Hell

I'm not concerned about going to Hell. I've already been there. When I was held captive within its gates, it was an empty, desolate, desperate state of being. It was the dark side of life; hidden in the shadows, completely unexposed to light. To live it, one wishes death.

Within its depths some smother, some flee some fight. I fought. I do not know the source of the deep internal strength that pulled me through, but if there is a God, then I suppose I owe him credit. But I think he also has a debt to pay to me. Just an answer would suffice...Why did he leave me kneeling cold and scared, an innocent child, to face the monster of the night? Why didn't he answer my pleas from the bottom of my soul to save me from the horror? Did he not realize that my prayers left unanswered, left me with the message that I deserved to experience such atrocity?

I survived Hell and now have made for myself a safe haven upon this earth. But complete freedom is impossible. I will always be looking over my shoulder when I feel the shadows passing. The chains are broken, but the scars are thick from years of bondage. Every time I look into the mirror I catch a feint glimpse of the Devil himself. His eyes stare back at me; hazel, with craters of brown, not unlike a cat's. I will never be completely pure inside; his blood runs thick within my veins as an unavoidable genetic pollutant. It was not my choice to be brought into this world by his loins. It was God who blessed him with child; it was his free will to wound and destroy.

My Hell was not fire and brimstone; it was 24 hours a day of looming terror. It was like living a horror film. Never knowing when the next demon would jump out of the shadows to inflict more pain.

The pain; it was beyond words. Starting at the top of my head, it made its way through every nerve and muscle in my body. Excruciating...my heart would feel close to collapse from its accelerated pace. My head would fill with a relentless pressure; on the verge of bursting. Veins protruded from both temples and pulsed with every breath; my mouth frozen wide in a stifled scream. Parched throat and burning eyes from continuous tears; until the tears became no more. I would hold myself, wrapped tightly beneath blanket and pillow, but felt no relief. I pressed trembling hands against my ears in order to drown out the sound; a sickening, dirty, frenzied sound. My body would shake uncontrollably with the fear, while my stomach would twist into a thousand knots. I would plead with God to take away the monster who lurked outside my bedroom door, terrified he would come near to my once more. Feeling no immediate rush of warmth or light, I would be left kneeling cold and scared; empty and alone, forced to face the ugliness once more.

Fear was what kept me captive. Silence was his strongest ally; his inimitable power. He inflicted silence through cunning genius by knowing how to place fear into the mind and heart of a child through well-disguised acts which served to desecrate my very soul.

I had no doubt within my mind that he could take a life and end it without a single bit of remorse. I had seen him do it on numerous occasions. I remember him taking the furry calico-colored kittens and placing them roughly inside a dark burlap bag. They screeched and clawed, trying to find their way out. Void of expression, with the exception of a slight grin at the edges of his lips, he pushed the kittens back in and tied the top into a knot. He placed them into the back of his truck and he drove us down to the river. With a thoughtless toss, the bag rolled down the steep embankment, hitting the water with a heavy splash. I watched through tears as the bag rolled over and began to sink. I felt so helpless and so sad. I was terrified that someday that too might be my own fate.

He knew all of my fears. I was terrified of water; he made me swim. I begged for him to help me out of the pool; he smiled, reached out his hand, pulled me half way out then pushed me back in again. I could hear his laughter even in the pools depths. Gasping for air at the surface, I begged for him to stop. He smiled and pushed my head back under. He held me there until all air escaped my lungs, as if waiting for the last bubble to reach the surface, strategically pulling me to the top long enough to expel the water and replace it with one more breath. I knew I couldn't fight him. He would always win.

There were times when his sickness was rampant. The horrendous nightmares, when he would arise from his bed, grab a shotgun, and stalk up and down the hall shouting at the enemy that didn't exist. He would wake up the next morning void of all memory regarding his maniacal tirade and the rest of us would pretend it never happened. The silence served to strengthen his power once again.

It wasn't his collection of guns that I feared. I already knew what his bare hands were capable of doing. They actually provided me a glimpse of freedom. Someday if I gathered the courage, those guns would serve to annihilate the demon, or they would take his victim home to a better place.

He was truly a demon walking upon this earth and he served to create my Hell. He robbed me of my innocence before I had the opportunity to make my own choice. I was never a child; his fault. He forced me to face ugliness when I should have been experiencing beauty; my wounds were inflicted with depth by his hands. Even in my little piece of present Heaven, the scars still hemorrhage. There's not a surgeon in this world that can heal the damage that he caused. Irreversible, the memories will always remain. Though not by choice, he is an integral part of my existence. A piece of me was buried right along with him when he faced that glorious day. I will live; but forever be obsessed with the question "why?" And he wins once again, because he took that very answer with him, to the depths of his own eternal Hell.