Miles was not a good woman.

Back when she was still alive, one knew, with just one look at her—the sores on her face, the stench emanating from them, the discoloration of the little skin that wasn't popping red with white pus—exactly where she was headed, if religious. If the observer was a non-believer, then, well, instead of feeling pious-pity towards this grotesque masquerade of a woman, they'd just cross the street and try their best to get the stench out of their nose and the sight out of their mind.

Miles herself was a devout Catholic. She was so incredibly devoted to the higher power of God that she went to Church, like many others good Christians, only on Christmas Eve, drunk and hazy, making sure to have drank so much that she wouldn't remember the next day whether she had gone or not. Despite this lack of reverence, and many other vices, though, Miles was sure, once she had passed, and everything had turned black, that when she opened her eyes she'd be face to face with the Saviour Himself.

Just like she had predicted, when her soul regained the pure consciousness that only souls had with all physical volition gone, she saw a man. The land surrounding them was bright white. This had to be Heaven.

"Welcome to Hell," the man said. Miles smiled. So, God had a sense of humor after all, she thought to herself.

"Hello, Father," Miles said. Then, instinctively, like a fawn that knows to hide in the bushes, or a salmon that knows to swim upstream, Miles held her arm out in front of her. The small, round burns that had been with her since childhood were gone. The sores and discoloration, too, had faded away. She was holding up an arm that, though it was hers now, she did not recognize. The feeling was strange to her.

The man ahead, in fact the Devil, not God, further explained to Miles that it was true: she was not in Heaven, but Hell. After a showing involving flames and red-skin, Miles was finally convinced, though still confused.

The clean, white light; the cordiality of the man; the cleansing of her body—how could this be hell? she wondered.

"Your confusion is normal," the Devil said. "Almost everyone finds this place a little different than they had imagined. But some things align with preconceived notions: this is, Hell; and you, Madame, will be punished."

"Okay," Miles said. She eyed the small man up and down, thinking he wasn't so much different from him, the one she had when she was alive. "So what's my punishment?"

"That's the thing—you get to choose."

"I do?" Miles said, smiling now. This man was just like him. Just like all of them. Whatever this game was, she'd be victor. "Is this like, a genie thing? I choose, but then you warp it to be bad?"

The Devil nodded. "That's a way to think of it."

"Okay," Miles said. She licked her teeth, a habit she had formed as a child whenever she was excited. The giddiness in her chest made her feel like a schoolgirl again. "I'd like to spend my time in Hell together with my husband."

The Devil paused for a moment. It looked as if the light in his eyes had gone off, as if he were a computer and suddenly went into sleep-mode. Then, he turned back on.

"Your husband is currently in Heaven," he said. Miles nodded.

"That doesn't surprise me."

"I can bring him down under, but are you sure that's what you want?"

Miles looked the Devil in the eyes and knew that she had won. "Yes."

"All right. Have fun." The Devil clapped his hands and instantly Miles found herself in the house that had belonged to her when living. In front of her, on the couch, was her husband, dazed and confused from the fall.

Back in the light, with a new customer in front of him, the Devil felt good about his choice. Miles didn't seem like an atrocious person—sure, snatching someone from Heaven was bad, but it's normal for humans to want to be with their beloved—so he hadn't warped her wish at all. He figured the bickering from her husband, an eternity of complaints about being brought to Hell, would be enough punishment. Things might even get physical; he smiled.

Back in the house, though, the Devil could not have been more wrong. The husband, a tiny, meek excuse of a man, sat, shivering, on the couch. On seeing his wife, he shook even more, and brought his hands up in front of his face to defend from the incoming strike.