THE FIVE BASTARD WRITERS: BURNING IN HELL!

Part 1: Alienated Awareness

The room was filled with a silence so thick it felt like a fog, stifling every sound and feeling. Dark walls loomed high and vast, without any discernible doors or windows, enclosing all possible exits in shadow. Rows of dusty, ancient bookshelves lined every wall, filled with books that looked as if they'd existed since the dawn of time. Only a single source of light illuminated the room—a faint red glow hovering above an old, cracked round table at the center. The air hung heavy and damp, and there was an almost burning quality to it, as if the room absorbed the fears of everyone within it.

Gradually, five figures began to open their eyes, stirring from the cold, hard floor beneath them.

...

Salman Rushdie was the first to become fully aware of his surroundings. His vision blurred, and this place felt like a curtain of endless darkness, pressing down on his body and mind with an invisible weight. Rising slowly, he reached for the wall behind him—cold, coarse stone against his hand. His breath grew shallow, and a feeling of unease crept into his mind, an echo of the dread that had haunted him since the first time his writings had earned him threats.

"This is just a nightmare," he muttered to himself, trying to find reassurance.

But the walls didn't vanish. The cold was real, as was the hardness of the floor underfoot. This place felt too alive, too tangible to be merely a dream. His gaze fell upon the rows of books, which seemed to stretch on without end, filled with books meticulously arranged yet covered in dust. He moved toward the nearest shelf, reaching out to cautiously pull down a book. A thick cloud of dust rose as he opened it, making him cough.

On the first page, he found a passage from his own writing. The words were familiar, yet distorted, twisted in a way that made him shiver.

"Words are knives layered with honey. They pierce mercilessly, yet leave the soul floating in a sweet, toxic taste."

The line seemed to stare back at him, judging him. Salman felt a deep discomfort. His own words now turned on him, peeling back the layers of pride he had once held dear. Reluctantly, he placed the book back on the shelf, but the sense of condemnation clung to him like an invisible weight.

...

In another corner of the room, Ayn Rand opened her eyes, already filled with cold resolve. Her gaze locked onto the endless rows of dusty shelves and the round table in the room's center with books that emitted a dim red glow. Rising to her feet, she scanned the room with a glare that seethed with defiance and fury.

"What is this? Who dares to imprison me here?" she half-shouted.

For Ayn, freedom was everything. And in this room, she felt as though it had been stripped away. She strode to the center of the room, studying the books on the table. The covers were blank, devoid of titles, yet when she opened one, she found words that struck her as disturbingly familiar. Words she had written herself.

"The individual is the only entity worth fighting for. All else is merely a tool to serve the true 'I'."

But next to that line was a smaller notation in red script, like a mocking taunt.

"And that tool will tear you apart from within."

Ayn frowned, her anger boiling up. "Who dares to write this? Who has the audacity to twist my words?"

The room answered with nothing but silence. Ayn found herself alone in a library without doors, no exit in sight, no sign of life but herself. A cold fear crept into her, though she fought to deny it. She told herself that this was nothing more than a small test, something she could ultimately control.

...

Not far away, Vladimir Nabokov lay on the floor, his gaze fixed on the ceiling with a weary and faintly amused expression. To Nabokov, this all felt like an unworthy nightmare—a world devoid of beauty, symmetry, filled only with arrogance and harshness.

He rose slowly, scrutinizing the rows of books with a critical eye. The books seemed meticulously ordered, yet each time he tried to recall the titles, the words seemed to blur and fade away. He felt drawn to one of the books on the round table, something he thought he'd read before.

When he opened the first page, he found a sentence he knew all too well, though it felt cold and foreign in this place.

"Beauty is a delicate veil covering the emptiness of the world."

The line was from his own work, but here, the words felt like an insult. Nabokov's lips curled in a faint smile, realizing that this room was attempting to distort his understanding of art and beauty.

"This emptiness merely reflects a world unworthy of dwelling in. Even in nightmares, there is space for beauty," he said to himself.

But there was no room for beauty here. Every inch of this place seemed to resist aesthetics and perfection. Glancing around, his eyes met those of a familiar-looking woman, though her identity remained vague. They exchanged a cold, unspoken look, but Nabokov knew they weren't mere acquaintances.

...

Meanwhile, Bret Easton Ellis opened his eyes reluctantly. He felt trapped in a nightmare that felt all too familiar—a grim, empty room enveloped in a silence so dense it was suffocating. As a writer who often delved into darkness and emptiness, this room seemed like an extension of his own mind. Yet he felt an alarming loss of control, like a character lost in a story with no direction.

Bret studied the round table in the center of the room. Something disturbing lingered in the table's presence, especially in the books that emitted a dim, ember-like glow, almost as if they were waiting to consume anyone who dared to touch them. With a mix of curiosity and reluctance, he approached the table and opened one of the books.

The first line he saw was his own writing, but altered, reshaped into something mocking.

"Emptiness is the only eternity. Everything else is a cheap, endless joke."

Bret fell silent, feeling a creeping dread. He had always faced the world with cynicism, but here, that cynicism returned to haunt him, monstrous in its silence and darkness. He felt as if he were being laughed at by his own words, by the very ideas he'd once written.

"Who would dare twist my words into such a mockery?" he whispered, half-angry.

...

In another corner of the room, Marquis de Sade experienced something entirely different. To de Sade, this room was a reflection of his hidden desires, an uncertainty that ignited a dark curiosity. He surveyed the endless shelves with a twisted sense of awe, as though this room were a labyrinth designed specifically for him.

"Is this a trial for my soul?" he asked himself, with a note of delighted anticipation.

He stepped closer to the round table and reached for one of the books. The words inside were familiar to him, but they were not a confession of sins; instead, they seemed like a mirror reflecting the darkest corners of his soul.

"Desire is an unbreakable chain. The more you chase it, the tighter it grips your soul."

De Sade smiled, savoring the irony. He felt like a prisoner finally coming face to face with his fate. There was no regret in him, only a dark and bitter satisfaction.

"If this is Hell," he murmured, "then it is a Hell worthy of a Marquis."

...

One by one, they began to notice each other's presence, observing from various distances like wild animals trapped in the same space. No one dared speak first; each of them wanted to measure, to judge, but their lips were too afraid to form words. Yet the alienation they felt slowly eroded, replaced by a curiosity tinged with distrust.

Each of them began to sense that they were not the only ones trapped in this strange room. They sought answers in the faces of those around them—strangers, yet vaguely familiar. The silence grew oppressive, forcing them to break it, to resist the stillness that threatened to consume them.

In the center of the room, the red glow from the books on the table intensified, as if waiting for them to reveal the deepest corners of their souls.