As he stood beside his prone and amort shell, gazing by his feet at the ripping earth that was opening up to a cluster of rotted grasps, he immediately regretted what he’d done. His feet were fastened to the ground with damnation; he couldn’t run–a soul petrified with regret.
The tear in the ground widened, giving leeway for more blindly clutching hands to reach up in search for their newest inhabitant. A brilliant red glow radiated from the inside of the ever growing pit, illuminating all surroundings with an evil tint.
Straight ahead was a being cloaked in black: hands behind its back, face buried under the shadow of a cowl, standing straight… standing emotionless. It held its place on the opposite side of the expanding hole, never retreating as the edge approached its stance.
He looked down at himself, the thick red liquid crawling from underneath his head, and the smoking weapon that had caused the vital leakage. He then looked to whatever hid underneath the black cloak and said, “I’m not ready.”
It did not reply vocally, yet he could feel its retort through its apathetic glare–he could feel its coldness. For a moment he caught himself wondering what those eyes might look like beneath that hood. Then he thought mayhap one day he’ll find out, down in the deep below.
His front door opened then; it was a neighbor, a friend. He watched her scream at the sight of his suicide, but did not hear it. Rupturing foundation, dancing flames, and dead fingers combing hardwood were the sounds invading his ears. She ran to his phone and dialed three digits. She was crying.
The pit slid its way underneath the toes of its victim, and came to a halt.
A vagabond hand groped his foot, then ecstatically wrapped itself around his ankle and began pulling. “Help!” he cried out as an army of limbs rushed over to help their colleague haul its find down to Hell.
One hand quickly turned to five, and soon five more were latched onto and pulling at his other leg. “Call them off!” he pleaded to the being in black, but it simply took a step forward and let itself drop into the blazing cesspool that is the Underworld.
He was yanked to a sitting position with his legs hanging down into the pit when the grip of the dead became overbearing. Seconds after, he found himself clawing at the hollow’s brim in a final attempt to escape perdition.
His friend was off the phone, kneeling by his body when he reached to her. She failed to extend a helping hand and his grasp for salvation finally gave way to the strength of the wicked. He continued to scream as the blistered, gashed and mutilated hands coveted his face, with fingers pulling even at his mouth before he let himself be dragged from his world. The hole closed itself once he was secured.
Every second spent in immense heat is another remorseful moment for him, but the being in black has moved on–as it always does–to its next appointment without delay.
- Copyright: © 2008 Joshua VanHorn
