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Hell Is A Personal Place
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TITLE (EDIT)
Hell Is A Personal Place
DESCRIPTION
Each of us has a personal idea of Hell!
[1,043 words]
AUTHOR
Erasmus Flynt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
-
[February 2004]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (14)
Cogito, Ergo Sum (Short Stories) - [708 words]
Dormant Musings (Poetry) - [106 words]
Eighth Day (Short Stories) - [1,423 words]
In Capable Hands (Short Stories) Or are we? [212 words]
In Transit (Poetry) A soul makes an unexpected pitstop along its journey. [232 words]
Madrugada (Poetry) - [73 words]
My Eternal Triangle (Short Stories) - [710 words]
Null And Void (Poetry) - [61 words]
Retribution And New Beginnings (Short Stories) Secrets will out. [8,764 words] [Thriller]
Self Incarceration (Poetry) - [141 words]
Still She Lies (Poetry) - [92 words]
Take Heart (Poetry) - [108 words]
Touch Me No More (Poetry) - [114 words] [Relationships]
Unwanted Company (Short Stories) - [826 words]
Hell Is A Personal Place
Erasmus Flynt

It was the eyes that told him that he was in hell. Screaming at them to leave him had no effect, and trying to escape from them was as hard as running headlong into a gale force wind, with a millstone around his neck. He cried, pleading for them to go away, and still they advanced ever nearer towards him. Big eyes, small eyes, all shapes and sizes, some laughing, some serious and some that he couldn’t make out the emotion that lay behind them. He had expected, even welcomed a hell of some description, and he had fantasised about it many times. He worked hard all his life to reserve his place there. But nothing he imagined could have come even remotely close to the nightmarish reality he found himself in after his self-inflicted and premature death.

He continued screaming at them to go away and still they came moved closer. Anger rapidly overcame him like a raging tidal wave, hell-bent on the destruction of everything in its path, a seething evil and eternal rage that fed his depraved soul. He wasn’t used to disobedience. Everyone had listened to him during his lifetime, had hung on to his every word and he was obeyed without question. He had been powerfully enigmatic and hypnotic, omnipotent and totally in control until his last humanly breath. Now this hell had gained control of him against his will, and his omnipotence became impotence. His body was dead and his soul, dark and evil lay paralysed, and at the mercy of the eyes. He was powerless, his soul invalid, unable to move; and then blind panic overtook him when he realised he no longer had anything to move. He was but an energy, a consciousness imprisoned and controlled by forces that he could not comprehend, that was being held somewhere against its will in a dark place where it did not want to be.

The eyes were getting closer still, and as they neared, the terror welled up inside his very soul. He now knew fear without end, like it were some ancient adversary; an unbeatable foe. The eyes continued towards him, and smiling mouths began to form, some with teeth and some without. Whole faces started to take shape, some real looking and some with ghostly form. Beautiful faces, kind and forgiving in a Godly kind of way, coming closer, ever closer but not touching him - yet. ‘Godly’ frightened him just as shadows frighten a lone child at night, fearing what might lurk behind them and what forms they might take.

Bodies took shape, some were well dressed and some wore rags. Some were well fed, but most of them were cruelly emaciated. Arms and legs grew from the bodies and as they took form, many others joined them. The hundreds of pairs of eyes multiplied themselves into thousands, and they too took bodily form, but it was the eyes that shone out above everything else. He tried to avoid looking directly into them, but he could not help himself; he was forced to look and he found them impossible to resist. The eyes bore into the depths of his soul, reaching into the ungodly essence of his heart, and he felt as though they were tearing at him like the talons of a large bird of prey would tear into a rodent.

Their numbers were indeterminable. Thousands turned into hundreds of thousands, and they in turn into millions, eventually getting so close that he thought he could almost touch them. His deathly screams suddenly became silent as their arms reached out to him, the smallest ones first, as they were in front. They each took their turn, children first, then the women and then the men. Arms and hands beckoned to him and their innocent smiles tormented his soul like a fire he could not bear, the tattooed numbers on their arms a testament to why he was where he was. They started to touch him gently, taking their turns, smiling and kindly, forgiving and benevolent and the torment became insufferable. Suddenly he realised that there were more than six million of them and he screamed silently to his god, any god, to save him.

A little boy with large brown eyes and a sad smile pushed his way to the front. Head tilted to the side his dishevelled hair complemented his clothes, and a yellow glow shone forth from the Star of David on his torn shirt. With his left hand he held out an olive branch in silent offering, whilst he held his right hand over his heart as a gesture of forgiveness.

He recoiled inwardly, refusing the boy any acknowledgement. They touched him still, beckoning him to follow as the fire began to rise from his feet, climbing slowly upwards. The eyes watched as the flames licked and enveloped him. He began to lose sight and the eyes faded back slowly into the distance, reforming themselves again into the Angel of the Light that they truly were; and then they were gone. The flames died gently away, and he found himself back in his black personal void, with nothing but his dark soul paralysed for eternity.

But then he saw something; something like a star in the distance which began to move slowly toward him. He strained hard to see what it was, and it was the eyes that again told him that he was in hell. He knew that screaming at them would make no difference, but he screamed regardless, and trying to escape from them would feel like running headlong into a gale force wind with a millstone around his neck. He cried, pleading for them to go away, and they advanced ever nearer towards him. Big eyes, small eyes, all shapes and sizes, some laughing, some serious and some that he couldn’t make out what emotion lay behind them. He had expected, even welcomed a hell of some description, and he had fantasised about it many times. He worked hard all his life to reserve himself a place there. But nothing he imagined could have come even remotely close to that eternally recurring nightmarish illusion that was to become his home after his premature and self-inflicted death.

Hell is such a beautifully personal place.

 

READER'S REVIEWS (5)
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"Wonderfully eerie! Well done!" -- e. rocco caldwell.
"Hi,i think i really like this story because i don't think i would ever think of something quite like this. I loved the message that you were sending and also great visuals. It was so well drawn in my mind. By the way i messed up on my e-mail adress the correct one is: [email protected] Please e-mail me. I'd like to hear you thoughts and such. Thank you." -- Moses M. Constable.
"Ehmm..m. Sehr gut Seite! Ich sage innig..!:) bmw" -- BMW, ..., ..., ....
"Ehmm..m. Sehr gut Seite! Ich sage innig..!:) bmw" -- BMW, ..., ..., ....
"Luogo abbastanza piacevole, lo godo completamente! bmw" -- Totti, ..., ..., ....

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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2003 Erasmus Flynt
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
February 2004
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2125
 

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