Part 1: ABBY
Part 2: FOOLED
Part 3: JUDGEMENT
Part 4: SLOB
Part 5:PALACE
Part 6: FEAST
Part 7: MIRRORS Pt1
Part 7.5 MIRRORS Pt2
Part 8: TEMPTATION Pt1
Part 8.5: Temptation Pt 2
It was Friday morning yet again. For all intents and purposes I had been in Hell an entire week already. Seven days ago Satan had entered my life and turned it inside out as only the king of fallen angels could. In Seven days I had beheaded, disfigured, impaled, and even erupted from a sinister legion of evil incarnate. I had been suffocated, pursued, eaten, belittled, and seduced. I had been thrown through a window, dragged into a refrigerator, been reborn, and had my damn television broken.
I had reached a point where my perspective of the world was becoming brighter every day, although I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t scared stiff even after 5 successful trials.
In my bed I sat propped against the wall and imagined what tonight may hold. Envy or Wrath, it seemed like a lose-lose situation. On one hand I could face Envy tonight and be completely unprepared. Perhaps envy would attack me out of jealousy? Scoop out my beautiful eyes, try to skin me alive and wear me like Ed Gein? If that were the case it seems I’d just prevent that from happening, but those demons are relentless.
Luxuria was absolute proof of this.
The image of her, or him, or it, still haunted me. I had come to terms with my guilt of seeing a nude Abby by convincing myself that the demon had most likely embellished a naked form based off of my assumptions. However, the scrambling nightmare that had rushed towards me as I sunk into the pool of my own blood could not be perceived differently. The dark brown hair I’d run my hands through while Luxuria kneeled before me, a perfect replica of Abby’s curly locks, but in reality had been a static split ended mess of a white mane. However long I had been in Hell last night, I had spent an unforgivable amount of time tempted to enter a twisted mess of genitals which had been conceived of in a dark recess of reality that no mortal mind could ever comprehend, and was never meant to.
I wanted to focus on something positive. With five trials down there seemed to be a light at the end of this tunnel I’d spent a week in, but looking ahead was impossible without facing the reality of what roadblocks still loomed before me.
What if tonight was Wrath’s turn? I had learned in the house of Acedia that my strength was enhanced while in that ethereal realm of suffering. Could I simply fight the violent madman hand to hand? I hadn’t beaten Gluttire in a gourmet race, I hadn’t out-bragged Superbia, I hadn’t screwed Luxuria out of existence, and I found it hard to think fighting fire with fire would ever prove possible in Hell.
I looked at my alarm clock. I’d ended up sleeping until quarter after ten. Not too shabby. However now I felt as if I was no longer waiting for an unknown inevitability, and therefore did not feel the need to kill time easier by sleeping in. Judging by my dedication to my personal laundry duty I was even beginning to wonder if I could return to work, but ended up deciding against it. Five trials down or not, it would still be a workplace distraction that could end up costing me my job. Plus the last thing I needed was a demon sucking me to hell through the break room vending machines or a filing cabinet.
I thought back to the previous night and the hidden river bank. With gears turning in my head my mind drifted to the question of what else I’ve been missing. I’d essentially been dead to the world for a week already, so I decided I’d brush up on a few things by casually skimming over the collection of papers that had been awaiting me the night before.
I had no idea that such a gut wrenching shock was waiting for me.
It wasn’t the first thing I came across. The papers weren’t necessarily in chronological order, and that was fine. I wasn’t cramming for a current events final, I was just filled with a strange air of curiosity. Considering how small my town is I should have seen it coming a mile away.
Abby had made the news.
“Family Devastated after Late Night Hit and Run”
My stomach dropped. I let out a hysterical whimper and slapped my hand over the large bold title and the tasteful crime scene photo accompanying it, as if I could crumple the reality away.
I tried my hardest to read the article, but couldn’t focus nearly enough to take it all in on my first shot. Abby’s mother had been interviewed, stating how much time she’d been spending by Abby’s side, praying she’d wake up or show any sign at all of improvement.
The paper spouted information about her condition. Critical, yet stable. As well as giving a modest list of the injuries Abby had sustained. Every entry brought up glimpses of Satan’s ethereal recording and how I had witnessed in what rapid fire order those injuries had occurred.
I knew her knee had been shattered and inverted upon impact before her head was brought forcefully down onto the car’s windshield. How she was ripped straight out of her shoes by the sudden change in velocity. I saw the way she had ricocheted onto the sidewalk, and how her collar bone had ejected on impact while her skin was buffeted by the rough concrete surface. I knew at least three teeth had been pulverized in the landing and had sprayed out in a bloody eruption of saliva and crumbled white pebbles.
I was lucky enough to keep myself from vomiting long enough to make it to the bathroom. I’d never thrown up out of pure emotional distress before. I had also never sobbed as a result of puking either, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything. There was no strength in me to lift my face from the rim of the toilet bowl. My tears gathered on my eyelids and fell directly into the tainted water below.
Every cough burned my throat and threatened to bring up another wave. It wasn’t only the article that did this to me, but it had indeed acted as a catalyst. The article was final proof that this was all real. The pain of having my leg severed for instance was still a horrible memory, but looking down and seeing my leg still attached took away some of the trauma. Decapitating a man doesn’t seem as real when you wake up in your bed without a trace of blood on you. However, seeing Abby’s name in the paper, seeing her mother’s own words that had been archived in a physical form and sent to my door, this was happening.
My distress morphed into a full on emotional breakdown as I realized this was the first real release I had had since I’d gotten the cliff notes of the event from the bakery’s other cashier. I pulled dangling articles of clothing down from the countertops where I’d let them sit to dry, I pressed them to my face and screamed from the deepest recesses of my lungs.
I was almost done with the trials, but the damage had been done already. Even if I won, Abby would have these scars. She’d always have dental implants and probably a metal rod where her collarbone should be.
The only positive part was that if I told Abby it had been my fault she’d never believe me. Any sane person wouldn’t believe me. In fact it would sound like nothing but a tasteless joke from an ignorant mouth.
My stomach still spun in a maelstrom of emotion, but now the purest feelings of anger boiled up from the bottom. Anger that took on the form of nothing but the unbridled need for revenge. Deep in my gut I knew that the next two trials would show me as the victor, because I had a score to settle.
It was during those moments I hoped that night would bring me to that fiery crevice at the foot of Acedia’s dwelling. The same fissure I had thrown the demon of sloth’s head into after it had been gnawed off. I wanted to be there at this very moment. I wanted to see that large figure before me as he calculated just what form of punishment would give him the greatest euphoric feelings. I wanted him to charge straight at me only to be met with my fist, driven by the anger I was feeling at that very moment.
After millennia of torturing damned souls with his bare hands, I wanted him to feel his own skull shattering under the force of my fist. I ripped the cloth from my face violently and struck the cabinet door to my left. It splintered inward with a razor sharp crack.
Save it for Hell dude, I thought to myself. I grinned through my tears and took a deep breath.
Friday night, Saturday night, Sunday night. I wiped my hand over my face. As if Mondays weren’t bad enough already. I had taken a week off of work to relax, or recover, or maybe grieve, I couldn’t even remember the excuse I’d given for taking time off so suddenly. I would return to work on Monday seeming as if my hiatus had done nothing to help my condition.
I sat up and leaned against the side of the tub. At least on Monday it’ll all be over. I groped towards my pockets for my cell phone hoping to check the time. I quickly realize that not only did I not have my phone on me, but I hadn’t even seen it for nearly a week now. A twinge of guilt shot through me, chances were my coworkers may have tried to contact me by that point, or at least a friend or family member.
In fact for the past week I’d completely disappeared off the radar. Hadn’t made any electronic purchases, no phone calls, and no social media. The closest thing to human interaction I’d had was the dirty looks I’d gotten in town the previous night, and before that I hadn’t spoken to another living human being since Monday morning when I’d been sent home.
I quickly stumbled to my feet and maneuvered through the two doorways that brought me to my desk. I wasn’t surprised in the least to find my phone was dead. With the lifeless piece of technology in my hand I made my way back across the apartment to the kitchen where I religiously kept my charger. However upon passing in front of the bathroom doorway my heart dropped.
What I had seen out of the corner of my eye had to be a trick. The chill down my spine had surprisingly kept me from taking a good look, although I knew a further investigation would be necessary. He might not have noticed me anyways.
It’s a miracle I was able to keep my phone from slipping through my sweaty palms as my feet made their first damp contact with the cold kitchen tile. The plug lay on the countertop with its thin cord wrapped around the metal prongs that connected it with the electricity in the wall. It seemed to be a mile away, so when I reached its location within the distance of two paces time and space became a disorienting mess in my head.
The phone fell with a loud clatter as I attempted to calmly set it on the countertop. It took an embarrassing amount of time to untangle the wire and properly alight the chargers metal plugs into the pair of slits on the outlet.
My hands shook so violently I almost gave up on attaching the cord to the phone all together, but with a deep breath (at least more fulfilling than the shallow breaths I’d been stuck with the past few minutes) I was able to watch as the “charging” icon illuminated the screen.
On my oven the time read as thirteen minutes past eleven. This should have given me great relief, however I had seen him. He had been standing in my bathroom.
I thought I was done with him.
I left my kitchen.
He shouldn’t be here.
I crossed my living room.
What was he doing here!
I rounded the corner, he stood just inside my bathroom. He was frantically studying himself in the mirror. When he noticed I was standing there in the doorway his head swiveled on his bulbous neck and he gave me a nervous smile with those stupid thin lips.
“Get out.” I demanded with a shaking voice.
“Hold on” he croaked, sounding as if he were in pain.
“What were the rules Fatso? You’re so horny for the rules you should know, one trial each night! It’s not even noon yet!”
He grunted and turned towards me fully, “I’m going to need a few minutes here.”
How I hadn’t noticed earlier I’ll never know, but Uncle Fatso was even more disgusting than his regular appearance usually allowed. The miraculous fibers of the suit which usually held his excess of lard were showing a large amount of overdue tears. Damp and pale flesh filled bubbles poked through like external hernias. A meaty nipple showed through a breast pocket now in tatters. The sweat stains under his gut and massive arms was also complimented with light crimson. He had been bleeding.
His powdered wig sagged limply to the side, the greasy black hair adorned with bobby pins could be seen peeking out from beneath the soft bleached faux hairline. I was accustomed to his heavy breathing, his size made it clear that just existing was a strenuous task, but now each breath was accompanied by a grunt or cough.
If it was his plan to clean himself up before addressing me, it was going to take more than a few minutes.
He only had one free hand, the other seemed to be keeping blubber and greasy organs from spilling onto the floor through a large gash in his stomach. With it he gestured to my cabinet.
“That was like that by the way.” He stated before being attacked by a fit of wet coughing which sent a mist of bloody saliva into the air.
He muttered something never before heard on earth and leaned over the sink with a loud groan.
“Do you need anything?” I was surprised to hear myself inquire.
In response he waved me away with his occupied hand, causing my sink to immediately become a nest of sticky thick coils and pale yellow gore. At the sight of this I rushed to the kitchen with a heavy gorge growing in my stomach. Whatever I hadn’t lost after my review of Abby’s condition in the newspaper was now rocketing from deep within my throat into the sink. I clumsily turned both knobs on the faucet and flushed my sickness down the drain.
I had seen so much worse over the past week, but not in my own sink. I prayed I wouldn’t be required to clean up whatever Uncle Fatso wasn’t able to stuff back into himself. This thought threatened to bring on another wave of sickness, but after a few seconds of deep breathing the urge left me. I was left drenched in cold sweat on my floor while the demon in my bathroom attempted to patch himself up.
“So,” I was finally able to shout from my spot on the tile, “What happened to you?”
His voice bounced in from the bathroom over the sound of my toilet flushing, “You’ll find out soon enough.”
I didn’t want to find out whether sooner or later nor did I want to know why my toilet had been flushed.
“Did Satan, well, was It him? Did he kick your ass?”
He didn’t answer. I could faintly hear the sounds of tearing
“Who is my trial against tonight? Because I’m still not going until night time, late afternoon at the earliest!”
“We’re going once I’m ready!” He roared through the walls, he must have been feeling better.
The anger in his voice caused me to smile. I rose to my feet and retrieved a cup from my cabinet. A few swigs of water washed the vile taste of vomit from my mouth, and I decided to situate myself at a kitchen table rather than the cold floor.
“You don’t really seem like you’re in the best shape to be making demands.” I called.
Once more he refused to validate my statement. I waited through the longest minutes of my life before Uncle Fatso came slowly waddling into my kitchen. He was heavily bandaged by strips of his once pristine black suit.
“You need to come with me, now.” He stated, almost pleadingly.
I stayed hunched over at my kitchen table and shot him a look out the corner of my eye. I’m not sure I ever truly believed I had any say in what time I was dragged to hell for a trial, but as I had told the fat demon upon seeing him, the rules had stated I’d face a trial each night.
“I thought my time with you was up.”
He attempted to approach me, the malice in his eyes gave me a hint as to what he intended on doing if he’d reached me, but a loud popping rang out from his leg with the first step and he staggered into a nearby countertop. “The rules,” he began, needing to inhale deeply, “have never been set in stone.”
He stated this as if it were news to me. As if I hadn’t realized that “no tricks” had always meant, “rape a comatose body”. As if I were able to set my watch to what time a demon would appear each night. As if Satan’s own insistence on there only being two options would have been true even if Acedia hadn’t brought up the third.
“So, the rules you were spouting out in Avaritia’s palace…”
“You can’t transfer a curse to a beast with no soul; that was always impossible.” Uncle fatso interrupted with a pained growl.
“Or it was impossible when beneficial to you, Avaritia didn’t seem to…”
“Avaritia was defeated!” The demon roared as his jowls were sent rippling.
I leaned back and folded my arms.
“So, he’s not the one who.” I trailed off, nodding towards the fat man across the room.
“Not the one who?” Uncle fatso quickly realized what I was saying.
It was as if he were embarrassed by his current state of being. He began to quake within his skin and take shallow breaths in an attempt to speak. He even seemed as if he were about to cry.
“This is exactly why we need to go! You’re the one who did this to me! I’m not here to fix the problems that you’ve created!”
I stood abruptly and knocked over the chair I’d been sitting in, “What did I do?”
Once again met by silence. Uncle Fatso held his hands outwards and began to sink into the kitchen tile. It wasn’t a second later when I realized I was too.
Just like last Sunday afternoon, I was being dragged downwards into the solid matter below me. The ceramic tiles snapped and crackled across my skin. It was painful, yet no marks were left. I sharp piece of tile could easily break the skin, yet there was no blood. I shut my eyes and allowed myself to be swallowed, not that there was much I could do to stop it.
Of course I never knew where exactly I’d end up upon my arrival in Hell, however this time I found it hard to believe that Hell was even where I was standing.
It was a forest. That’s all the surrounding area seemed to be. There were thin trees covered in smooth white bark (birch I’m assuming). Through the canopy above I could see a soft overcast sky which was still reminiscent of Hell’s sky of swirling gray smog. The ground was uneven and scattered with random patches of green grass atop a canvas of fine dirt.
There was no red sand, no screaming, and no intense heat. The only reason I ever became sure that I was indeed in Hell and not still on earth was the creature that scurried past me as I studied my surroundings.
It moved on five legs and would have probably been cute if it had a head rather than the twisted mess of thorns at the front of its body. It made soft grunting sounds, as if a tiny accordion were slowly and unevenly compressing. It stopped and studied me as I found myself thinking “it can probably sense fear.”
This caused me to laugh, as if I had any reason to fear such a tiny creature regardless of its location. The sudden sound startled the creature and it skittered back and partially up a nearby tree.
“Hey!” I heard in the distance.
Uncle Fatso was on the top of a hill, just about to descend on the other side as he waved me towards him.
Maybe I was still on earth and Hell actually began just over that hill. Maybe the creature I had seen was just exploring the surrounding area. Whatever the case was, I still absently strolled among the trees in the direction of the beckoning mass of lard.
“Where are we?” I shouted as I approached the top of the hill were Uncle Fatso still stood.
He didn’t answer, a new trait of his which I appreciated almost as much as I despised. Suddenly he won’t answer the most basic of questions? I imagined he found it hard to speak when a nauseating amount of lawyer babble couldn’t be easily intermingled with his dialogue.
When I reached the top of the hill I was shocked to see nothing but more heavily wooded area. However now the macabre essence of Hell itself was beginning to rear its ugly head.
My first step down the hill caused another five legged creature to sprint across my path and snare something within the thorns covering its head. As I studied the creature while it scurried away I noticed the object it had picked from the ground foliage was a finger. This realization, as well as the subtlety in what had happened, made me momentarily light headed. I placed my hand against a nearby tree to sturdy myself only to withdraw it immediately as I found my palm coated with a dark crimson substance. I could only assume it was blood.
As I trekked down the hill my surroundings began to show more signs of this forest indeed residing in Hell. Here and there disgusting ornaments began to show up among the trees, though based on their condition and placement I was convinced they hadn’t been deliberately hung, and they had appeared quite recently.
Fragments of bone was imbedded into the trees. Along the ground was spattered blood and shredded viscera. High up in an outcrop of branches dangled the remains of a leg from mid thigh to worn down sandal.
The forest itself was also in a state of dilapidation. Tree trunks splintered upwards with their top halves laying nearby or leaning against those that still stood. The surrounding brush looked as if it had been trampled. This was fortunate, for it made our descent down the hillside easier, though trudging through the broken and blood soaked twigs and leaves was still far from pleasant.
Most peculiar of all was the way the bark peeled randomly from nearly every tree we passed. It was as if a confused lumberjack had attempted to chop down every tree in this forest, but gave up after a few whacks at each. I would have even accepted this theory if the gashes hadn’t seemed so long and at certain points marked into the bark vertically.
Shortly after these sights showed up we arrived at the apex of all the gruesome horrors. I had been lost in thought when the large flabby arm of my guide swung outwards and caught me in the chest, halting my progress before I could wade into the desecrated corpse before us.
Corpse is actually the wrong way to describe it. The word “corpse” leads me to believe whatever living thing had perished was still somehow identifiable. I was sure that whatever I was looking at I would have never been able to identify regardless of what condition it was in.
At this time, the mess of organs before us lay halfway in a tunnel that led into the hillside we had just descended. From deep inside the tunnel the entrails and battered frame of the creature seemed to have erupted outwards as if a sledgehammer had been brought down onto a fisherman’s can of bait.
For the second time that day I lost the contents of my stomach due to the sight of spilled organs. The post-vomit cold sweat was enhanced by a new chill as I noticed how unfazed Uncle Fatso was by this disgusting display of gore. I could only imagine how much he had seen since his creation, and not being of the earth as we knew it I could only imagine how little this type of thing had ever bothered him. He currently stood with a stony expression on his face as he waited for me to gain control of my stomach. After clearing my throat and spitting onto the blood soaked ground I turned to address him properly.
“What’s going on?”
He seemed puzzled. Unsure of how to phrase his answer, or possibly not knowing where to begin. After a moment of uncomfortable silence he managed to give me three words.
“This was Invidia.”
I looked at the remains. I forced myself to see what the mangled corpse had once been. I tried my damndest to figure out what had happened. Why it was smashed open like a rotten melon. Why had its finger been so far from the rest of it? Why was it spread out like this?
Wrath.
The word sunk into my brain like a hot stake. I recalled seeing him my second night in Hell. The way he laughed maniacally as he tore man limb from limb. I believe Satan had referred to him as “Ira”. However I couldn’t bring myself to imagine we were in Ira’s domain.
When I had seen Ira he had been in a crevice near Acedia’s dwelling. Without clarifying my thoughts I spoke.
“Ira did this?”
Uncle Fatso looked at me, partially quizzical and partially annoyed.
“Ira was not here, no other demon should be here, you did this!”
I looked down at the shredded corpse on the ground. I had done this? I was positive I would remember doing this.
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“I’ve informed you of all I’m required to, your,” he stuttered, as if unsure of how to phrase the remaining words, “trial awaits you through here.”
He gestured at the tunnel with the emerging mound of gore. My stomach jumped into my throat again with threatening dry heaves. I had been through worse, but not by my own doing.
“What is that?” I asked, stalling awkwardly and pointing at the mess of entrails.
Uncle Fatso didn’t speak.
“You really can’t answer a simple question?”
More silence.
I reached out to grab his torn shirt collar but was immediately struck in the shin by a scuffed dress shoe. The rotund demon’s action would have been comical if not so painful. As I recoiled he brought me to the ground with a shocking amount of skill and forced me halfway into the tunnel.
My hands slipped through the slimy guts. I felt the sole of that scuffed shoe on my backside as I was kept from retreating. My disgust came out in intangible mewls as I scooted forwards on my hands and knees. Every movement was a new disgusting sensation. Textures that no human hand should ever experience. Smells that a mortal nose shouldn’t even be able to sense. Unknown bits and pieces popped and slipped over and under my palms and shins.
I pressed my mouth against my shoulder and breathed. I couldn’t take the smell any longer, but I feared breathing through my mouth would welcome in the taste. I told myself that this was mud. The guts were gone, only mud remained. As the light got brighter around me I could see this wasn’t the case however. How could anything be mutilated to such a degree? I closed my eyes and crawled faster, hoping that it would end.
The light filtered in brightly through my eyelids, and eventually my hands were hitting dry ground. I opened my eyes to come face to face with an inhuman skull. In my panic I jumped to my feet and kicked it away from me. A sorrowful chuckle echoed through the cavernous space as the skull shattered on the base of a slimy stalagmite.
If this was where one of Satan’s most powerful demons ruled, it sure didn’t seem like it. I’d been in palaces and haughtily decorated rooms. Even Gluttire’s mess hall was more furnished with a table and stool than this… cave.
There was a soft glow illuminating the room from above, but the source was nowhere to be found. Regardless of the rock formations and small reflective pool of water the area seemed empty. Inaudible save for the hollow breeze of chilly air and spontaneous plop of a fallen water droplet.
“Not so pretty now is she?” a guttural voice croaked from the shadows, followed by a loud wet snort.
I frantically searched for the voice’s source, positive that if not identified I would be ambushed. Near the glassy pool was a mound that I had originally written off as another rock formation, but the subtle movement of which was now suggesting otherwise.
“Who are you?” I called to the quivering silhouette, finding it hard to feel endangered any longer.
There was a high pitched wheeze followed by a horse sobbing cough. The black shape shook furiously.
“You wouldn’t remember me would you? You’re just too high and mighty for me, too beautiful, what joy would you ever find in reminiscing over me?”
My questions had gone from unanswered with silence, to unanswered with loaded questions. Of course I didn’t remember who I was speaking with. The voice shrouded in darkness was nowhere in my memory, and without a face to jog my mind I was lost as one could be. I could only be fifty percent certain whether the creature was human or not. For all I knew I could be speaking to a damned human soul that I’d known long ago and had died without me ever knowing.
Sure of nothing but this creature’s demeanor I had already decided that this being was worth forgetting. Regardless, I decided to follow the path of honesty.
“I have no idea who you are.”
The echo hadn’t even died from my statement yet before the walls of the cave reverberated with painful shrieks.
“You don’t even know!” The shadow had thrown back its grotesquely shaped head in a lamenting fury.
“You don’t even know-ow-ow, don’t even know-ow-ow!”
It was like watching your best friend lose his mind over losing a girlfriend who you had secretly despised. Awkward, I couldn’t even form words, didn’t know what to say, and didn’t even know what to think. The sobs that now filled the empty chamber were an animalistic embodiment of a train wreck, a grinding death rattle of a tortured beast begging for the promised mercy of death.
After too many moments in an unsure stupor a nerve was struck.
“Inform me!” I shouted.
The echoes of my demands danced with those of the haunting wails until they both petered out into silence. There was a shuffling sound and the form by the pool doubled in height. This alone began painting a picture of who I had been sharing this cave with.
It was female. As female as a demon can be considered I suppose. Female by all means. Tiny waist with rounded hips. I had only met two demons that I’d consider female, one of which turned out to have a prehensile clitoris. Once more I was in the company of Superbia.
Submitted August 16, 2016 at 05:21AM by Human_Fly13 http://ift.tt/2b9Tlj6 nosleep
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