I would like to thank all of your out there who encouraged me to continue writing. I know I haven't updated for ages, but it was only your written support that helped me conquer the writing block. Gosh, I hate it when it happens.
zoned-out : Yeap, He is Leo. Sorry if I confused you. Naa, I'm not sorry, that was intentional (evil giggle).
denna5: Wow, thanks for the support. I'll try not to get over confident...
Nemesis' Arrow: Here, chapter delivered as soon as I could (which is unfortunately not nearly as soon as I expected it to be, but. .. it's still something!). Thank you for your review!
And now, stop with the gushing and on to the story!
CHAPTER 1
Some say that hell is made of fire. Of Eternal flames that are countering everything, conquering everything, and burning forever. They say that it was like that right from the beginning, it was simply how it was created in order to punish the sinners. Or who they decided were sinners, anyway.
They also say that every beginning has an end, and just like its dawn, one day the fires of hell will consume themselves, and there will be no more misery. No more pain. Happiness.
Just like the prophets once declared.
But what they didn't take into consideration was that the hearts of gods are made from ice, far from caring.
Then how could entities that know only coldness and distance create such intense warmth? How would those who want to help none but themselves govern a place for the majority's benefit?
And how can they rule there, in a graveyard of reprobates, and act as if they care when deep inside they do not believe it is them who should be on the throne, when they do not even believe in the place they are ruling. When their hearts are melting every second they spend there, eternal torture- for Them.
How can they sit there all day long and pretend that nothing has happened, everything is alright, and every time they welcome a new edition to their terror kingdom, how can they not be angered of time, that it's running away from them too fast. That they can't control it anymore- it is disappearing from their mighty hands, and even when clutching it tightly, refusing to let it, time does not ask them- it goes on.
And if the gods are asking, how can mere mortals not? Why would they, why would you, not demand time to slow down, to have mercy on your suffering soul, knowing you do not deserve that compassion yet ask for it nevertheless.
For how can you not ask for it? How can you not live with it?
How can you?
How can you look the world in its' eyes, not daring to avert them in weakness as if you do not have a thing to hide, and continue? How can you look at the eyes of your family, the strangers that they have become, and not mourn every moment of waking that they are going away, and you are not doing a thing to stop them?
You are losing them all over again, and just like before you engulfed your heart with a wall of ice, pretending to be a god, you do it again. You wear that uncaring mask upon your face, desperate not to let them see even a tiny crack of emotion emitting from you. For that is what they have taught you, that emotions are weakness. That demons exploit those who are showing them fear. Only, they are not demons.
They are the ones your heart screams in agony to, wishing to let yourself be carried by their arms. They are those you dreamt so long to see, that you wanted so much to envision, to ask for their forgiveness.
And now that you see them, that all your wishes are finally coming true- you let them go away.
How can you?
And you try to breath, to call for them, but their disappointed gaze is hovering above you like a cold cloud of misgiving, the look of those who had seen all the stages of fear and embraced a chilling apathy for the suffering ones. The look of death.
The one you are so familiar with.
You try to tear a scream from your insolent throat, and fail. You summon whatever powers you once possessed to come to your aid, not to abandon you when you most need them, and you swagger to your family's direction, not really caring they are not looking at you. Not anymore.
"Wait!" you manage to say, but this is only a whisper, not one that belongs to a tyrant, to a being so powerful who even forced the Upper Elders to their knees. No, this is the plea of a mere child, of the regretful part of your heart.
The part you forgot.
You know they did not hear you but your heart is still missing a beat when they stop as if sensing something is wrong. Your mother's back is trembling, from- pain? – tears?
Fear?
You run to her, to calm her, that she doesn't need to be scared of you, you will never hurt her. Then you remember you might, and you stop dead, your legs planted to the ravenous ground.
Now sobbing, you see the vortex being slowly shut down. Time slows down as you see your life flowing away and before you even know what you're doing, you are jumping through it.
Time forgets to breath as you are bent to the ground, eyes sunken and dull, searching for something solid to hang on to, something that will not leave you. Something that will not turn its back to you, even when you wish you could leave yourself.
But the colors and sights are refusing to come into focus, and while you are not used to insolence, you don't have time to be angry with them.
The dead are on your tail.
Run. You have to run.
They can't reach you. They mustn't.
The roads are endless, and you circle what seems to be a giant mountain of corpses in the thousandth time. There is nowhere to go, only to keep moving forward, to hope that in the next cycle, there will be something that will help you. That those behind you will get tired.
Or that you will get tired, and then- at last- you will be able to breath.
No, this is not the way things will end. You will fight, even yourself. You keep pushing yourself, on and on. Only a bit more, you beg to your legs, it's near.
And you have no idea what is closing in on giants' steps.
There's something ahead of you, something large and hot and evil.
Fire.
There's so much fire.
You stare at the wavering tongues of fire that are emitting from hell, calculating them, and judging. You are getting closer, and closer- one step after the other.
Slowly.
The moment you get in, there's a loud thud.
The door is being closed. You are being buried alive.
You knock on the door, demanding it to be opened, that someone will open it, that. . .you will get free. Because you can't breathe here. You are chocking.
Open the door!
Please.
Breathing heavily from the heat and humidity, you force yourself to relax. Hell can't be THAT bad, right? See, the flames are not even so scary now that you are so near them, they look nothing like the dreadful darkness that you were always told hell was. They are comforting, even. Warm, soothing. Their gaze un-judgmental. So unlike all those who are still alive.
But after a while, even you don't believe that lie anymore. You sit there, waiting for the doors to be opened, and being denied. So you keep waiting and wondering, hoping that they will open one day, that when the time is right you will be set free.
In the meanwhile, you try passing the time. Counting sheep, numbers and apocalypse possibilities.
But the doors stay closed.
You sleep and wake up and go to sleep again in the same unbreakable routine you have mastered unwillingly, not even knowing when the routine will ever end. And if it ever will. And this is already a lot like a dream, and isn't. From a dream one can get up, breathe some fresh air and forget it the day after. But this- this is surreal. This pit is holding within it a terrifying feeling, a horrible truth that no matter how much you want you simply can't believe- you can't get out.
You can't get out.
You can't get out.
You can't breath.
The voices are echoing in your ears.
You can't get out.
You can't get out.
Laughter of angels is being heard so far away from you, and you almost feel fortunate that you hear it. Because it means you are still alive.
The problem is, after being stuck, of course, that after so long there isn't much to do. All the numbers get jumpy, the sheep are running away from you and envisioning the world come to its end when you're stuck, isn't that fun. So you are left with nothing but you beside you, and the treacherous thoughts. Of how things began to slide, of how you managed to ruin your life, together with others'.
You remember the days when you still had hope for the human race, of acceptance and love. You remember Mom and Dad and all those who are long gone, either by you or higher forces. You remember Bianca, the only one you truly loved but had betrayed you, and her own, for the other side. You remember the last days with her, when she confessed she have had enough with killing, and your own reaction, so soothing and warm.
It's only fitting that you are being condemned in Hell for being warm and nice, to her. If it wasn't for your passive approval, she may have stayed with you. She may have lived.
You may have lived.
So time keeps flowing and you no longer care. Nights and days pass only to never come back ever again, billions of sun rays are being lighted and closed thousands of times, in a another place, to someone else, and you no longer remember them. You don't remember the sun anymore. There is only fire, and heat.
Maybe this is what hell is all about.