The Judge of Sloth sees me soon.

My name is John Smith, and I am dead. To be more accurate, I am in Purgatory, where I spend the remainder of my sentence paying penance for my sins so I may enter heaven.

My sentence, at least from what my ghostly lawyer tells me, should be somewhat light. Purgatory places those who sinned of sloth in the middle of the mountain, between Wrath and Avarice. I am sent to pay for my sloth immediately, so I already know there will not be a punishment that hurts too much. Although I have heard that the punishment for Sloth is nothing light either. More so in the middle rank in terms of severity.

It is confusing, though. I have hit people in anger in the past. I envy plenty, and am jealous of far more than I have been grateful. Yet, I am still sent to the punishment for the idle. I hurt far more than I help, and indulge in many a disgusting turn. Yet, I am told I haven’t done enough. Is what I have done not important? Are my sins not enough to convict? I have hurt much more than I have saved, and yet I come to Purgatory. I will ask my lawyer of the nature of my sentence. My lawyer whispers to me my sentence. I was idle in life, for I had done nothing.

I do not believe that in the slightest. I had done so much. I had broken so much. I had crippled my brother when he was barely two. I had drunk so much that my niece lost her innocence. I have robbed those less fortunate than I. I have buried my guilt instead of facing it. I do not know why I am here, for I deserve far worse.

The Judge calls me for my trial.

I follow my lawyer along the Hall of the Dead and feel the stares of thousands of envious sinners melt into my figure, begging for their own trials to start. We reach a double door emblazoned with gold and jade, with depictions of various gods of love, lust, and pleasure all over. All in all, I had expected the Judge of Sloth to be less gaudy. I look around the judgment hall and see, in stark contrast to my expectations, an empty room with but a chair and a table. As I walk closer, I realize that the table, stretching from one end of the hall to the other, holds a small glass of seemingly lukewarm water. I look up and feel as if I am told to sit. I do.

From the other end of the hall, I see the air begin to thicken, then crumple. It began form around, hugging a figure that is quickly materializing. I sit in amazement as what I can only assume is an angel forms only a few meters from me.

As quickly as I am in awe, I am disappointed. The figure resembles a hunch-back gripping a staff made of wood. The wood itself is of a pure white, or marble shaped to be a wooden staff. I can’t decide. Rotten wings hang limp from its back, which confirms my suspicion of it being an angel, if a bit dilapidated. Its face seems to be corroded from what I can only assume was once a rather handsome visage. Now, it resembles maybe a marble sculpture, perhaps by Bernini, that some fiend has disfigured.

The figure reaches into its handbag and shakily places a placard on the table. On the placard, it reads:

The Fairy King Belphegor, acting Judge of Sloth.

The eroded face of my Judge wobbled on what I can only assume is its neck, from the clump of cloth, before it suddenly crashed down onto the table, slamming its head on the desk as putrid ichor bled from the mess of silver hair and cloth. Maybe the Judge of Sloth was exhausted from being forced to judge souls for eternity without rest. Perhaps that should be my punishment.

Then, I hear an echo. It doesn’t seem to come from any particular place in the hall, but I feel that it is my Judge speaking to me.

I am a killer,

He is a killer,

She is a killer...

The echo pauses for a moment before it restarts, this time in a softer, more so motherly tone.

We are all killers, walking zombies that want to scratch our itch.

The echo stops, this time for what I can only perceive as 10 or so minutes. I sit in silence, wallowing in torturous tension before my judge restates the same poem. I clamp my hands together and lick my lips. Why is everything so dry here? Why is there light with no window or lightbulb? Why is it still bleeding? What am I being tried on? That’s an easy one—my idleness. What of them? What have I done that has damaged so much due to my idleness? This is unfair. Why should I be tried for being lazy every once in a while?

For the first time in a while, I will speak to someone other than my lawyer.

Why am I here? What have I done that has made me guilty of the Sin of Sloth?

The prosecutor before me doesn’t respond. My mind starts racing. In my confusion, I start to confess.

I’ve done evil I confess.

When I was six years old, I fought with my baby brother and was punished. So I took his teddy bear and tore it apart, even though it was something he loved. He and I never spoke again when I moved out.

When I was little, my friends started drinking, and so I did. That led to me missing many chances, god-given and all.

When I was 17, my drinking led to me beating my niece. I’ve never forgiven myself. I repent!

The judge did not respond. Instead, it opted to continue reciting its verse.

If I am guilty of anything, it should be of wrath! Or envy! Or avarice! Or lust! I was never idle!

 I cried out.

Who do you think you are?! Nobody worked harder than I, especially with what I was given! Have you ever dragged your overdosed mother from the bathroom to the kitchen where you can get her Narcan?! Have you ever taken care of your father like he was a baby?! How can you blame me for wanting a drink?! Nobody deserved one more than me!

The judge finally responds. It raises a bony, thread-like hand that stretches across the table until it stops right above the cup of water on the table’s midsection. The shivering hand then proceeds to dip a finger into the cup, submerging only until the first knuckle. My judge then begins to stir the small cup of water, slowly at first. My judge picks up the pace and then in a final climax of excitement, tips the cup over and retracts his hand back to its body, rubbing its wet finger on what I can only assume is its lips.

I don’t understand.

Then, my judge restates the poem:

I am a killer,

He’s a killer,

She’s a killer...

We are all killers walking zombies, TRYING TO SCRATCH OUR ITCH—

For a moment, the screech of my Judge rattles throughout the halls, causing me to clasp my hands over my ears in the hope that it would dampen the horrific sound.

What did it mean? What did this have to do with idleness? Why am I here in the midst of my judgment? Why can I not explain myself?

Why am I so thirsty?

Why am I so thirsty?

My throat closes up in an instant. Only moments prior I had felt content, but now I feel as though I would begin to wither away if I did not drink immediately. This thirst was greater than any discomfort I had ever felt when I was alive; it permeated my very being. Then, I remember the glass of water that was on the table. The glass of water that my Judge had already partook in, and had left none for me.

My judge does not reply. It finishes sucking its finger dry, before slumping over and slamming its head back onto the table. I don’t know what to make of it. I was thirsty, but there was no more water. Whatever water was left was dirtied and spilled all over the table. I suppose my judge was thirsty, but I was too. Why did it think it deserved the water more than I?

I mumbled,

I am a killer,

He is a killer,

She is a killer...

We are all killers trying to scratch our itch...

Then, I understood.

I saw my judge shift from his rest and, from underneath his end of the table, hand me a jigger of water. I grasp the handle and tilt the jigger to drink deeply. I shut my eyes and then, in a flash of light, I was at