Excerpt: Death by Design

Prelude: Welcome to Hell!

Robin Atwood awoke to the sound of knocking at her door. She groaned knowing it was far too early to get up and threw the blankets over her head. The knocking continued. When she was certain it would not cease, she sauntered her way to the door in the only outfit she owned, the outfit she'd died in. The slinky black cocktail dress which stopped just below her knees moved around her curves with every step she took. The strap that should be clinging to the top of her right shoulder often made it's way down her arm, hanging loosely and providing little to no support. If she'd known this was the dress she was going to end up in for eternity, perhaps she would have chosen something more... practical. “Yes, coming” she called out through the unyielding pounding that now echoed in her head.
As she pulled the door open she saw a short, stocky man who was mostly bald and seemed to have met his demise in a bathrobe, standing before her. It was her neighbor, Mr. Hosely, doing his routine reminder to keep her grass trimmed to precisely one inch and no more. He wagged a wrinkly finger at her, mumbling something about standards and stormed off toward his driveway. Mr. Hosely reminded her, every Monday at 6:30 am, that she needed to keep her grass at precisely one inch. What it really reminded her of was the fact that it was Monday, a work day, and that she was running late. Of course, this needed no reminding since every day was Monday, and every day she was running late.
As she locked the front door and headed for her car, the balmy, humid air stuck to her skin. It was a stifling 103 degrees outside, a temperature which seemed to choke the life out of humans and plants alike. She squinted through the piercing, bright rays of the sun and slipped inside her Volkswagon. As usual she made four attempts to start the car before the fifth turn of the key actually caught and the engine choked to life.
By lunch time the weather had taken a drastic turn, as it generally did. The chill from outside, where heavy snow fell and the air registered a crisp -12, ran through the office biting cheeks as it did. Robin slipped a dirty, white jacket over her shoulders and sneezed, holding her cup of cold tea tightly in her hands. She would have been pleased if, for only a moment, the tea would bring warmth to her hands and the rest of her body. Then again, it wouldn't be very 'hell' like for such wishes to be granted.
As she leaned over the article she was working on she saw a flash of dark colors fly past her 33rd floor window. A smile creeped into her lips as she leisurely made her way to the window and, despite the cold, opened it to pier down below.
Approximately 5 stories below her a man, looking to be the age of thirty to thirty-three lay in a large, rope net struggling to free his arm which appeared to be severely tangled and likely broken in at least one place. Robin giggled and shook her head in amusement and wonder. Apparently, this man had not received the office memo that retractable nets would be placed every six floors to prevent people from committing suicide. Those went in yesterday. Poor Mr. Thirty-fourth floor would have to try his hand at something far more clever if he expected to succeed.
After all, everyone knows the first rule of Hell is that no one gets out and no one dies. Of course, there were ways getting around those rules. Robin knew all to well what those ways were – it was her job to investigate and write about them – both for the individual seeking such accommodations and for those that wished to eradicate them. While she didn't publicly take sides, Robin felt a sense of heroism in helping others succeed in getting out of Hell, and onto Earth.