Persephone
When she dances, Annabel feels alive.
Heat pours from her as she gyrates tightly with Raven, slick flesh against black mesh, thigh between thighs in time to bass so strong it seems her dead heart beats. It fills her, narrowing to an insistent throb at her core that becomes all she is and all that matters.
She's certain she'll burst with just a little more and oh right there and oh. god. She screams, but God is the farthest thing from her mind.
God doesn't live here.
Then again, no one does.
Tortured souls writhe in exquisite death agonies, radiating heat from the hellfire booming beneath the pit-laden floor. Slick with tears, blood and every bodily fluid imaginable they press together, pushing back back back from their inescapable yet unknown fates: some already damned; some yet to be saved; all alike in their too-human fear.
Annabel isn't afraid anymore. Fear is an emotion and emotions are for the living, something she knows she hasn't been for some time.
She's Death's bitch, and for her the party never ends.