It's pitch black, like ink on paper, where even the brightest light would just be a dim glow in the distance. Or even in front of you, where what has been a face, now distorted and broken, stitched together with strings of darkness. You would be stuck in this web of struggle, blinded and dismembered, eaten by giant maggots, not that you'd know it, burning on and on with a blue fire, it is Hell after all.
Only few have been able to escape from this prison. But bargaining with the devil is tricky business, fall into his temptations and you're gone into the Abyss. The last place to go as your soul dies.
But there is a legend. A myth maybe. Of a powerful creature, barely human, who takes the reigns of her blindness, making use of it as she searches for a dagger, knowing her sacrifice would mean the end of Him. Of Lucifer.
Little did they know, she is real, in another universe of course. In another version of Hell. But she runs. She runs and runs and yet, she stays unmoving. She runs around the world, from herself. And every second of every day, she prays and prays that maybe, just maybe, when she runs off to another world altogether she might lose herself. That she would be lovable. That she wouldn't stay sixteen, in this wretched hellhole they call earth. That she would get her eyes back. And she prays and prays. She asks, her friends, her family, to kill her, that maybe, just maybe, she would forget. Forget what a burden she is to her parents, that she has forgiven them. She wants to say she forgives them for gouging her eyes out. For slicing her tongue in half. For stitching her together, promising her they'll do better, that they'll try, when she knows the don't.
But she's stuck. She's stuck in this white room, with pillows for walls, and soft, cushiony floors, and eyes. Eyes everywhere. She sees them. She sees them even with meaty, black holes for eyes. She screams, without her mouth, what was left of it a thin strip of skin decorated with a lining of red string. She sobs herself to sleep every night, and what her tears can't reach, her screams will. At least, she hopes so. Most people don't have a stub for a tongue.
"YOU'RE BEING WATCHED!" She wants to scream at them. "You're going to die."
Because you can't run can you? When the demon that hunts you, that wants to kill you, is living inside your own body. She's desperate. She just wants to forget meeting her. She prays she won't be her in her next life, a green skinned, stick thin zombie, fit with leathery black wings. She prays she won't have to scream her throat hoarse like her. A sickly green hand, bony fingers scratching her neck, hoping one day He'll make it stop. But you don't pray to the devil. The devil doesn't do mercy. So she waits, what were her proud silky, auburn hair now scraggly strands, her last bit of protection from the disgusted stares of therapists that feed her their scraps. Always eyeing her, even if her hands and feet are suffocatingly tied with white cloth, waiting for her to jump at her, so she'll finally be put down.
Stuck in a never ending circle, running, and running, and running, exhausted, for three years. Until finally, she spends her last breaths as a shrill wailing comes out from her, a continuous stream of screams with her mouth wide open, stub and all, spurting out blood, staining the once pristine room with big, ugly blotches. And silence. Patient 2507, 2001-2020. Died Monday, December 7 2020, 3.15 am.
Strong hands lift her up, smoothes over her eyelids, soothing and calm. Sudden flashes of purple and black invade her mind, rough binds tugging at her. She sees what seems to be visions. Of what she could have been, with smooth skin, wide curious eyes, a blinding smile-
She's surrounded by a scorching fire..and it's loud, a rhythmic pounding of furious drums.
Then silence.
She twitches her eyes open and sees white.
The end.
