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I open my eyes to a white light. I can feel my mangled limbs returning to their complete state. Is that all that happens? For some reason I thought dying would be more . . . just more. All I remember is this truck growing bigger and bigger until- bam! It hit me. I remember the truck tearing into my muscles and my legs being crushed under the weight and force of the tires. My bones crumbled, and the snaps and crackles of the broken pieces still ring in my ears. But now, it is only a memory, a thing in the past.

Finally, I realize where I am . . . actually I donít know where I am. When it hits me, I must be in Heaven- I mean come on, itís white light. But, where is everyone? And as I wonder this, I remember all of the things Iíve done . . . all of the bad things Iíve done. I take a few steps and feel the squishy softness under my feet. Then, right before my eyes, angels and flowers and everything beautiful appear before me. It is true; I did not fail him. I did not fail my Father! I cry out in joy and am crying from the sudden feeling of happiness.
Then it happens- I am falling. Faster and faster. I fall watching the world that once surrounded me, melt away. No! It canít be . . . but it is. My worst nightmare, the one event I have written about over and over again, plays before me.

ď To Hell Iím bound/ people have told me . . .Ē
Yes. This seems the case. I hit the ground hard and all of my torn limbs and broken bones- all their pain, returns. But this pain is different. It hurts. For the first time it hurts . . . Through all of this I have not opened my eyes. I am too frightened of what awaits me- I am too frightened of where I have landed. But it doesnít matter. I can feel him near me. His breath is hot on my face. His words are soft, yet powerful, and the raspiness of his voice could devour me whole.
ď You thought throwing yourself in front of the truck would solve everything. You thought you could get away from the pain . . . Iím here to show you true pain. Welcome to Hell.Ē
ď No! I screamed, No!Ē I screamed this like it would save me . . . but nothing could save me now. I donít know how long it has been. I would usually count by days and nights. But, no one sleeps here. My eternal suffering fuels him. When I pray, He laughs. I tell God that Iím sorry, and I often ask Him to save me, that this couldnít possibly be . . . the end. Nothing is final; people can change!

I am forced to watch my life over and over. I am forced to feel everything I felt; and every time I watch, it hurts worse and worse until it has become an unbearable pain.
As the razor traces my arm it leaves paths of red where my troubles once were. I feel a tingle all through my body as relief from all of the stress and pain go away. All of the hurt is out now and for this moment I am numb. I am numb from those eyes that remind me of everything I have ever done wrong, every gaze that reaches mine. And those words that slapped me across my face telling me that I canít be your child because Iím too screwed up, that Iím a bad seed. I donít feel them. I am finally free from you . . . but this time, the door didnít lock, and the mess I had made of blood was right there plain as day, in front of your eyes. I stare at your face horror stricken by the scene in front of you. You start screaming at me . . . the numbness is gone now. And I am back to reality.

But thatís not the worst of it, here . . . you canít cry. It was hard at first, but I have learned. I feel the lashes on my back, punishments for breaking the rules. Wounds here are different. These wounds never heal. Every damn day I feel these wounds like the day I got them. I have learned to be cold, heartless. Nothing bothers me anymore. So, what do I do? My prayers continue but get no answer.

All I do now is think, not of what could have been, not of how bad everything is. I just think. I guess Iím trying to be better, just for the sake of a challenge. But as I tell you this, my story, it becomes clear. All of these prayers . . . they were for the wrong reasons. And by becoming cold and heartless, I am only stripping myself of what little life I have . . . Iím sure God is sick of me running to him every time I get punished for something that makes me feel hurt or unhappy.

I feel a hot tear run down my cheek. And I nod to myself in understanding. As I stand firm for my punishment, I pray, ď God . . . I was wrong before, and Iím sorry it took me this long to understand. But, I think I get it now. So please, tell my family that I love them. Tell them, Iím sorry for never giving them enough credit, and for all the times they tried to help . . . but I wouldnít let them. Tell them, Iím sorry- for everything. But most of all, tell them thanks. For loving me . . . I donít deserve your forgiveness or theirs. So, thanks for not giving it to me. Because I donít think I would have ever understood, what I understand now. Thank you, for everything . . .Ē

Fairy tales do not tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.


The following comments are for "Life in Hell"
by Elleta Jo Crismon

World at your feet
You mentioned in a review of one of my pieces that you are young. I envy you. I remember when I was a kid, the stories I wrote. I didn't have a PC or the Internet back then, just a cheap typewriter that threw a key (remember Stephen King's Misery?) just a few days after Christmas.

The best artists start young, so don't give up on the writing. Keep at it and you may be rewarded, but don't shirk the homework. Put a career first.

This piece was pretty deep, and pretty good. But when you paste your work, use line spaces between paragraphs; it looks squashed otherwise. And post more reviews of others' work: you may receive payment in kind.


( Posted by: jbicko [Member] On: January 11, 2004 )

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