The Pains of Hell
The screams of the damned fill the small, circular room. Wracked and screeching. Slobbery and bleating. Pausing only for thick, haggard breaths.
A bored voice penetrates the howls. Its tinny monotone wafts through the faint but constant static emanating from speakers in the ceiling.
“John. Listen to me, John. Do you hear me? Answer if you hear me, John.”
A stifled shriek cries out “Yes” but is quickly consumed by continued wails.
“Good, John. Good.”
The bored voice pauses as the distant rustle of paperwork scratches through the speakers. John’s unbounded cries persist.
“Now listen carefully, John. I can help you process the overload. But I need your help. You have to focus on my voice and talk to me. Can you do that, John?”
Another stifled affirmative punctures the cacophonous agony.
“Good. The more you focus on my voice and respond to my questions, the sooner your brain will adapt. Are you ready?”
A pained “Yes” ekes out of John’s frothing mouth.
“Let’s begin: John C. Robinson, Prisoner Identification Number 30300406; you have been convicted of Murder in the 2nd Degree for the unlawful slaying of David F. Conley and sentenced to punishment by Lemniscotic Recall. What you are currently experiencing is caused by dramatically increased stimulus to primarily your visual and auditory cortexes, as well as to your parietal lobe. In essence, you are experiencing your crime and its consequences—all of them—fully, completely, and simultaneously. Your brain can’t handle the sensatory load. But this overstimulation will subside in time. As your brain adapts. Learning how to focus on one stimulus at a time will also help ease the pain. My job is to help you through this process. Do you want my help, John?”
John answers “Yes” through gritted teeth and seething spittle.
“Good, John. Good.”
The disembodied voice pauses, replaced briefly by the remote sound of lips slurping hot liquid from a paper cup.
“John, you’ll notice that not all of the stimuli are equally clear. Some are brighter and more coherent. I want you to focus on the brightest, most pronounced experience. Will you do that?”
John shakes his head frantically.
“Speak, John. Tell me yes.”
John shouts.
“Yes!”
“Good. John, this should be the murder. Is this the murder, John? Focus now.”
John shakes his head again.
“Tell me that this is the murder, John.”
Head bouncing spastically, John speaks: “Yes.”
“Say, ‘This is the murder,’ John. Say the words.”
Body clenched and shaking, John forces the words.
“This is the murder.”
“Good, John. Now focus on the murder. Try to push the other stimuli to the side. Don’t try to remove them entirely. Your brain cannot do so. Instead, just focus on the murder. Are you focusing, John?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, now tell me what you see, what you hear, and what you feel. Tell me everything. The more you tell me, the faster your brain will adapt. Will you do that, John?”
John shakes his head. He speaks, but only after a sharp intake of breath.
“I see me. I see my face—my eyes. Angry. I see my hands raised into fists. Right in front of me. I see other hands. My hands but not my hands. They’re David’s hands. But they’re mine. I’m David. I am David.”
“That’s right, John. You’re David. For now. Now tell me everything, John. Tell me everything that happens.”
“I’m scared. I was angry but that’s gone now. Now I’m just scared. I know I’m going to be hurt. I’m scared of the pain.”
“Good, John. What happens next?”
“I’m punching. At me. A quick jab. A right cross. To the head. Now body blows. They don’t stop.”
John coughs and grunts, his body contorting from invisible concussive blows. He screams.
“I can feel my bones break. I can feel my organs puncture. I can feel the blood dripping. My legs give way. I fall to the ground. I can’t see anymore.”
John sobs and pleads and begs for the vicious attack to stop. The bored voice speaks again.
“What now, John? What’s happening now?”
“More blows. Not punches. From my feet now. I’m kicking me. I’m stomping on my head. I don’t feel pain anymore. Everything’s going dark.”
“Okay. And tell me about your feelings, John. What are you feeling?
Silence for a moment as John cries.
“I feel alone. I feel regret. I wish I was with my family.”
“Tell me about your family, John.”
“I see David’s wife. I see his children. I see his parents. Happy memories.”
“How do you know it’s them, John? How do you recognize them?”
“I recognize them from the trial. And from sentencing. Always behind me. I could feel them behind me. And I could hear them crying.”
“I understand. Now what?”
“I can feel the world slipping. I can feel death coming. There’s a numbness. Almost peace. But it’s mixed with worry. And fear. For my family.”
“Good, John. You’ve done very well for the first subject-event. We’ll dig deeper during the next loop. But let’s move on for now. Are you ready to move on?”
John shakes his head. Exhausted and afraid.
“Don’t forget to answer, John. Don’t forget to speak. Are you ready?”
A weak and pathetic “Yes” squeaks through pitiful sobs.
“Okay, now look for the next brightest stimulus. Do you see it?”
“Yes.”
“What is it John? Tell me, what do you see and hear and feel?”
“I see David’s children. They’re eating dinner. But not quite. They’re sitting at the table and food is in front of them. But they’re shouting and playing. They’re not eating.”
“Who are you, John? What are you doing?”
“I’m shouting too. I’m trying to get them to eat. But they’re not listening. I’m so tired. So frustrated. And I’m worried. Where’s David? He’s so late. He’s never been this late. Oh, God! I’m David’s wife.”
“That’s right, John. You’re David’s wife. Now tell me what happens next. Tell me everything you can.”
“There’s a knock at the door. It’s the police. They look so grim. One of them is younger. He looks like he’s going to vomit. They ask my name. They ask me if I’m David’s wife. They ask if there’s a quiet place to talk—a place where I can sit down. They’re telling me that David is dead. That I need to identify the body.”
John pauses, his breaths coming in quick, staccato bursts.
“Please, no. Please don’t make me.”
“Keep going, John. Tell me everything.”
“Please don’t make me!”
“You have to, John. You have to know everything. You have to live it. Feel it. Understand it. All of it. But I’ll tell you what, since this is your first loop, we’ll limit our focus of David’s wife. How do you feel through all this?”
John turned his attention back to the onslaught of experiential torment. Weeping and pale.
“I feel empty. I feel weak. My world has shattered and my future is gone. I feel anger and hate and hopelessness. I hate God. I want Him to die. I pledge to never pray again.”
The tinny voice cuts in.
“Let’s stay there for a moment, John. Focus on that thread. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Follow that thread. Do you see where it leads?
“Yes.”
“Look closely. Does David’s wife ever pray or go to church again?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
“What about their children? Can you see their lives?”
“I can.”
“Do they learn about God? About prayer? Do they ever go to church again?”
John’s eyes—red and bloated—stare blankly at the air before him. Searching for the answer to the question. Head lowering, he answers.
“No.”
“Okay. We can explore that in more detail later as well. Let’s return to Mrs. Conley for a bit. Are you there? Are you her?”
“Yes.”
“Are you at the morgue?”
A pause. Violent, guttural heaves. John vomits. Spewing thick green and brown on his chest and legs and the chair seat in between his thighs. Clumps of gloppy chunks drip from his lap, splatting into small, dense piles on the formerly sterile floor below. John sobs, strings of bile mixed with spit and snot hanging from his quivering lips.
“What are you feeling, John?”
John cries out, desperately pleading.
“I want to die! I want to die! Please take the pain away!”
The voice answers. Unmoved.
“I’m afraid not John. There’s so much more to do. To see. To feel. People and perspectives. Wounds and their consequences. Both in the past and in the future. You’ll be there when David meets his wife. When they fall in love. You’ll be there for the birth of their children. When David comforts his wife at her mother’s passing. And then you’ll relive the murder and everything after. That way you’ll know the loss. And there’s David’s parents to consider. The rest of their short lives are empty without David. Both thought of him when they died, you know.
“Of course you know. You’ve already tasted it. But there’s more. There’s David’s children as well. And grandchildren. And great grandchildren. His loss impacted the trajectory of all their lives. You will know it all so that you can understand what you took from them. And you will see the aftermath of your actions. For all. And for their posterity.
“Nothing happens in a vacuum, John. We always reap far more than we sow. But don’t worry. We have your whole life and as many loops as it takes to get through it all. Then, once we have, it will play continuously in your mind. Past, present, future. Again and again and again. Forever. All in one infinite now.”
A bored sigh scrawls through the speakers.
“How do you feel about that, John?”
John’s weeping continues. Different now. Bereft of any promise or hope. The doomed realization of the pains of hell.
“Why?” he entreats.
The voice answers. Without pity.
“This is justice, John. The consequences of your actions. Nothing more and nothing less. You did this. You. You weren’t drunk. You weren’t insane. You were just angry. And you let that anger act upon you, making you a slave to your emotions. Like some dumb animal.”
John breathes in hyperventilated gasps, struggling to speak through the dawning misery of eternity’s promised purgatory.
“Is there no end?” he wails.
“No, John. Time and knowledge have no limits after death. They both exist in one, infinite present. And they are your burden to bear.”
“But is there no mercy?” John implores.
The answer comes quickly. The voice is raised ever so and tinged just slightly by the presence of emotion.
“Mercy. You want mercy? Did you show David Mercy?”
A racking cry answers.
“No!”
The voice recovers from its momentary show of passion.
“That’s right. You did not. Then why should you get it?”
John cries out the more.
“There must be mercy! Please! Mercy!”
The voice answers. Quiet as death.
“But that would rob justice, John. That would deprive him of his due. Don’t you hear David’s blood crying for you, John? Don’t you feel his death clawing at your soul? You need to see, John. You need to feel. You need to understand. Everything.”
John screams.
“Kill me! Please! Extinguish my soul!”
The voice’s response is back to a bored monotone.
“I'm afraid not, John. There is no death. There's only eternity.”
With hope’s final sliver spent, John slumps into a weeping stupor.
The voice speaks again after taking another unhurried sip from the paper cup.
“Let’s start the loop again, shall we? From the beginning. And this time, John, let’s see if we can really drill down into the details.”
Copyright © Graham, 2024; All Rights Reserved
