SWAN SONG; tom riddle

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dear tom,

          hell is nothing like how it was depicted in the muggle texts.

          no red dwarf with a forked tongue and pitchfork guiding me into a black abyss hotter than the enflamed corpse of every damned soul in history. not a single haunting-faced cacodemon guarding obsidian onyx gates. not even a three-headed hellhound with dagger-sharp fangs and three heads.

          just nothing.

          our seemingly endless discussions on death didn't seem to come remotely close as to what it would truly be like.

          it's hot. blazing really. i'm blistered head to toe in the literal and metaphorical sense. while my body is being slowly incinerated, my insides are slowly charring. i can feel my ribs liquify along with my hopes of getting out.

          the worst of it? what remains intact is my brain. impelling me to remain coherent while i'm reduced to a deliquesced mess.

          oddly enough, i expected a rude awakening or a fiery welcome consisting of at least mussolini and napoleon but nothing but black inferno. blistering heat and nothingness.

         perhaps the welcoming committee is reserved for the most malicious souls. i'd love to see what they have prepared for you.

          i wish to continue explaining the anomaly that is the afterlife. i know that even in death you'd expect me to give you what you want.

          but you're wrong.

          i'm fucking here because of you.

          i will not share what i know about this wasteland i must learn to call home while you frolic in my place amongst the living.

          i will not tame the fire that plagues the tortured little orphan boy that lives within you, i much prefer to add gasoline and stand aside.

          i know what you fear, tom riddle.

          what drives you to do unspeakable acts and what motivates the cruelty and merciless actions of a boy who has nothing — yet somehow everything to lose.

          inside your brimstone heart, you know precisely what i am referring to. something so immensely terrifying it derives desperation from the most valorous men and yet a sacred and accepted rite of passage of any soul that dares walk this earth.

          death.

          and i've endured it. i've felt it within every pore and crevice of my being. i felt the sheer horror of being discarded into hellfire without a breath or glimmer of hesitation. i know undoubtedly what is in store for you, tom.

          but i'll never tell.

          i will watch you fracture under pressure while you wait for death to inevitably snuff you out, oblivious to the vile badlands that await you.

          i refuse to breathe another word of this abode of the damned because i want you to endure the fear for the rest of your nonsensical life of not knowing what was next.

          just like i have.

          and just like you someday will.

          i can taste your fear already and it's as refreshingly sweet on my lips as heavenly saccharine.

yours,
florizel