Come Hell or Hellfire
By Stix Eris
‘And we’re back in… three… two… one!’
She can feel the sweat start to pool on her brow, her upper lip, under her chin – and she’s not even under the lights yet. She imagines her makeup melting off her face, mid-interview. The crowd would erupt into laughter, pointing accusatory fingers at her proverbial clown face.
She wrings her sweaty hands together. For the millionth time, she picks and prods at anything that might give her away; anything that might reveal her as anything less than a woman. Her hands feel giant. She pulls nervously at the hem of her skirt and resists the urge to rub her chin for any sign of stubble. Suddenly, she has second thoughts, imagines turning tail and shoving through the various PAs and camera people and escaping into the night air. Then maybe moving to the Netherlands and changing her name entirely.
'Annnnnd we’re back, folks!' Johnny Melrose, the host, bellows from his spot on the top of the dais. He has a microphone in one hand. He’d be handsome without that bushy mustache he’s sporting. But, then again, it gives him exactly the sleazy vibe that one might expect from the host of this kind of show.
But for girls like her, it’s one of the few avenues they can take: appearing on a trashy tv show all about emphasizing the 'taboo' lifestyles of anyone society considers 'off center'. It’s either this or working the corner… or both. Either way, she’ll have to put up with a lot of degradation in the process. Yet again, she questions why she’s doing this. At best? A rich sugar daddy with poor eyesight could be the audience and choose to gift her a million dollars for her surgeries. At worst? She embarrasses herself on live television. No pressure.
'Scuse me, sweetie,' a voice interrupts her thoughts. The makeup artist, a stout woman with a pleasant face bustles through to blot her forehead. 'Nervous?' she asks, smiling gently.
She nods. 'Very.' She looks down at the woman and tries to catch her eye. 'I don’t think I can do this.'
The makeup artist frowns, pausing briefly. 'Of course you can!' She pats her arm. 'The people out there will love you!' Somehow she doubts this.
'I think this has all been a big mistake. I think I should...'
But then they're announcing her, the band is playing her intro music and the PA's are pushing her out on stage. She takes a steadying breath, smooths her skirt one more time for good measure and walks out to polite applause from the studio audience. She offers a small wave and sits down across from Johnny who offers his hand. His shake is firm, a little too firm, but she tries to keep her grip soft and ladylike.
There’s a glint in his eye, something she doesn’t like. He steeples his hands. 'So, Miss Veronica Everett, am I to understand that you are a woman trapped in a man's body?' he asks, cocking an eyebrow.
She chews the inside of her lip. 'In so many ways, yes. I prefer to think of it as, I've always been a woman... just have a few extra parts.'
'Speaking of parts...' She grimaces, knowing what's coming next. 'I'm sure the studio audience would love to know if you still have an innie or an outie... so to speak.' Chuckles arise from the crowd. Some people lean forward. A few others recoil in disgust at the thought. When she doesn't respond right away, he continues. 'What I'm asking is... have you had the big snip-snip?' He holds up two fingers, symbolizing scissors, and clicks them together several times.
'I haven't. It’s very expensive...' She starts.
He guffaws. 'So, you're still a man, then?'
She huffs, gently. 'No. I live my life as a woman.'
'But, how does that change anything? After all, I can dress up like a tiger, paint my face and wear fur. But that doesn't change the fact that, biologically, I'm still a human man.' The crowd murmurs in agreement.
She wants to scream at him; wants to burst out of her chair and tell him how many sleepless nights she spent praying to wake up differently. She wants to tell him how many drunken nights she spent wallowing in the reality that she was born in a body that she didn't relate to. She would tell him the joy she felt when she started growing out her hair or when she tried on her first pair of heels, the satisfaction she felt when she swallowed her first t-blocker.
But she doesn't.
She clasps her hands in her lap and grips them together so tight that her knuckles start to turn white. 'I'm afraid it's a little different. Being a woman is a lot more than looking the part. It's living it, too. It’s a long process. Expensive, too. If I could snap my fingers and change everything, I would. But, you can't change your body overnight. And, if you could, maybe you'd stop the fact that you're balding.' She bites back a smile.
His cheeks turn pink. 'Well, that certainly would be nice, wouldn't it?' He regains his composure. 'What would you say to folks who may not understand your lifestyle?'
She squares her shoulders and looks directly at the camera, feeling confidence surge through her veins. 'I would say that I'm just like anyone else. I have a job. I like to go out with my friends. I want to be treated with respect just like everyone else. My path just looks a little different.' She's proud of herself for the concise answer.
He smiles, slightly. 'Talk to me about dating. Are you seeing anyone? Do you date men? Women? Tigers?' He wiggles his eyebrows and the audience roars with laughter.
'I date men.' She leaves it at that, hoping he doesn't press, but certain that he will.
'Fair enough. So the bedroom becomes something of a sword fight, then?' he quips. The crowd bursts into rowdy laughter.
She feels embarrassment filling her cheeks with color. 'That's pretty private, don't you think?' She meets his gaze with a steely confidence, letting him know she's not happy with this line of questioning.
'The people want to know,' he says, simply.
'Sounds to me like you're curious.' She leans in flirtatiously, smirking. The crowd laughs, clearly anxious.
He lets out a throaty laugh, but she can see his jaw tensing. 'Well, that brings up a great question. These men that you see... do you disclose your condition to them?'
'It's not a condition,' she retorts. 'But yes, I make sure to let them know ahead of time. It's a matter of safety, after all.'
'For them? I'm inclined to agree.'
Her mouth grows into a thin line. 'For me, actually. It's very unsafe for me to go out with a strange man. My friend Janet was almost beaten to death by a man she went out with last month. It's a scary world for girls like us. You can't just trust anyone, these days.'
'And what do you say to the multitudes proclaiming that transsexuals are willing to do anything to get their surgeries? Even sex for money? Even committing heinous acts of violence? Why, just last week a man was murdered while jogging in Queens, and the cops are saying that they suspect the killer to be someone from your community.'
'There’s no grounds for that.' She holds up her hand, trying not to pay attention to how big it feels in relation to the rest of her body. She wonders if the audience notices it too. They are no doubt trying to pick her apart, find every masculine element of her. 'My community is full of vulnerable people. We don’t want to hurt anyone. We just want to live.'
There is a small beat of silence.
'With that, It’s time to go to commercial. Folks, give him a hand. Oh, sorry, give her a hand!' he says, over the applause. She catches it, even though the audience probably doesn't.
The minute the cameras are off, his smile fades. He's suddenly all business. She isn't sure if she should thank him for his time or flip him off. Before she can decide, she's swarmed by the makeup artist who is telling her how great she did; the sound guy starts fishing under her shirt to unhook her mic from her collar; and the producer who shakes her hand and gives her a placid smile before slipping her a check for $25. It's not much, but it'll pay for a meal and bus fare.
But she still can't get the host's words out of her head. It's true, a lot of her friends have been disappearing. The word on the street is that someone's hunting them down. It wouldn't be the first time. But the police always refuse to get involved unless they’re blaming the people who called them.
Johnny brushes her shoulder as he pushes past her. 'Hellfire,' he mutters in her ear, under his breath. But she hears him loud and clear. And it sends shivers down her spine.
'W-what?' She asks, but he’s already back onstage, working the crowd.
The whole bus ride home, she feels uneasy. Like someone is watching her. She presses herself against the window, against her own miserable reflection and tries to focus on the landscape whizzing by.
A face comes into view, someone waiting at the bus stop. Someone who might as well be her doppleganger – same height, similar build, same brown hair – but softer, somehow. Even her dress and boots look identical to the same ones that are sitting in her closet this very moment. But when the woman turns her head, it all fades away and her details seem to shift entirely. She wonders how self-obsessed she must be to find herself in some poor woman standing on the street.
She arrives home to her empty apartment and shuts the door behind her, immediately slipping off her coat and kicking off her shoes. Her toes are aching and she's not sure if she should blame her hose or her heels or both. Either way, she's got a long night ahead of her. She needs a bath and a foot massage. Her stomach grumbles and she adds 'dinner' to her to-do list. Absent-mindedly, she fills a pot with water and clicks on the stove.
She wanders through her bedroom and into the bathroom so she can start the bath, turning the knob all the way to its hottest setting before plopping herself on the corner of bed to peel off her tights. She unzips her skirt and sheds it like an extra layer of skin before starting on the meticulous task of unbuttoning her blouse while she meanders back into the kitchen to check the stove. The water has started to boil, bubbling like a witch's brew. She breathes it in, lets the steam caress her skin in the hopes that it'll help ease her nerves or, at the very least, open up her pores.
When she's finally free of her blousey prison, she slips it off and leaves it strewn on the edge of the recliner. She'll pick it up after her bath, she promises herself. But then again, she's had a long, difficult day. Maybe cleaning can wait until tomorrow.
She heads back to check the bath and dips her finger in. It's practically lava, just how she likes it. Back in the bedroom, she stands before her full-length mirror.
Her hair, still frozen from all the Aquanet, is piled on top of her head in an attempt at a bouffant. She doesn't like looking at herself in the mirror any longer than she has to. Her shoulders feel too wide, her face discordant to the makeup she's caked on. She pushes at her nose, as if she could mold it with clay; take her fingers and force it into submission. But, as per usual, it stays locked in place. She lets out a frustrated sigh.
She's still wearing her shape-wear. She's almost afraid to take it off, knowing that she'll have to grapple with the body underneath. She starts to unhook her bra when a movement out of the corner of her eye stops her dead in her tracks. She hurls around, to find her closet door wide open. She could swear it wasn't like that earlier. Hesitant, she steps towards it.
She swears she can see a figure hiding in there, amongst her dresses. A pair of eyes glinting in the dim glow of the moon. It frightens her. But the closer she gets, she realizes her eyes are playing tricks on her. It's nothing more than shadows creating silhouettes on the back of the closet.
A cold burst of air distracts her, a gust of wind from a window that she knows wasn't open earlier. She realizes now that it's more than just her imagination or a bout of paranoia – something is not right. Someone followed her home. Her head spins, considering how any one of those faceless audience members could've taken umbrage with her existence and decided to do something about it. She chides herself for being there in the first place. It was a dangerous risk to take, and now she's paying for it.
Suddenly, someone grabs her from behind, their arm wrapping around her neck. Terror rages through her body. She jabs her elbow into the attacker's ribcage, a move she learned from her friend Tina a few weeks ago when they were drinking in memory of their friend Carol, who had been the most recent of their crew to disappear. No note, no trail, no body... nothing. Tina had taken her by the arms and begged her to take care of herself. 'Listen, Vee, us girls gotta be able to defend ourselves. You gotta learn how to stick up for yourself,' she said, in her charming Brooklyn accent. She lit up a smoke in the alley and taught her right then and there.
Her attacker's breath catches and they trip backward. And she's suddenly eternally grateful for the impromptu lesson. She promises herself that, if she makes it out of this, she'll send Tina a fruit basket. She makes a beeline for the kitchen, hoping to grab one of those large carving knives she only uses on thanksgiving. The attacker sweeps their leg and she tumbles to the floor, face first. She bumps her nose, hard, and sort of hopes it's broken. Maybe she can use this as an opportunity to finally get that nose job. She grips at the carpet, trying to gain traction into the bathroom. Her hair dryer is lying on the counter and it could at least do some damage. If all else fails, she can at least get a door between them so she can catch her breath and maybe come up with some sort of a plan.
The attacker doesn't let up though. They pull at her legs and manage to flip her over. The stranger grips her around the neck and she struggles, wriggling her back in an attempt to escape their grasp. When that doesn't work, she claws against their arm, her red fingernails leaving ghostly white lines across their skin. She can feel her heart beating in her forehead as the air starts to leave her lungs.
She grows more and more desperate, her hands fumbling to make purchase until her finger catches at the edge of their ski mask. She starts to peel it away. At the very least, maybe she can get a look at the person who will take her life. In a flurry of motion, she pulls it off and the attacker’s grip loosens.
She can’t really make sense of what she’s seeing. She finds herself gazing into her own face. The woman is her mirror image, but perfected. Her chin is softer, her lips more full contrasted against an elegant, sloping nose. Everything about her is more delicate and feminine. If she could create the ultimate version of herself, this is exactly what she would look like, down to the inch.
She’s stunned. The woman’s face is full of guilt. Her cheeks are colored from exertion. She opens her mouth, preparing to speak. Maybe she can reason with this woman, with herself. Instead, she cries out in pain. She looks down to find a knife jutting out her ribcage, straight through her lung. The woman pulls it out and goes in again, gritting her teeth as she does, the same teeth they broke when she fell off the swing at five years old.
She gathers her energy and kicks her leg out, striking the woman in her pelvis. She stumbles to her feet, Veronica following suit.
'W-who are you?' she manages, starting to cough up blood.
The woman doesn’t respond, just shoves her backward into the bathtub, now overflowing with water. She lands, her back cracking on the porcelain edge of the tub. Pain sparks through her body, down to her feet which are sprawled out on the fuzzy bath mat.
Her double advances, looming over her.
From under the glass surface, Veronica can see that her eyes are blazing with anger. But underneath it, there’s something even more horrific: fear. Her fingers tighten around Veronica’s throat. She kicks, jolts, her legs convulsing. She tries to pry her assailant's iron grip from her throat, to no avail. The edges of her vision start to go black. She thinks of her friends at the bar. She thinks of her parents, how they won’t know she’s gone, or worse, won’t care.
She doesn’t regret her life. Not one bit. She just regrets not living more fully. She regrets the chances she didn’t take. She regrets looking at the ground when she walked, hanging her head low to not invite any trouble. She regrets being ashamed. She regrets not wearing that pretty dress in her closet, the one she was too afraid to wear in public because of the dangerous slit running up the thigh.
And then it’s over.
Her body goes limp. Her lips parted in a soft sigh, her hair floating around her like a gorgon. At least her eyes are closed and the woman doesn’t have to make eye contact with her own corpse anymore.
She stands, wiping the sweat off of brow, smearing some blood across her forehead in the process. She makes eye contact with the mirror and is surprised to find that she still looks somewhat presentable. But, after all that, she doesn’t care to look at herself anymore. She doesn’t want to see her eyes, starting to brim with tears.
It was necessary, she reminds herself. The ends justify the means.
In the other room, the pot is bubbling over, spitting water. She turns the knob and it subsides, just like the light leaving her own eyes mere moments ago. She takes a heavy breath, trying to relieve the pressure in her chest. It’s over, she thinks. Thank god, it’s all over. It’s never an easy process. But this one might’ve been the worst one yet. This was never on the table. This was not what she agreed to.
But, then again, she didn’t look at the fine print. She was all too eager to sign her life away. She replays the night in her head. She sat in the audience, sunglasses and a scarf around her head, watching herself stumble through an interview that was clearly meant to embarrass her.
The host was one of them. She had her suspicions initially but she’s sure now. He almost blew it all near the end. Mentioning the Club is forbidden. He must know that. But he’s rich and semi-famous, so he must think the rules don’t apply to him.
The landline rings next to her. She takes a moment to ground herself before picking up the receiver. 'Well done, Miss Everett,' the voice on the other line coos. 'You’re one step closer to the body you’ve always dreamed of.'
'So, I’m done then…? I’m square? I’ve done everything you’ve asked.'
'It’s obvious that you want this. You’re one step closer to paying your debt. You’re one step closer to permanency. We just need you to do one more job…'
She tries to mask her shock through heaving breaths. 'W-what? I thought this was my last job?'
The voice lets out a bemused chuckle. 'Oh no. Your contract with the Hellfire Club remains firmly intact. You have one more task to complete. Last, second to last, what does it matter? You’ll be a free woman soon. No more questions, no more nasty looks. No one will ever question you again.'
'What do I have to do?' she asks, breathless at the thought of another ruthless job.
'We’ll be in touch,' the voice intones. 'And, Miss Everett?'
'Yes?' Her voice tumbles out, shaky.
'The Hellfire Club thanks you for your contribution.'
Stix Eris is a drag performer, trans rights activist and writer in the Portland area. She is known for her eclectic signature style, outspoken political platform and a flair for the theatrical. She is grateful to have won several titles in her drag work including 'Mx Maniac' and 'Drag Me to Hell' and was named Cincinnati's Best Drag Performer in 2022. In 2025, her work was featured in the Cincinnati Fringe Festival – a two week long festival of theatrical works from all over the nation. Her play, 'Traitors', was picked to perform on the main stage and was awarded the Critic's Pick. Most recently, she won first place in the 2025 Books by the Bank contest in the adult prose category and was published in the 2025 Navy Pen Magazine Fall issue. By day, she's a librarian and loves to help other people find materials that unlock their imagination and make them feel seen. When she's not at work or performing, she enjoys iced coffee, hanging with her cat Charlie and engaging in any creative endeavor she can get her hands on. Follow Stix on Instagram at @stixenstones
