Hell en Pointe | Alastor ✓

chapter 1

Today you decided that your life was completely and utterly pointless.

You were an Overlord in Hell — a very powerful one, in fact — and yet you were constantly and consistently bored out of your freaking mind. You lived in a large country-style estate on the southern side of Hell, and kept mostly to yourself in glorious solitude.

At least, that's how you perceived it at first. You've been here for over a year now (or around that time frame since time in Hell is difficult to understand), and have made approximately... You thought about it for a moment... Zero friends! Aside from the bartender at Boils & Toils a few miles down the road.

You remember distinctly how you died — you broke your neck. Onstage. In front of everyone. While you were dancing to Don Quixote. You were doing fouettés (of all fucking things, like, the easiest thing ever for you to do) and your pointe shoe got caught in a divot on the stage and sent you tumbling down. Your head fell onto a prop and snapped in half. Everything went black.

It wasn't so much a painful death as it was an embarrassing one.

You woke up in Hell, and were acutely aware of exactly how you got here — you made a deal with a Demon. But not just any Demon. The Radio Demon. Alastor, you think his name was. You hadn't seen his shadowy, mysterious figure in over a decade, when you made a deal in your early twenties to become the most famous, talented, and popular ballet dancer in all of America.

And it worked. Somehow, the Radio Demon had the power to spread the word of your existence through media and you became rich and successful at the drop of a hat, even though you had your soul to pay for it.

And now here you fucking are. In Hell. Fantastic.

You sauntered to the mirror and smoothed out your flared skirt. You touched your long, dark brunette hair carefully, almost purring at the feeling as you combed through it with your fingers. Another weird thing about being a Demon in Hell? You look really, really, really different from how you looked on Earth.

So much so that you had cat ears in the appearance of hair sticking out on the top of your head, feline black and yellow eyes, and small whiskers on your cheeks, hardly noticeable. However, you did not have a tail (thank God).

You didn't understand it, at first. But then you remembered over time that you had over fourteen cats living in your condo in Northwest Kentucky and quickly comprehended your case.

You had a staring contest with yourself in the luxurious mirror, staring at your own voluminous and extremely long beautiful black eyelashes, your slim face and perfect nose. You weren't too bad looking on Earth, but you were nearly flawless here in Hell (aside from a zit or two [just kidding]).

Your hands then found themselves touching your neck, where a permanent, thick black line circled around your throat like a 3D tattoo. It looked like a choker, like some sort of removable jewelry, but you could not remove it. Trust me, you had tried. Shit was not coming off.

You sighed and then whisked yourself over to your full-body mirror, contemplating what you should do today. Maybe a visit to the bar again? Maybe a stroll outside to murder innocent passerby? Just kidding. You wouldn't murder them! That's heartless and cold. You would absolutely annihilate them because most of them are rapists and abusers and criminals in Hell because they fucking deserved it anyway.

Let's just say you almost immediately rose to power when you arrived here. Even you're not certain how or why, but when you appeared in Hell, you noticed that you had so much power you could hardly control it. With the snap of a finger, you could conjure up deep dark phantoms and ebony shadows electrified with light pink and murder anyone who disrespected you with a blink of an eye. To put it simply, you became an infamous Overlord in over a week and ruled southern Hell.

You thought it was funny that here in the south, most everyone here is exactly that — southern. And I mean southern. Like yeehaw boot-scootin-boogie honkytonkbadonkidonk southern. American southern. It's like the universe still had a certain order of things even in Hell. Everyone around here had an accent. And I mean everyone.

One thing they lacked was the southern charm. However, they did have the southern manners. Or at least they gained those manners when you showed up. You nearly beat it into every single Denizen that lived here in the south.

Your prowess, seductive demeanor, and powerful gall (and also to put it plainly, obviously your fucking eyes, ears and whiskers too) quickly gifted you the name "Miss Kitty" by not only the territory in which you ruled, but also all of Hell. A little reference to Gunsmoke, you guess. The people down here are soooo creative.

Additionally (as if it couldn't be any fucking worse), they also very intelligently dubbed you "Miss Hell En Pointe" because of the iconic black pointe shoes you carried around practically everywhere if you decided you desired a dance. They typically hung over your shoulders like a purse. You guessed this other nickname was from the Pistol Annies song. Sometimes you feel like being southern is a curse, especially with the insufferable ass people down here in Hell with their oh-so-creative nicknames.

You sighed and tightened the two ribbons tied loosely around your ears atop your head, and then smoothed down your skin-tight leotard spaghetti-strap top, ensuring that it's light pink hue was not disrupted by any loose hair or fuzz. Your black skirt seemed to be flawless, and your transparent dark tights had no rips. Around your waist was a tied, comically large black ribbon-bow thing, the bow flaring largely in the back.

You grinned in the mirror to make sure there was no meat stuck in your teeth (you were a proud carnivore), and stuck your index finger on your sharp, elongated canine tooth. You pricked your finger and flinched back. "Ouch." Thankfully, you didn't draw blood.

Last but not least, you allowed your hands to grace over your porcelain skin. Perfect. Smooth as always.

You then sauntered to your humongous dresser and sprayed on some perfume, looking down at the bottle. It read "Roses & Recluse." You squinted your eyes at the bottle, rereading the last word and then rolling your eyes. Very funny, universe. Yet again, it likes to point at that you are very, very alone.

The wonderful aroma filled your nostrils with hints of strong vanilla, pomegranate, and the faint scent of blood. Your favorite. You smiled.

You decided to go out today for a walk, and decided to cross over into some other territories today to explore. You had nothing better to do, and if any other Overlords were to get angry with you for it, you'll just show them exactly what "Hell En Pointe" means.