I choose to give up my soul just to break the goddamn loop I'm stuck in. Du la Font won't wait for sunrise. He's not going to rip my heart out to speed things up either and avoid letting the sun do its thing. He doesn't need to. He doesn't have to kill me to send me to Hell. He has to take me as I am: a pathetic vampire who asked—of his own free will—to be thrown into the abyss. That's what Edmundo says. And he adds that in there, in that realm of pain, my flesh will burn. My soul, of course, won't have a way out. Now, I don't know if Du la Font is going to toss me into eternal damnation like a sack of oats into the back of a truck, or if I'll have to step in myself, on my own feet, like a man walking to the gallows without so much as a complaint. Either way, let this be clear: I don't give a shit what happens to me.
If Irene's trapped in there, suffering endlessly, what kind of being would I be if I refused to suffer too? What kind of scum would I be if I got scared, if I begged please, oh please, and clawed desperately not to follow her in? And I say "being" not just to include vampires—my kind now, these beautiful immortal creatures of the night to which I belong, though I feel no joy about it. I say "being" to include humans too. Because what kind of being—any being—keeps living like nothing's wrong while the person they claim to love is writhing in every torment imaginable in the cruelest hole in the universe? Conclusion: it's my duty to go in—and suffer whatever needs to be suffered—in the same fucking place where the woman I love is being torn apart.
Fuck life if I can't live the life I want. What life is that? The one I know I could've had if I hadn't lost my freedom by becoming—supposedly, though I don't feel it—a superior being. The life I could've lived if I hadn't been Agnes's puppet. Her pet. Her little experiment. Yeah, I think about how happy I could've been if I had turned Irene into a vampire. If we had lived together, as creatures of the dark. But without Agnes around. Better yet, if Agnes had never existed at all. If that spoiled little vampiric brat had never been turned by Du la Font. If she'd died centuries ago. And then it hits me. I see it clearly. The best life I could've lived was one where I wasn't a vampire. One where I never met Agnes. One where Agnes never became a vampire. And so, I scream it inside: Fuck. Fuck fate.
I've just realized something that should hurt more than it does: I was already lucky. I was already living the life I wanted. I was happy. Happy with Irene. Everything that's happened since Agnes showed up has only dragged me further and further away from that happiness. Step by step. Night by night. Since then, I've become an apathetic shadow. A creature without joy. A creature rotting from the inside, incapable of feeling even one good fucking moment. Not even a flicker of pleasure from being alive. And now I think—and I can't stop thinking—goddamn it, I already had what I wanted. I was already living a happy life with Irene. But of course, there's my human brain. That terribly human brain. The kind that gets distracted. That spirals into nonsense. That complains out of sheer habit. Instead of embracing happiness fully, I spent way too much time overthinking bullshit. Long meditations about nothing. When all I really had to do was enjoy the happiness life had gifted me. Ah, what a fucking waste.
Du la Font places a hand on my shoulder. I look at Agnes one last time. I'd love to flip her off, that possessive, insane bitch—but there's no time. I see her screaming in despair. Thrashing around like Sean Penn in Mystic River when he finds out his daughter is dead. Then I don't see her anymore. The mansion's grand hall where I live—or lived, I guess—with Agnes fades away. Du la Font and I are suddenly in the antechamber of Hell. A gloomy, ominous cave.
"Follow me," Edmundo says.
And of course, I follow. All the way to Hell's gates. Well, "gates" is just a way of speaking. There are no gates. Just a tunnel. A tunnel erupting with screams and wails. Anyone who's been inside a slaughterhouse in a third-world country stuck in the Middle Ages might have some idea. And those who haven't—imagine the whimper of a puppy with a broken leg mixed with the cries of a starving baby multiplied to infinity.
"Wait here," Edmundo says.
I look at him, a little confused, and nod. Why wait? Why doesn't he just tell me to go in and serve my fucking sentence already? Is he trying to mess with me? Fucker.
Du la Font walks into the tunnel. I stay. I wait. Mind blank. I don't want to think ever again.
I don't know how much time passes. Doesn't matter. Time means nothing here. Edmundo comes back. But he's not alone. He's holding something. Something that looks like a rag. Something steaming. Like a burnt coat pulled from the ashes of a fire. But it's not a rag. It's a soul. Edmundo drops it at my feet.
It's Irene.