Hell is a state of mind, a wise man once said.
He couldn't remember who had said it or when, nor did he really care; but somehow the phrase had lodged itself in his brain.
He partially agreed with the statement. On earth, it certainly was a state of mind - negative thoughts, responses, emotions, reactions - they all shaped the kind of life you would lead.
They determined who you would be.
Certainly not an easy state of mind to escape from, but it was attainable - not for him, no - but perhaps for someone else. Someone who didn't have to carry the burden of the screams and cries and whimpers and...
Someone...someone who didn't have the memory of his steady hand carving slices of flesh and gleaming bone. Someone who didn't have the memory of the pleasure that came with inflicting pain, of coaxing the screams and all the: 'no, God, please..please stop' and 'help, help! Someone please...help'.
His personal favourites had been the silent ones, the ones who had lost all hope and ability to scream,roil,thrash,swear.
Instead, they had stared listlessly at him, his dark shadow reflected in their eyes. He would lean close to them, his eyes intent and half crazed with anger and all he would hear was their short laboured breaths and a small monastic chant, as silent as a soft breeze:'Please help. Please, please, please, please. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Please help. Please, please, please. Sorry. So sorry.'
And it would jar him, sometimes even make the heavy cloud of madness lift and his stomach would dip and memories would rush back, fragments and shards of who he used to be. Of what he used to be. Of what he used to have. And it had hurt...God, so bad.
Sammy. Sammy. Hey Kiddo. Dad. Mom. Sammy, Samsamsam. Gone. Sleek black beauty, fluid and graceful under his expert command. Sunshine and cold beer and beautiful woman who didn't have black eyes and razor smiles. Human contact. Warm bed and bad TV and shitty diner food that tasted so goddamn good. Purposepurposepurpose. AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, Metallica. Warm, hazy summer nights with the windows rolled down and the smell a freshly cut grass. Sammy. Sam. Sam. Sammy. Where are you? Sammy. God, Sammy. Helphelphelphelphelphelp.
And then he would remember what he had become and that, well...that only fueled the fire that raged inside of him.
Their torture, those silent ones, their torture had been the worst.
How dare they! How dare they! How fuckin' dare they! You bastards! I hate you. I hate you all. I hate you all. I hate you. All of you.
Dean took another swig of whiskey as he watched the sun melt behind the horizon, bleeding pink and red hues into the sky. He raised a unsteady hand to the sky, fingers firmly wrapped around the glass and saluted the departing sun.
