“No,” he... well, said, I guess, but it was more like a buzzing, hissy whir than an actual voice.

“Oh,” I said. “Are you a monster, like me?”

“Monster. Yes.”

“Huh,” I said. “Where are we?”

“In Hell, Apple.”

The second part of what he said bothered me a lot more than the first. I asked, “How do you know my name?”

“I know many things.”

“And why are we in Hell?” The idea itself didn't really bother me any, except that, as far as I could recall, I hadn't died recently.

“Because this is where monsters go,” he hissed.

“Oh. Am I dead?”

He looked annoyed, in as much so it's possible for a giant praying mantis demon thing to look annoyed.

“No,” he told me. “You are not dead.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Do you know who your father is?”

I was a little surprised by such a personal and seemingly irrelevant question. Normally, people walked on eggshells around me, especially about that. Even if someone said the word father by accident, they'd immediately look at me, their faces full of sympathy and guilt. My mom barely ever mentioned him. Personally, I never saw what the big deal was. I knew exactly one thing about my father: he was dead – and as far as I was concerned, he always had been.

“He's dead,” I told the bug man.

“Dead, yes. But do you know who he was?”

At five, that question was a bit too philosophical for me. “He was my father,” I explained patiently.

He tried a different approach. “Do you know what an angel is?”

Now it was my turn to be annoyed; I was five, not three. “Yes.”

“And do you know about Heaven and Hell, what the difference is?”

I rolled my eyes. “Heaven is white and cloudy and up. Hell is black and flamey and down. Heaven is good. Hell is bad.”

“Bad, yes. Hell is bad. And Hell has demons.”

“What's that?”

“A demon is Hell's answer to an angel.”

“But what did the angel ask?” I wanted to know.

Massive wings started to unfold in frustration, then thought better of it. “Demons are angels, but in Hell, and better.”

“What makes them better?”

“Us,” he corrected me. “You see, your father was a demon.”

Any older than five, and it might have been a shocking revelation, but the significance of it was entirely lost on me. “Did he have wings?”

“No. Because he was a demon, that makes you a demon too.”

“Half ,” I corrected. “'Cause my mom is a Libra.”

He didn't even bother to correct me. He just stared at me for a minute, then buzzed, “Do you know why we brought you here?”

“No,” I told him honestly. I hoped it had something to do with ice cream.

“We need a favour.”

I did my best to raise one eyebrow. “What is it?”

“We do not need it yet. One day, when you are bigger, we will call upon you. Then you must help us.”

“I can't say yes 'til I know what the favour is,” I told him firmly.

He buzzed with irritation. “Very well.”

Then I was back in the office, sitting on the chair, kicking my feet and staring at the wall. A few minutes later, my mom came in, demanding to know where I'd been for the last half-hour. She did not like the answer.

A/N 06-08-09: My plan, when I finish writing Aigaion Girl is to edit it and self-publish it. To this end, I am humbly requesting that, along with anything else my readers might want to say, they point out any grammatical errors they notice, any passages that seem unclear, or anything they feel should be changed, for whatever reason. This would be wonderfully helpful to me. Thank you in advance.

~I.N.