Leaves Of Fire( Gemini In Hell)

 

Walter standing on a green leaf floating on a molten lava floor while the demon king watch from his throne.

Walter Robinson was thirty-three, single, and convinced the universe had it out for him.

He wasn’t a bad guy. He had a decent job, worked out when he remembered, and could make a woman laugh when he tried. But every time a relationship started feeling real, something in the back of his head whispered, “This one’s going to crash too.” A week later, maybe two, it always did. Usually over something stupid: a spilled glass of water, a forgotten text, a tone of voice that rubbed the wrong way. Boom. She was gone. And Walter, too proud to chase anyone, just shrugged and moved on.

He blamed it on being a Gemini. Read somewhere that Geminis were doomed in love, restless souls who secretly preferred being alone. Sounded convenient. Felt true.

Then one night he woke up on fire.

Not metaphorically. His skin sizzled. Smoke poured from his nose and ears. He thrashed out of bed and found himself standing barefoot on a cracked, glowing plain of molten rock. Lava hissed and popped around him. The air tasted like burnt metal. Blisters rose on the soles of his feet with every heartbeat.

He was naked, screaming, cooking alive.

Then he saw it: a single green leaf, bright and perfect, lying on the lava like it belonged there. Big enough for one foot. He stepped onto it without thinking. The pain eased, just a little. When he lifted his other foot, another leaf appeared. Then another. A path.

For half an hour he walked across hell on floating leaves while the ones behind him curled, blackened, and vanished into ash.

The path ended at a door made of cooled lava, black and jagged. The handle glowed dull red. Behind him the leaves were burning faster now, racing toward him like a fuse.

“Better a hand than the whole damn body,” he muttered, grabbed the handle (cold, weirdly cold), and shoved the door open.

The heat inside doubled. He gagged, dropped to his knees, eyes watering.

At the far end of the chamber sat a throne of black stone. On it lounged a creature that made his heart stutter.

It was beautiful in the way a forest fire is beautiful. Skin like molten metal, shifting orange and gold. Eyes just pits of darkness. Two long fangs glinted over its lower lip, and a mane of golden fire spilled down its back.

“Welcome home, Walter Robinson,” it said, voice smooth as magma. “I’ve been waiting.”

Walter tried to speak. Nothing came out but a croak.

The thing smiled. A bubble of cool air formed around Walter like a snow globe. A glass of ice water appeared in his trembling hand.

He drank greedily.

“You want power,” the creature said. Not a question.

Walter wiped his mouth. “I’m tired of losing. Tired of people walking away like I’m nothing. Yeah. I want power.”

“Power, fame, money. All of it. More than any president, any billionaire. Enough to make the whole world regret ever crossing you. I can give you that.”

“What’s the catch?”

The creature’s smile widened. “You’ll find out after you say yes. But you’ll never be weak again.”

Walter thought of every slammed door, every unread message, every time he told himself it didn’t matter. Thirty-three years old. Plenty of time to rule the world.

“I’m in.”

“Good,” the Molten One said. “One more question. Do you want this power for good, or for evil?”

Walter laughed, short and bitter. “I just want balance. Enough good to sleep at night. Enough evil to make sure nobody ever hurts me again.”

“Fair enough.”

It extended one clawed hand. A single leaf appeared in Walter’s palm: molten orange but ice-cold.

“Eat it.”

He hesitated half a second, then shoved the leaf into his mouth.

His lips fused shut.

The burning started inside his teeth, his tongue, racing down his throat like he’d swallowed the sun. He clawed at his sealed mouth, eyes bulging, tears streaming. A voice in his head, calm and ancient, said: Chew.

He chewed. Five solid minutes of agony.

Swallow. 

He did.

His lips ripped open. He opened his mouth to scream.

A jet of white-hot flame roared out instead, blasting across the chamber, turning solid rock cherry-red.

Walter stared, panting, at the fire still flickering on his tongue.

The Molten One leaned forward, eyes gleaming like dying stars.

“Welcome to the rest of your life, Mr. Robinson.”

Walter Robinson jolted awake, screaming about hellfire and brimstone. His heart hammered as he realized he was sprawled on the bedroom floor. Blinking in the dark, he stared at what was left of his bed: nothing but a pile of charred ashes and twisted metal springs. The mattress, the sheets, the headboard—everything burned to nothing. Yet he didn’t have a single blister. Not even the smell of smoke on his skin.

He staggered to his feet, throat raw and dry like he’d swallowed sand. In the kitchen he grabbed a glass, filled it from the tap, and chugged. The second the water hit his throat there was a sharp hiss—like meat hitting a hot grill—and a thin curl of steam drifted out of his mouth. Walter coughed, slammed the glass down, and let loose a string of curses that would’ve made his grandma roll in her grave.

“This ain’t real,” he muttered. “Either I’m still dreaming, or I finally lost my damn mind.”

He headed to the bathroom for a shower, hoping the water would snap him out of it. The moment the spray hit his chest, the bathroom filled with thick steam, way more than usual. The mirror fogged up instantly. He stood there under the hot water, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, watching clouds of vapor roll off his skin like he was a human steam iron.

When he finally stepped out and wiped the mirror, that’s when he saw it: a fresh tattoo blazing across his chest, raw and red, like it had been done minutes ago. In the center was the exact same leaf he’d chewed in his dream.

Walter stumbled back, heart jackhammering again. That’s when his phone started ringing. 2:07 a.m., according to the cracked screen.

“Yeah?” he answered, voice hoarse.

“Mr. Walter Robinson?”

“Speaking.”

“Congratulations, sir. You’ve just been appointed President and CEO of G Indexing Group.”

He barked out a laugh. “You’ve got the wrong guy, pal. I fix air conditioners for a living. I didn’t apply for any corner office.”

“No mistake, Mr. Robinson. The outgoing president personally nominated you. The board voted unanimously an hour ago.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “How the hell—”

“No idea, sir. A car will be downstairs in ten minutes to bring you to headquarters.”

The line went dead.

Walter stared at the phone like it might bite him. “This is insane,” he said to the empty apartment. “President of some billion-dollar corporation? Me? No way. Somebody’s pranking me.”

From somewhere deep inside his chest—right under that burning leaf tattoo—a low, amused voice answered.

“It’s no prank, Walter. You asked for power. You asked for money. You asked for the world to finally know your name. Careful what you chew out in the desert at midnight, son. Deal’s a deal.”

He looked down. The tattoo pulsed once, like a heartbeat.

Outside, a black town car pulled up to the curb, hazards blinking in the quiet Phoenix night.

Walter Robinson was driven to the G Indexing Corporation headquarters. He felt nervous and still thought it was some kind of elaborate prank. Him—president of a multi-billion-dollar corporation? He sat there in the plush leather seat of the limo, wondering what he had just signed his life away to. He knew there was a price to pay, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to handle it when the time came.

When they arrived at headquarters, he was quickly whisked to his new office. He marveled at the opulence; the space was the size of a small football field. "Wow," he muttered as he walked toward the desk. He sat down and could have sworn the chair was custom-made for him.

One by one, he was introduced to the heads of each department. When his secretary was brought in, he suddenly felt his body growing hot. Come to think of it, anytime a woman came near him, he felt that molten lava burning inside his body. And when he shook their hands, it felt like he was being scorched.

After everyone had left—he'd made an excuse about needing time to catch up and that he'd call when he was ready—he turned to the thing inside him. "Why do I feel like I'm being cooked in your damn molten lava every time a woman gets near me? And when I shake their hands, I get burned."

The Molten One let out a wicked, husky laugh. "That, my friend, is the price you have to pay for power, influence, and riches."

"What are you talking about?"

"You can never be with a woman ever again. You can never touch them. And even if you so much as think about bedding a woman, you will suffer—and it will be excruciating."

"Wait!" Walter exclaimed.

But the Molten One just laughed harder.

"I don't want this deal anymore," Walter Robinson said in shock. "How can I stay away from women?"

"That is the price. Good luck—and goodbye. The day you fail is the day you burn... and then your soul will be mine."

Walter Robinson sat there, stunned and devastated. How could he have all this wealth and power, yet be unable to touch a woman? How could he survive without even thinking about bedding one? I'm doomed, he thought as he sat there crying, wondering why this had happened to him.

There was laughter in his head—a wicked laugh that made his skin crawl. He shuddered, wondering what sort of deal he had doomed his life into. He loved women and couldn't do without them. If the price of power, money, and fame was never bedding another woman again, then he'd rather be poor and a beggar. No sane man would see a woman with those perfect hips and full lips and not want to bed her. No way, he thought. He'd rather die than be used by a demon king as his toy and plaything. Come to think of it, demons like the suffering and frustration of people.

"I want my life back," he muttered, looking around, hoping the demon would answer him. And he did.

"And what would you sacrifice to have that pathetic life back? Are you not happy to have the world at your feet?"

"Not if I can't bed a woman," Walter Robinson growled. "How can I live without a woman—those soft skins, those full lips, and the pleasure they give?"

"Those are nothing—just things of the flesh. With time, you can come to understand, and you would be free from those lustful things."

"Fuck it, I don't want to be free. Let me be a slave to a woman—as long as I bed her, I'm okay. You can take your fucking power back."

"And what would you give in return?"

"I don't have anything," Walter Robinson growled. "I'm a poor man."

"I don't want riches," the demon king said with mocking laughter. "I want your manhood, and you can be free of all the vows you made."

"No fucking way am I giving you my nuts—it's still the same thing if you take them away."

"At least you can be with a woman," the voice said, grinning.

"No," Walter Robinson said. "If my nuts can't stand, what's the gain?"

"Well, you can make an offer. I'm all ears," the voice said.

Walter Robinson sat there, not knowing what to do or what to offer. He knew that if he was going to get out of this jam, the price he would pay would be big. Since he had nothing, and what the demon king wanted was a part of his body, he sat there thinking—which part of his body was he going to sacrifice? With tears in his eyes, he just couldn't come to a conclusion on what to lose just to be able to bed a woman.

What would you give if you were Walter Robinson? Hit the comments.