working on hell

The bar was nearly empty, save for a few scattered customers. A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the occasional clink of glass against wood. From behind the counter, the bartender glanced at me with resignation, his eyes betraying no surprise at my presence.

"Well, that saves me the trouble of hunting you down," I said, walking toward him. My tone was sharp, carrying a rare anger I seldom let show.

The bartender stood still, his hands planted firmly on the counter as though bracing himself.

"I know my sins, Father. At the time, I believed… no, I was certain it was the right thing to do."

"Right? You thought it was right to kill young girls?" I snapped, letting my fury bleed into my words.

The bartender lowered his head slightly, his voice steady and unwavering.

"It was right to make the town that killed my mother pay… and to bring her back."

His bluntness caught me off guard.

"I won't apologize," he continued. "That won't bring back the lives I took."

I clenched my jaw, struggling to hold on to my anger. A part of me wanted to hate him, to see him as nothing more than a monster deserving punishment. But I couldn't ignore what I knew of his past.

"Damn it…" I muttered, running a hand through my hair.

The local priest had told me his story: how, at eight years old, he had watched his mother be dragged from their home and accused of witchcraft. How he had grown up alone, fueled by hatred that eventually consumed him. Now, standing before me, he wasn't a villain. He was a broken man.

"Pour me a drink," I said finally.

The bartender nodded silently, quickly fulfilling my request. I sat down at the counter, allowing the weight of the conversation to settle. When the glass appeared before me, I took a long sip, letting the burn warm my throat and steady my thoughts.

"So, are you going to kill me? Arrest me?" he asked, breaking the silence.

I didn't answer immediately, instead studying him as he stepped out from behind the counter and sat beside me. He didn't meet my gaze, his focus fixed on the worn wood beneath us.

"Do you remember my companion?" I asked after a moment.

"Yes."

"She hated you when she learned what you did," I said quietly, my voice almost a whisper. "I could see it in her eyes—the will to kill you."

The memory of Aria unleashing her energy filled my mind. Her light had illuminated the bar with such intensity that it seemed to erase every shadow.

"She intended to end you," I continued. "And to keep her from staining her soul that way… I considered doing it myself."

The confession lingered in the air between us. I sighed deeply, letting the weight of my own words sink in.

"Then do it," the bartender said, his voice low but unwavering.

I turned my head slightly, caught off guard by his response.

"I did it all for my mother," he began, his voice trembling but determined. "I kidnapped and killed those young women… all to be with her. At the time, there was no doubt. I would do whatever it took."

His voice cracked, but he pressed on, as though he needed to get every word out.

"As a child, I watched them drag her from our home. The people she called family accused her of witchcraft. I saw the desire to kill her burning in their eyes, as if she were a monster. I hated them all. I screamed, I fought, but no one helped her. No one helped us."

Tears began to fall, silent and steady, onto the counter. Neither of us moved.

"I grew bitter. And when I had the chance to bring her back, I didn't hesitate."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Every word he'd spoken echoed in my mind like a weight I couldn't lift.

"Kill me," he finally said, his voice breaking. "In my desperation and hatred, I gave in to temptation. I don't deserve mercy."

I stayed silent, the glass in front of me feeling heavier than it should. I had come here seeking vengeance, but now, sitting beside him, the anger that had driven me here was crumbling.

Without looking at him, I let his tears fill the space between us, each drop a reminder of how fragile the human soul can be.