I was in a terrible mood when I wrote this...
The table you’re lying on is slippery with blood. Your pathetic whimpers are a source of laughter and fulfilment for them. For him. You know the feel of his hand as well as he knows the bloodied skin of your back. He knows how hard every flick of the whip should be to make you scream out loud and then louder and louder still until your throat cracks and bleeds and you know what he will do then.
He knows every inch of flesh you bare; every vein and every hair that rests above your bones and you know every callous on his palm and the count of threads on every whip he owns.
Yet, you don’t know who he is and he knows not the man he wounds.
The unknown torturer laughs- a cold evil filled cackle and you know more than just the whip awaits. You brace yourself, silently begging him to stop but you know he won’t and you know better than to hope but you try anyway. It’s no use. Something slams into your skull and rattles your eyes in their sockets; you can feel your teeth loosen.
And then it stops.
There’s no more ringing. No more whips. No more pain and you don’t know what to do. For so many years it’s always been the same. Pain, some water and then more pain. It has never stopped; never abated. Why now?
Somehow, you know that what is to come is worse than all the hurt you’ve known. More chilling than all the betrayals you’ve faced and more trying than all the labours they’d forced upon you.
The twelve tasks of Hercules. Bah! Did Hercules have an anchor strapped to his leg? Did Hercules know nothing in life but dread? Did Hercules know that regardless of whether he finished or not- he would never die?
But you still did it. Still finished all those lasted tasks only to get re-thrown into this limbo of never-ending torture. Walked out of one black hole only to step in an abyss full of them- each one pulling in another direction until your heart shreds itself into billions of pieces and there’s nothing left in you.
There are no days and nights in this realm. No way of telling time but to count the beats of that black heart upon which you are forced to stand for eternity.
You sold your soul to the Devil and pay the price after death.
They say one must fear death- that it will be painful. But it’s not. One moment you’re on Earth and the next- you’re gone. It’s like a drive you don’t remember or a night you spent hitting the happy juice- not even a blur of what might’ve happened or where you might’ve gone.
Until it hits you are that realization fills every crevice in your being and every tear in your soul. You’re dead. You’re not on Earth and you’re never going back. And so you spend the next few minutes coming to terms with that and then wishing you go to Heaven.
But there is no heaven. Well there is a Heaven, but it’s not at all what people make it out to be.
Imagine a place as vast as an Arctic wasteland, filled with speakers and stereos and tables piled high with plates of food. The walls are strewn with banners and smatterings of stars and constellations litter the night sky like sequins on a dark dress. The air is filled with the tangible scent of fireworks and of fresh clean air. It’s almost perfect. Almost.
The dead partygoers do not understand what this place is for all they see is the Arctic wasteland. For them, there are no streamers, no beautiful banners or fireworks. The dead cannot see colour; they cannot smell the food. The dead have no working ears to hear the music with and have nothing left of their imagination to even think up anything more than a crowded concert hall in a power-cut before the concert even starts. Being dead, they have no need for food- and besides, why would one want to eat something they cannot smell or taste? And the stars? Oh, the beautiful, stunning mass of sparkles- what must the ghosts think of them? To those who cannot see colour, what more are glittering sequins on black velvet than invisible?
Heaven is nothing more than the kinder parts of Hell wrapped in a pretty blanket. At least in Hell you don’t have to wander in solitude for long before someone comes to take that murderous solace away.
Forever alone- even in a crowd of millions because everyone around you is the same. Namelss, faceless- timeless.
And then you finally realize what the torturer has given you today as his special punishment- TIME. Time in this place of never-ending darkness is eternal. There is no beginning or end because you’re always somewhere in between. Neither dead nor really alive. And for you, free time is the worst treatment in the world because now your mind is allowed to dawdle on things you’ve kept long suppressed. There are no impending wounds to endure nor chilling silences to make sense of. Here, in this moment, suspended above the void, you are able to think without restraint and it is slowly destroying you from the inside.
Your thoughts stray to a time when the sun shone bright and you still remembered how to smile. How easy life was then. No sorrows, no pain- everything was just dandy. And then you fast-forward to the day everything fell apart. There were storms and fires and so many screams. You can feel the need to cry causing a pressure beneath your eyelids but you’re too dehydrated to even shed a few drops of sorrow.
Her face comes into your head- the dark eyes of a woman in white. Temptation. She looked so sweet and innocent. What could possibly go wrong? You scoff.
E v e r y t h i n g.
And everything that could go wrong did in the worst ways possible. And yet, even death in the most brutal manner could not prepare you for eternal torment.
In a way you think yourself like Tantalus. While the latter was forced to stand in a pool of water beneath low hanging branches of fruit yet not being able to quench his thirst or abate his hunger. You are forced to hand above the pit of chaos knowing that a single leap would end your tortures but never having enough courage to let yourself fall into the ether.
Like a timepiece fastened below a bloodied knife. For each second that passes and every minute that ticks by a single drop of life-blood falls from the sky.