Waste
08-16-2009, 03:46 PM
Have you ever noticed how most humans complain about their lives? They walk in the sun with their loved ones and complain about how hot it is. They have arguments over small things like bus timetables and then moan even more when the bus is late. They complain about crime rates and racism and their melting ice cream but do not really realise how good they have it. I mean honestly. You have not felt the sear of heat until you have been to hell.
I live in hell, amongst the flames and the molten rock in a small room with a hard bed made of splintered wood. I eat nothing for if I try to bite into one of the many legs of meat that are laid across a buffet table every day, their smell mingling in my nose, making my dry mouth water, the mouthful turns to ash in my mouth; and believe me it is ridiculously hard to make the taste of ash to go away.
My friends are killers and rapists who mingle ever day in a room that is hotter than a sauna, playing games of poker and chance. What do we bet with? The only things we have, anecdotes and secrets. Oh it is true that sometimes one of the women in our games will offer us a night, but even sex isn’t as enjoyable in hell. Even then we have to get off on memories of how it used to feel.
I suppose that after spending a few years here it isn’t so bad, you get used to it and adapt. Sometimes I do not even know why I am here. Compared to the others I’m not that bad, I killed some people and ruined others lives; this is true. I am reminded of it every night in my dreams, but it wasn’t my fault. I did what I did because I knew no other life; I was brought up on the love and the hate of the east end, the dark alleys of London. What else was I supposed to do?
My death was a rather pointless one, my life was the same. I hear the other people here speak of their reasons for what they did and they seem valid. I say fair enough, that’s a good reason. It is all we can do. No use starting fights. Fights rarely break out in hell, simply because every punch that you take feels ten times harder than it actually is. Broken bones, bruises and cuts heal painfully slow, the wounds causing searing heat and a lot of bother. A fight just isn’t worth the amount you will suffer afterwards.
The one thing that annoys me about hell is how every morning is the same. Every morning I wake up aching and take a freezing cold shower. I then get dressed, that’s one thing I like doing, in hell we can chose our appearance so if I wanted I could have pink hair one day and green the next. However I usually chose to stay in the form I died in, to remind me of all of my mistakes.
Every morning I look in the mirror and see a nineteen year old boy with deep shadows beneath his eyes. His hair is thick and dyed black, heavily tousled. His eyes are dark brown and slightly blood shot from the come down he is having, he has high cheek bones and a thin heart shaped face. A thick scar runs across his left cheek from a fight he got into when he was 16, he has a lot of scars this boy I used to be.
I usually choose to wear something dark, baggy jeans held loosely around my thin hips by studded belts, they usually fall down when I walk but back in London I think it was cool. Most men walk around topless here in hell, which is also something I choose to do, showing off the tattoo of black wings that run the full length of my back. It seemed a good idea at the time, I think I was drunk.
That morning I made my way out into the food hall, ignoring the sweet aromas, men and women were lined up along the table of meat and other tempting dishes, a few were crying and screaming. There’s always an echo of tortured screams in the back ground when you’re in hell.
I made my way through the hall and into another that was almost identical, most of the rooms in hell are high chasms, the rock walls are usually too hot to touch, the floor burns bare feet. Each chasm is lit by burning torches; their light hurts your eyes a little at first because to get between the rooms you have to walk down pitch black corridors. I didn’t mind, I had been in hell for a little over five years. More than enough time to get used to it, I hadn’t exactly lived a cushy life when I had been alive.
[[Thoughts? What I really want to know is if it holds attention? Worth continuing or do I need to start this beginning in a new way?]]
I live in hell, amongst the flames and the molten rock in a small room with a hard bed made of splintered wood. I eat nothing for if I try to bite into one of the many legs of meat that are laid across a buffet table every day, their smell mingling in my nose, making my dry mouth water, the mouthful turns to ash in my mouth; and believe me it is ridiculously hard to make the taste of ash to go away.
My friends are killers and rapists who mingle ever day in a room that is hotter than a sauna, playing games of poker and chance. What do we bet with? The only things we have, anecdotes and secrets. Oh it is true that sometimes one of the women in our games will offer us a night, but even sex isn’t as enjoyable in hell. Even then we have to get off on memories of how it used to feel.
I suppose that after spending a few years here it isn’t so bad, you get used to it and adapt. Sometimes I do not even know why I am here. Compared to the others I’m not that bad, I killed some people and ruined others lives; this is true. I am reminded of it every night in my dreams, but it wasn’t my fault. I did what I did because I knew no other life; I was brought up on the love and the hate of the east end, the dark alleys of London. What else was I supposed to do?
My death was a rather pointless one, my life was the same. I hear the other people here speak of their reasons for what they did and they seem valid. I say fair enough, that’s a good reason. It is all we can do. No use starting fights. Fights rarely break out in hell, simply because every punch that you take feels ten times harder than it actually is. Broken bones, bruises and cuts heal painfully slow, the wounds causing searing heat and a lot of bother. A fight just isn’t worth the amount you will suffer afterwards.
The one thing that annoys me about hell is how every morning is the same. Every morning I wake up aching and take a freezing cold shower. I then get dressed, that’s one thing I like doing, in hell we can chose our appearance so if I wanted I could have pink hair one day and green the next. However I usually chose to stay in the form I died in, to remind me of all of my mistakes.
Every morning I look in the mirror and see a nineteen year old boy with deep shadows beneath his eyes. His hair is thick and dyed black, heavily tousled. His eyes are dark brown and slightly blood shot from the come down he is having, he has high cheek bones and a thin heart shaped face. A thick scar runs across his left cheek from a fight he got into when he was 16, he has a lot of scars this boy I used to be.
I usually choose to wear something dark, baggy jeans held loosely around my thin hips by studded belts, they usually fall down when I walk but back in London I think it was cool. Most men walk around topless here in hell, which is also something I choose to do, showing off the tattoo of black wings that run the full length of my back. It seemed a good idea at the time, I think I was drunk.
That morning I made my way out into the food hall, ignoring the sweet aromas, men and women were lined up along the table of meat and other tempting dishes, a few were crying and screaming. There’s always an echo of tortured screams in the back ground when you’re in hell.
I made my way through the hall and into another that was almost identical, most of the rooms in hell are high chasms, the rock walls are usually too hot to touch, the floor burns bare feet. Each chasm is lit by burning torches; their light hurts your eyes a little at first because to get between the rooms you have to walk down pitch black corridors. I didn’t mind, I had been in hell for a little over five years. More than enough time to get used to it, I hadn’t exactly lived a cushy life when I had been alive.
[[Thoughts? What I really want to know is if it holds attention? Worth continuing or do I need to start this beginning in a new way?]]