Write World

Hell Doesn't Wait for Anybody

I learned this the hard way. People say that in the moments before you die your entire life flashes before your eyes. It is actually the complete opposite. Instead, you watch yourself die, which, from experience, is the most excruciating thing that anyone can go through.

I was standing in a dark house. It was night, the weather outside raging as a storm passes through. I hear the ghastly whistle of the wind seeping through every crack in the windows and doors. The trees of the forest outside are flapping in the wind. It doesn’t sound as though it is actually raining, but that the wind is blowing.

I look at myself in a mirror. There’s only one problem. I don’t see anything. I panic and rush to the mirror. I stare intensely into the reflected glass, trying to find traces of long blonde hair, of pale skin, or of something! But the mirror is empty.

As I lower out of my panic, my senses settle in. I know this house. The fireplace with fanciful reindeer ornaments along the top of the mantle seems familiar. The sofa, on which I have written my life away, sparks a memory. The stairs, the dark stairs that lead to a bedroom looks like something I would know. I gingerly walk up the stairs and into the bedroom. What I see confirms my fears. There, sleeping in the bed is me. This is my house, my mantle with fancy reindeer ornaments, my stairway, and my bed.

It feels as if I have been struck by lightning, because I have been. Lightning just struck the ground near my feet. A small ember rises from the spot of the strike. I shout at myself to get up, but no sound escapes my mouth. I give up as I watch me mortal body burn. The flame engulfs the house, burning the mantle, burning the fancy reindeer ornaments, burning the sofa, burning the stairway, and burning the bed.

I walk outside, my eyes staring at nothing in particular. The flames of the burning house lick at my white nightgown, but it does not catch fire. I step out the front door. The wooden house behind me burns with plumes of smoke and flickers of orange. Everything is silent. The wind is blowing, but with not whoosh. The Thunder is clapping, but with not boom. The fire is cackling, but with no pop.

I sit on the damp grass before the woods that surround my house. Suddenly, a boy appears. He is handsome, with charcoal hair and a gaunt yet beautiful face. His eyes are a ruby red and calm, not chaotic like the fire. He reaches a hand to me.

“Come, Persephone,” he says as I grab his hand. He leads me into the forest. In the forest, a free standing door opens. Inside is charred obsidian. I look to the boy. He speaks, “Hurry now. Hell doesn’t wait for anybody.”