Constant Empathy

Kind of like a take on Dante's Inferno... I guess, but different punishments

“Constant empathy,” I whispered, clutching my chest and staring into the dark world of those tormented. I tried once more to close my eyes, but it was impossible. My eyes had been glued open since the day I died. I walked into the first section of hell. I peered around the naked souls.

 

Every one of them stood upon what had made their religion holy to them. Every one of them stood fixed with their eyes upward and their arms in the air, reaching. They were reaching for the truth, I knew, while the truth they had known rested beneath their feet, where they could never look or reach. They cried out, “Where?” “Who?” “Why?” but no answer fell upon their deaf ears. I pitied them from the depths of my soul, knowing that for most of them, their only sin had been their birth.

 

“To be born in the wrong place… to the wrong family,” I said aloud. Talking to myself was the only relief I had, and I felt sick as I thought about those who did not even enjoy that right. When I reached those sections, I always kept my mouth shut.

 

I clutched the pen, which burned my hand. I stared at my hand, the hand that had not taken note of the suffering souls when it had still been composed of living flesh. Then, I flipped open my yellowed notebook.  Once more, I stared at the souls, walking amongst them. I searched for any that had not been here before.

 

“New,” I said, touching one of the reaching figures. “Your name?” The young man did not answer, but the information floated into my head.

 

‘Marcus Edwards.’ I wrote. ‘Age, 47; died from starvation; Beliefs…’ I recorded all new comers in this way, who they were, how they had died, where they had lived on earth et cetera. This was my eternal mission, to walk the great circle that is hell and record. I knew what every one had been thinking when they committed their crimes. I knew what everyone had done. This knowledge was forced into my ever-working mind as I recorded, and I was trapped with the eternal knowledge that I could have prevented people from becoming like this. I coughed and moved on.

 

‘Anna Morris,’ I wrote, my hand stinging painfully with every word. After having completed the entries for this section, I pressed my weight against the wall, and was sucked into the second section of hell. The screams fell painfully upon my ears. I stared around the blind inhabitants of this section. They had created earthly images to worship, and were punished more than those who had actually sought the divine. Their eyeless sockets seemed to look at me, seemed to scream at me louder than their voices. “Why didn’t you stop us?!”

 

I swallowed hard and tried to close my eyes, knowing that my efforts were futile. I tried hard to avoid their carving blades and knives, which they had used to create the idols. Sometimes, one of them would nick me, but mostly, they sliced each other. They could not see what they did. They thought only ‘carve… carve…’ and their anguish was the only thing that filled their mind, incapable of my eternal pity, my eternal curse of knowing that I had done nothing. I tried to record them as quickly as I could, so that I would not be too scratched and torn. I knew that I deserved part of their punishment. I knew that people like me who had not stopped them were part of the reason they suffered so.

 

‘Patricia Velazquez’ I wrote as one of their knives sliced my ankle. ‘Age 92; Died from age and exhaustion…’ I shuffled through the cursed souls, unable to run. Finally, I pushed my way into the next section.

 

I shivered and bit my lip. I would not speak in front of those who could not speak. These souls had their mouths sewn together, and were bound to carry their severed tongues in their right hand for eternity. They waded through boiling water, a sick representation of cleanliness. The water stung my wounded ankle painfully. I tried once more to close my eyes, but they would not shut.

 

‘Tania Zakis,’ I wrote. ‘Age 17; died from suffocation and burns (house-fire); Spoke ill of her God forty-seven times; Locations-Middle School, Junior High School, a Party, Home, 7th Street, 10th street…’  I moved my feet up and down, trying to escape the sterilizing waters, but they would not leave me although I was not a member of this section. I dreaded the entry into the next section, fore it involved swimming in the boiling water, and being shoved in a small waterfall to the cold-stone floor of the 4th section of hell.

 

I hit the floor with a clunk. The water fell past me into a drain. I squeezed my hair out.

 

“Come on you can do it,” voices echoed around the room. “It’s just a little more. You can finish it!” Although, they sounded encouraging, these voices caused the pain of the hundreds strapped to chairs in this 5th section. Each one of them was forced to stare at a almost completed puzzle, to which the conclusion was obvious, but they couldn’t finish it. They could only wiggle around trying to move their arms. Although, they were capable of speaking, they chose not to fore their concentration was so great on the puzzles. These had not taken time for the spiritual. They had placed mundane accomplishments above the spiritual. Now, they were forced to stare at the incomplete and be tormented by encouraging words.

 

I flipped to the next page of my notebook.

 

“Ronald Magne,” I spoke as I wrote. “Age 53; Died from stress and a heart attack…” I stopped speaking, as my pity and empathy enveloped me. This man had tried so hard to make something of himself, and he was rewarded only with a heart attack and pain in death. I moved on to the next new soul.

 

After I had finished, I creaked the dusty, old door open to enter the next section. These were the people who lacked respect, the rebels. Their bodies would not follow their minds. A calm voice spoke out instructions, and the poor naked victims of immaturity were forced to follow the instructions. They moved in different painful positions, breaking their own bones and tearing apart their flesh, unable to protest the calm yet evil voice. I swallowed hard and tried once more to close my eyes. I stared around the strange room at the mutated bloody victims. I sometimes attempted to imitate their actions as I moved through them recording their previous lives in my notebook before they forgot their identity in their anguish… I was forced to never forget who I had been as part of my punishment. I did not want them to have to suffer alone.

 

I dreaded the next section. Slowly I entered. My ears could barely stand the hundreds of screams of murderers. They were followed by ghostly shadows of those they had killed. The shadows clung to them putting them into however much pain they had been in in the moments before their deaths. I pitied the killed, and I pitied the killers for not having been taught the right way. Their cries echoed through the hall.
I grabbed one of the new one’s arms.

 

“Who are you?” he shouted through his anguish.

 

“I am here to write down your past. I record all who pass into this place.” I said as I began to write.

 

‘Zachary Parato,’ I wrote. ‘Age 65; died from cancer; sentenced 5 men to death.’ I looked sorrowfully behind him to the five shadows following him and continued to write.

 

I moved sorrowfully among the murderers, the life-takers. I coughed as I stared at the tiny shadows which followed would-be mothers who had not wanted their children. The mothers screamed out in the same pain their children had felt. I wept without closing my eyes.

 

The next section was filled with mud, which swallowed me up to my waste. I lifted my notebook away from the putrid stuff. Muddy figures wandered around the mud, their bodies eternally defiled for what they had done, their eyes eternally sightless for having looked away from the one they had been bound to. The smell that permeated the room was so disgusting that had I not been holding the accursed pen I would have held my breath through the whole section no matter how painful it was. (Yes, I could breathe even in death, my form was the same.) I sludged slowly through the mud recording their vile acts and knowing that they had not been taught from birth to love only one. They had only known pleasure and lust.

 

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, trying once more to close my eyes, to avert them from this place. Impossible.

 

‘Kenneth Miller,’ I wrote. ‘Age 57; died from a sexually transmitted disease; married 7 times…’ I was disgusted, but still, I pitied him so.

 

After I finished there, I entered the 8th section. There was a diamond in the middle of the room on a high pedestal, just beyond the tallest’s reach. Those who had been thieves in life scratched and climbed over each other trying to get it, eternally trampled by those around them, and even by themselves, these people reached for the diamond. They were eternally unable to get it. Their bruised bodies refused to give up. The ones who had stolen more were found at the bottom of the pile of people climbing over each other, clawing and scratching with long fingernails and toenails. Carefully, I wrote down their names, each one sadly. My hand burned from the pen.

 

The next section was full of bodies hanging upside down, those who had been false in life and had lied such that people were harmed. They hung upside down and they were burning eternally to try to wipe the lies away to take back what they had said, but the fire was useless, except to torture the poor souls. My hand was almost black as I finished this section healing only because it needed to be used to take notes. I cried, and tried once more to close my stinging eyes, or at least cover them… no use…

 

The next section of hell, the 9th and final section, the end of the circle, was where the envious were tortured. This section was the only beautiful place. Everyone here was given everything. This was a giant casino and everyone who played won. However, as there was no way to lose, everything they gained had no value and they kept playing, not earning anything. They tried to beat each other up for at least a little excitement, but they were not allowed to touch the others being tormented. I sighed and wrote down another name.

 

Then, when I had finished there, I came to hell’s entrance, and where the door to the 1st section stood. I swallowed and opened it once more. I have lost all concept of time. This may have taken years or minutes… I do not know whether the knowledge is more painful than the suffering, but I will leave these notes to the outside world and hope that someone will find them and write them down that no one else will suffer as I have... that perhaps, hell will find less victims in the future, but that is mere hope.

Author's Note

This is not what I believe happens after death... I wrote this because I felt like a challenge... it's for a contest :)

Reviews

[BlackOpal]

It was very interesting. I like it a lot.
" I looked sorrowfully behind him to the five shadows following him and continued to write.



I moved sorrowfully among the murderers, the life-takers. I coughed as I stared at the tiny shadows which followed would-be mothers who had not wanted their children."

You used "sorrowfully" twice in a row, very close to each other. I think that you should try thinking of another word there.

Amazing job, it was very descriptive and well done.

[Mel Stevens]

This was a very interesting piece, and well written. I am confused about one part, near the end. The beginning of one paragraph, "After I finished there, I entered the 8th section." The next paragraph, "The next section was full of bodies hanging upside down, those who had been false in life and had lied such that people were harmed." And the paragraph after it, "The next section of hell, the 9th and final section, the end of the circle, was where the envious were tortured."
The way it is written, there should be 10 sections.

[SilentDream]

I was captivated and many of the images lingered. To not believe this is what happens but write in such a way to draw the reader in is not easy. Even leaving the reader wondering and wanting more details is an accomplishment. :) But I love up ended stories...

I hope you did well in the contest!
Pen on ~ ((Hugs and LOve)) ~SilentDream

[Annalisa]

How can eyes be glued open? I can understand glued shut, but to be glued open implies that they are glued to something. are they glues to the actual eye ball? Sorry, I know that is nit picky, but it was distracting. The story was interesting and unique, though be careful about tense. I'm not sure but I think you may have switched towards the end. Good work though.

[chord0]

A reporter in Hell, a unique concept, very interesting. He could stopped them from suffering, but how?, not explained here. A new dimension of justice, according to the offense committed, and punished by the offended (their ghosts). Great plot, wonderful characterization. Good description of setting also.

[Display Name]

wow , what a interesting story, it reminds me a bit of the concept that belives... if you commit suiside you end up a social worker in hell. Keep sending em to me and I will keep reading ..

[Adela Muresan]

Wow.
I read this without pausing.
Amazing, philosophical, interesting ,touching and religious.
Dough� you forgot to mention the traitors :) .They deserved their section too.
Your story frightens me a bit� after all, we are all sinners, and who knows what lies after�

A.M.