Hell

He was coming for me again. Black coat, hidden face, sword in hand. It was the dreaded Executioner of Hell. I was going to be killed. For what felt like the sixty-hundredth time. It probably was.

I was serving my hundredth year in hell. And I had many more to come, that much I knew. Eternity was forever; forever was eternity and so was my punishment. And my life for that matter. That was part of the deal. An eternal sentence ensured that I would never die. I would stay here and be hurt over and over.

And the pain I had to deal with was excruciating and had been so since the beginning of my sentence. But I think that, the torture level had been increased. If I had been hurt at the same equality for those one hundred years I wouldn’t feel as much pain. I would’ve gotten used to it, mentally and physically.

Hell itself was terrifying. It was damp and so, so dark. Everything was a shade of grey, or black. Nothing even came close to white, or yellow, or any of the other colors that I associated with love, happiness or joy. The colors in hell could only be connected with misery, pain and ice.

Over the years I had been executed in numerous ways. I had had my head cut off, been torn to bits and been endorsed in shadows. And then, I had been sewed up again. There was marks all over my body from past patches. I hated it. But I completely deserved it.

Then I pictured it. Just for one second. That was all it took. And with that second, my memory came flooding back. And then I realized.

The excecutioner swung his axe to chop me up but I was too quick. I stood up. I was getting out of there because it wasn’t my fault.

It never had been.