Hell exists in Venezuela, and I am one of its janitors.

My routine is simple: I wake up early and prepare my guayoyo (a way of making coffee in Venezuela) with just a teaspoon of ground coffee to make it last longer. Normally, I sit and listen to the motorcycles, footsteps, and the voices of mothers walking their children to school, but lately, there’s only silence. The air that was once fresh now feels sour. I then get ready for work before my mother wakes up. I check my phone for any mention of the devils, an easy task since almost no one dares to talk about them and for days, there has been nothing to erase. You’d be surprised how sensitive the devils are when people talk about them. Finally, I grab a piece of bread with a bit of margarine and head to work.

I walk through the narrow streets of Limbo, deformed by the roots of hacked trees creeping through concrete. Houses stacked on top of one another splitting streets in two, creating new paths as families grow.

For an outsider, finding their way anywhere would be impossible. Having lived here all my life I know it like the back of my hand. These days, due to the lack of transportation, it takes me 45 minutes to get to work when it used to take only 20.

When I finally arrive to hell, I’m greeted by the witches who, despite being neighbors suffering the same misery as everyone else, they treat us with a superiority that only their weapons allow them to sustain. They thoroughly check my bag, my ID, and my phone. Disappointed to find nothing, they let me inside, I put on my work uniform and start cleaning.

I used to be proud of it you know? My mother taught me since I was little that every space should be kept clean, that it reflected our state of mind. She used to say that despite being “humble” her house was much cleaner than the ones of the “wealthy” people she worked at. She also said, “If you’re going to be sad, it’s better to be sad in a clean and organized space” and following her teachings, I work to keep a clean space for these poor souls.

Unfortunately, the witches make it harder each day. One of them had the brilliant idea to let these poor souls drown in their own filth, all to impress the devils — as if the devils didn’t use the witches like mere puppets.

Since then, my work hours have been reduced from seven to three. Now, I only have to clean the witches’ filth in their rest areas and the building’s façade. And if there’s one thing they excel at, it’s leaving places worse than they found them.

The last step of my routine is walking around the sides of the building, cleaning up anything that might have fallen from the windows. It was during one of these rounds that I found my first “napkin.”

Normally, if I saw a napkin on the ground, I would have thrown it away without a second thought. But when I picked this one up I noticed something written in pencil. Reading it made my already aching heart sink to the ground, making the next few seconds feel like minutes. I searched for the author on the windows above me, hoping it was a mistake or a joke left by the witches, but instead I saw small shoes hanging from the barred windows—mostly blue and pink sneakers. That’s when I noticed for the first time all the objects hanging from other windows: ribbons, necklaces, bracelets and any object that would help any of the people outside, identify their loved ones.

Suddenly, I heard the distorted sound of the bell, loud enough to snap me back to reality. I rolled up the letter and hid it in my lunchbox, next to my rosary, so that the Virgin—if she exists—could protect it from the witches and keep them from taking it away or worse. I was already late but since no one was around I pretended to have finished my work routine and headed for the exit. There, the other workers were lined up, being searched as usual.

As I approached, my heart pounded faster. After a while, I heard one of the witches call my name. Apparently, she had gestured for me to come, but I hadn’t noticed, too lost in my nerves. For some reason, the witch asked to check my lunchbox first. I felt a burning heat all over my body while cold sweat tried to cool me down. She opened it and saw the rosary with the paper inside. I repeated the prayers my mother had taught me in my head, skipping the parts I didn’t remember and repeating the ones I did in hopes the virgin wouldn’t mind. I felt an eternity pass, imagining how they would send me to hell without anyone to tell my mother—a “disappearance” just like the others.

But the witch just smiled and asked, “You don’t have a snack? I’m starving.” I gave her the mango I hadn’t finished, and she let me go.

Once I was far enough for them to see me, I almost collapsed. I sat down for a while and when I calmed down I reopened the napkin.

Through the creases and stains I could see dried marks of water, little drops between the letters that told the author’s parents, “I’m okay, I miss you, and I hope to see you soon.”

I wish I knew who they were so that I could deliver the letter, but it had no name so I took it home.

It’s been seven months and 1,601 napkins since I started my secret collection. I say “secret” because the devils have personally ensured that neighbors, friends, and even family turn into harpies through empty promises. These letters are my motivation to keep working, hoping that one day I can find their recipients.

I’d like to think there’s a special hell for the devils who made this possible, but then I remember—they designed the worst place on earth themselves.