UNDER THE HOUSE

Directors: Ignacio Estrada and Kyra Husen

Models: Michelle Zsong, WIlliam Remoundos, Manoc Joa-Griffith

Art: Tiffany Gao, Mimi Gurrola

Beauty: Roxana Mora

Creative: Viann Chan, Alyssa Lee

Editorial: Melissa LaFountain

Fashion: Aladar Bell, Michelle Hui

Photography: Chris Desir, Arina Danilina, Caroline Graves

Set Design & Props: Jesus Mayen

A Hell for the Living by Melissa Lafountain

Most people will tell you that Hell is where the bad people go when the sun finally sets on their lives. That it is reserved for the dead, a punishment only known to those who have succumbed to some perilous fate. But nobody speaks of the Hell that exists for the living. It blazes for those who sin so recklessly that punishment loses its patience for death. And thus, here is where I find myself.

I would love to claim that I’ve been drenched in good luck. Yes, I’ve found love– and more than once, I might add. My fiance is ethereal, kind, and strong. She sees the best in everyone, myself included. We talk of a brilliant future, with children and grandchildren, spiral staircases and picket fences, millions of dollars, and an eternity of happiness. And I think she believes in it, too. She looks at me and sees a lifetime of good fortune and a place to call home. Up to this point, I have tried my hardest to keep it that way.

But when she’s gone, I let the mask slip. I wait until I hear the familiar groan of our garage door closing, and I am myself, in my truest form. I check my reflection, scanning for any imperfections before I venture to the basement. It is here where I finally get to see who I call home and I need to look my best. I trot down the stairs, excitement building with each step. By the time I reach the bottom, I’m almost giddy. I nab the tape roll from my toolbox and head to my little secret. I push the carpet aside to reveal the small door in the wood floor and peel it open with my fingertips. Even from here, I can hear faint snores and stirring. I tiptoe down the ladder at the door opening, careful not to let a rung creak. Can’t wake them, now can I?

And at long last, I see her. Eyes shut, lips parted just enough to let out slow, peaceful breaths. I stand in the corner for a moment, admiring her in this state. She is so beautiful, but even more so when she’s awake.

I pull off a piece of tape as quietly as I can and start to creep toward the body of the woman I love. I swiftly press the tape to her mouth, then nudge her out of sleep. When her eyes flick open, I greet her with a toothy smile. She takes a deep breath, maybe to scream, but to no avail. There’s a look of panic in her mesmerizing, stone-gray eyes. I sigh.

“Hasn’t it been long enough that you aren’t afraid of me anymore?” I ask, hurt in my voice. She shakes her head ferociously, and I feel the flames rolling in. I reach for her, then think better of it.

“You know why I did this, right?” I ask. She rolls her eyes. I ignore her, continuing.

“I did this for us. You know I couldn’t get out of my engagement. But I needed you. And I know you needed me. We need each other, and this is the only way we could keep our love alive.”

I explain it like it is the most obvious thing in the world. Because to me, it is. I know it’s wrong, of course. Nobody gets rewarded for stealing a person. But I feel like I’m out of options. I don’t like myself for what I have done, but I know that I would hate myself without her. I just wish she felt the same way.

“Anyway…” I start. “I just wanted to come down to see you. The fiance’s out and nobody is around to hear any commotion down here…so I suppose I could remove the tape from your mouth if you’d like?”

But even before I finish my question, I know the answer I have to choose. She’s already started yelling through the tape, and she’ll undoubtedly be loud enough to alert the neighbors without it on. It’s a risk I can’t take, so I decide against it. I tell her I’ve changed my mind and she continues to yell.

It is too painful to stay in there and watch her be angry with me. I’ve been reminded enough of my punishment for what I had done, and I’m ready to don my mask again. I slowly turn from the woman I love, trying to block out her screams, and step out of the Hell I’ve found myself in. But as I make my way up the ladder and her yells start to fade, the burning only magnifies.

There is no pain quite like hurting those you love. I hate to see her this way. But I know that not seeing her at all would be far worse. So I deal with this ache in my chest and the sin that I’ve committed. I try to see myself as my fiance does, as a home. Not only for her but for my lover in the basement. I reassure myself that I am not a monster, but a man who keeps what he loves close.

When my fiance returns, the mask has been firmly reglued to my face. I am again playing the role of dutiful beau, protector, and key to her beautiful future.

What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. She just needs to stay out of the basement.