Awake in Hell by Helen Downing Read Free Book Online

wonder if he’s afraid to touch Gabby. He probably should touch her.
Then she’d get rid of whatever freaky thing he has that makes him leave a girl hangin ’ with her hand stuck out like a panhandler. Or
perhaps whatever country he’s from doesn’t do the handshake thing. Maybe they
kiss each other’s cheeks or whatever. I honestly do not know about stuff like
that, because European television and movies are boring and stuffy, and no one
exotic ever comes to the town that I lived in when I was alive. By exotic I
mean anyone who’s from anywhere other than the tri-county area, let alone from
another country.
    He’s
not particularly good-looking. He looks almost cartoonish with sharp features,
and a pointed and very prominent nose. His teeth that don’t sit right in his
mouth so his tongue seems to be moving around in there like it’s pushing them
to the side when he speaks. He has big eyes like a porcelain figurine, and wild
hair. Which, by the way, appears to be the creation of product. I giggle at the
thought of Mr. Deedy walking into one of the chain
stores and asking the clerk, with 17 layers of make-up on her face, where he
can find hair gel. He carries himself like a little boy pretending to be a man,
with his chest stuck out and never knowing quite what to do with all those
limbs. All of that, combined with his height and lack of girth, and Deedy makes one Hell of an impression.
    Nevertheless,
when he laughs, his whole face comes along for the ride and his eyes get a
little sparkly. You can tell just by looking at him that he’s kind. Not
necessarily sweet, nor gentle, but always kind. He instantly makes you wonder
if he’s an actual resident here, or maybe he’s like a social worker from
Heaven, who commutes down here to help out poor schlubs like me.
    That
would explain a lot, like the comfy chairs and the temperature in his office.
It would also explain what he’s wearing. Unlike the rest of us who find a new
nightmare in our closet each day, this man is dressed to the nines. A beautiful
suit that looks like it was tailored specifically to him is draping across his
long, lean body in absolute perfection. The exact brown of his eyes, which are
both a thing of beauty and a little disquieting. The suit looks expensive too,
while everything down here is cheap and poorly-made. If Giorgio Armani was dead
(and who knows? he might be by now) I’d be pretty sure he’d made that suit.
    “Louise,
still with me?” he looked at me expectantly.
    “Of
course!” Shit, I lost almost half of what he was saying. And that’s a bunch,
considering how he’s machine-gunning words towards me at the speed of light. “I
was just a bit distracted, admiring your suit. I mean, pardon my French, but
that is fucking beautiful. Where did it come from?”
    “I
was saying that according to this” he looks down again at the resume that I
have NO IDEA how he obtained, “that since you found our notice you’ve been
plagued with fake memories, emotional reactions well beyond anything you’ve
experienced here, and dreams, none of which you remember right? Oh, and that
will be 25 cents.” He reaches under the desk and pulls out a jar with the words
“CURSE JAR” printed on it. He’s very nonchalant, never taking his eyes off the
document.
    “Huh?”
I’m now confused on several levels. What resume, especially one that I didn’t
write or submit, talks about dreams? Granted, I’ve never even seen a real live
resume, let alone created one, but I’m pretty sure that they stick to skill
sets and former jobs, not private personal fantasies or dreams! Especially
dreams that I didn’t know I was having, since according to the aforementioned,
bizarre resume I can’t remember them. And the curse jar must be a joke, right?
Should I laugh, or just ignore it?
    Deedy turns and faces me. “I can’t
possibly ‘pardon your French’ as you’ve asked me to, unless you put a quarter
in this jar. And, by the way, that word is in no