Hell?

Author's Note: This short story is part of a series I began writing several years ago. Enjoy.


Hell was nothing like Max had expected, if one can really have expectations about something so abstract. There were no burning lakes of fire, or rows of emaciated bodies chained to walls. There was no smell of burning flesh, no demons sweeping down from above on leathery wings.

There was sunlight, brilliant and dancing on the window near his seat. There was ice cold orange juice in his glass, and the toast was slightly overdone, but certainly not burnt. A copy of the New York Times, folded neatly, laid next to his plate, waiting to be read. The room was so bright, mainly because virtually everything in it was white. A sterile, quiet white that held no secrets, no shadows.

"Do you know why you're hear, Max?" asked the man sitting across from him. He wore a white uniform, similar to what you'd expect an orderly in a hospital or care center to wear. However, there was no name tag, no ID card on a lanyard... Nothing at all to give Max an idea who he was. His face was average, at best, and would most likely turn into a blur the minute he left. It felt as if a dull knife was digging at Max's brain as he tried to search his memories, tried to place who this man was, where he was... and why he was there.

"I... I didn't take my medication again," Max uttered almost quiet enough to go unheard. But everything was heard in this place, Max somehow knew. They saw everything here, they knew everything. Any questions this man asked, he already knew the answer. It was all just a head game.

"No, Max. You don't have to take medication anymore. You're dead, Max."

He sat there as a shiver worked its way down his spine. Dead. Of course he was. Why, dead people often have conversations over orange juice and toast. Happens all the time, right? He wrapped his hands together under the table, hoping the feeling of his flesh pressed together would help him understand what was happening to him. His skin was just as warm as it had always been, the deep scars on the backs of his hands still there. H raised a hand to his face, as if to scratch his nose, but he really just wanted to smell his skin, to know if it were decaying, rotting its way to his bones. It smelled like aftershave.

"You always wondered Max, especially after you did something bad. You always wondered what Hell was like, if it was real. It's real Max. It's very real. But there's no fire and brimstone like the good preacher yelled about on Sunday. There's no burning flesh, no darkness. Hell is what Hell always was. Hell is control."

Max looked around the room. While it was certainly sterile, devoid of any real human touch, it was hard to imagine it as some sort of punishment. Slowly, as if fearful his host would reach out and snatch the pages from him, Max reached out and picked up the newspaper. The date on the paper was Feb. 3, 2008. As he stared at the letters and numbers, there was something familiar about the date. Something that was eating at the back of his mind, but still hiding in the shadows of his memories.

"You weren't sent here as punishment, Max. This isn't retribution for the comic book you stole when you were 12 years old, or for the house you broke into when you were 18. It isn't revenge," said the host, slowly taking a cigarette from his pocket. "You don't mind, do you?"

Max stared at him as a crooked grin worked its way onto his lips. "If I'm aleady dead, I don't have to worry about dying from cancer, right? Smoke away," he said, turning his gaze back to the newspaper. That date, it was glaring back at him, as if it were daring him to remember its significance. It was right there, on the edge of his memories, if only he could...

"Max, you created this place when you died. Everything you see right now, even me, was made by you. Your pain, your disbelief created this, this... abomination, as a way to cope with what you could not accept. Here, everything is a clean slate. Each day is exactly like the day before it, and it will continue until you can find a way to accept the things that have happened and pull these pieces of the puzzle together. You created me to be a guide, the last little bit of hope for you to make your way out of this abyss."

Max chuckled under his breath. "Abyss? You call this an abyss?" He stood up and walked to the nearby window. Outside, he could see for miles and miles, as fields of green grass and clovers seemed to go on forever. It was beautiful, but it was odd. Where in the world could he be? Where on this planet could there be such beautiful expanses with nothing - not a Starbucks or a restroom - there to mar it. Where?

"Max, I have to go now. I'm only allowed so much time here each day. I hope you'll think about what I've said. I hope you'll begin to see things for what they are, not what you want them to be. There are others, people you don't remember right now, and they miss you very much. They want you to join them. They can't come here, Max. No one can. That's how you made this place, that's the bluepring you have to find a way to defeat. Because if you can't defeat it... well, we'll be having many, many more conversations like these."

With his back still turned to the host, Max asked, "If each day's a clean slate, then won't we just have this same conversation each morning?" He turned, intrigue showing keenly in his eyes. "Won't we just get stuck in some sort of loop, a never ending cycle of forgetting and remembering?"

"I hope not, Max. For your sake."