I have been asked to go to hell, bathing in planetary red.
I have been invited to listen to the soundtrack of hell, and I have complied.

I am walking on mud, while I listen. It is low tide on the river Dee estuary. Wales on my left side. West Kirby on my right. Dragons and unicorns and a phoenix without feathers, squawking ahead.

This hell has no fire. I walk and I smile.

*

Hell for me is that print by el Bosco. Giant birds and giant insects with mouths full of naked legs. Boiling oil descending on brightly coloured people.

I would observe this hell very slowly. It was proudly displayed above my father’s desk. Bichos raros. That white porcelain enigmatic man smiling, while a myriad creatures boiled or were munched by alien looking types. I was six and I would draw them. I liked the antennae. And the pointy shoes.

*

The track goes on. The mud goes on.

Hell for me is also a sentence by my grandmother. A celebration:

            “I want to go to hell”, she would say. “It is more fun than heaven”.
I would cover my mouth, not daring to laugh too loud. I was a very good girl, at four. At five. At seven. But my grandmother explained she had always been bad. Very bad. Una chica mala. And we would burst out laughing.
“I will come and visit you in hell, Abuelita”.

Yes, of course. We will wear red, always, and have shiny green highlights on our hair. We will eat fried blood. With onions.

I crave some fried blood now, while walking on the mud, listening to hell, bathing in this rojo planetario. I was fed fried blood for real, as a child. By my fiery grandmother. Chicken blood, poured on a round white plate, straight after the poor beast decapitation at her crafty hands. I would see the blood coagulate. I would help cut it into squares. Very satisfying. Then, hop! into the pan, along those thinly sliced onions that made me cry. Happy tears, with my grandma, una chica tan mala. It was delicious.

*

*

Gone to hell, for a bit, this eve.
Sí, encantada.