I woke to the same stale air. Sulfur, ash, and something that smells too much like death. I used to gag, back when I was still… human. But now, this smell is just part of the backdrop, like a distant memory of something I once cared about. It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing does.
I open my eyes, though they don't need to be open. There's nothing to see here in Hell anyway—just darkness, a void that stretches on forever. I can't remember the last time I saw anything other than this swirling cloud of my own form. I know I was once something different—something… better. But those memories are gone, scattered and twisted by the endless years. What remains now is this.
A low-level demon. Just one among many, tasked with something simple. Torture. That's all I do, really. That's all any of us do. We torment the souls who fall into our grasp, the ones who didn't repent, who didn't beg for forgiveness when they still had the chance. Now they're mine to break.
Today will be no different.
I move without thought, floating through the murky air of Hell. I don't need to walk, don't need to fly. I am just there, slipping from one corner of Hell to the next as the foul smell of burning souls drifts around me. My form is nothing but a dark cloud, shifting and formless, like a patch of shadow that flickers with a hint of red, a whisper of fire. As I pass by, the tortured wails of the damned fill my ears. Some of them scream in desperation, others in hopelessness, but none of them will ever leave.
First stop—the Pit of the Screaming. I've been here too many times to count. The screams are familiar, comforting almost, like the crackling of a fire on a cold night. They're part of my routine. It's strange how you can get used to something so… horrific.
I hover over the Pit, the souls below writhing in agony. Their bodies are twisted, their skin peeling and blackened. Some are burned, others torn apart by invisible forces, their bodies pulled in directions that break bone and sinew with ease. The air is thick with the stench of burning flesh and despair, but it doesn't bother me. It never does anymore.
I glance down at a man whose limbs have been stretched to unnatural lengths, his joints popping with sickening snaps as they tear free. His mouth hangs open in a silent scream, eyes wide and unblinking. He doesn't realize yet that I'm here. He won't know until the moment I step closer.
"Wake up," I whisper to him, though he cannot hear me. My voice is as hollow as the world around us. "You're in my world now."
I reach down and tap my fingers against his soul, an invisible touch, but he reacts. His body twitches violently, his mouth stretching into an agonized scream. His skin bursts open, revealing the raw, bloody flesh beneath. The scent of his blood fills the air, making my own hunger stir, but I ignore it. For now.
"Pain," I murmur, almost to myself. "That's all you'll ever know down here. Welcome to Hell."
I let him scream for a while, relishing in the moment. The silence that follows the first scream is always the worst. It's when they realize the torment never stops. They can't escape. They can't repent. They're here forever.
After a while, I let go. Another soul lost to the unending chaos. Another piece of meat for the grinder. I turn away and float further into the labyrinth of torment.
Next, I'm at the Torment Gardens. A place where the damned are forced to endure the grotesque versions of their worst fears, all brought to life by the twisted magic of Hell. The garden is alive, but not in a way most would understand. It's made of flesh—tendrils of skin that slither like serpents across the ground, flowers with teeth that snap at anything that dares get too close, and trees whose branches drip with blood, their leaves sharp as knives.
I pass by a woman kneeling in the dirt, her body contorted in impossible shapes. Her arms are too long, her spine bent back on itself, and her mouth is sewn shut with barbed wire. Her eyes are wide, staring blankly at the twisted landscape around her, yet she can't move. She's bound by fear, paralyzed by the horror of this place.
I lean down to her, my form swirling like smoke. "Do you want to scream?" I ask her. "You can. But no one will hear you. No one can help you."
Her eyes flicker, the faintest twitch of recognition. She wants to scream, I can tell. But she can't. Her body won't allow it. Her fear holds her silent.
"You're not even the worst of them," I continue, the words coming easily now, like a song I've sung too many times. "You're just one of many. I wonder if you even know what you did to end up here. I wonder if you care."
She doesn't respond, of course. They never do. The souls here have lost their voices, their will to resist. They're nothing more than playthings now.
I leave her to her torment, as I always do, and move on. The next room calls.
The Chamber of Echoes is where I find my next victim. It's a place of mental torture, where the souls are trapped in an endless loop of their own worst memories. The walls here are alive with the whispers of regret and guilt, a cacophony of voices pleading for mercy, begging for forgiveness. But none of them will receive it.
The soul I find here is a man, tall and muscular, dressed in the tatters of what might have once been a soldier's uniform. His eyes are wide with panic, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He doesn't know it yet, but he's stuck in a memory. The walls around him echo with the sounds of battle—the clash of steel, the screams of dying comrades, the scent of blood and gunpowder filling his nostrils. His hands shake as he holds a weapon, but his body won't move. He's paralyzed by the weight of his choices.
"Fighting, huh?" I murmur, amused. "I see you're reliving your greatest failure."
He turns to me, his eyes wild. He can't see me fully, not yet, but he knows I'm there. "No," he gasps. "Please, I didn't mean to. I didn't want this."
"Too late," I reply, my voice a cruel whisper. "You're stuck here now. Forever."
His screams echo in the room, but they mean nothing. Nothing in Hell means anything. It's all just noise. The screams are endless, just like the torment.
As the last echoes of his pain die down, I move on again. I don't need to stay. I've seen it all before.
Finally, my shift ends, though I don't know why I call it that. It's not as if I could escape this place even if I wanted to. Hell is a cage for all of us—demons, souls, everything. I drift back to my "quarters," the place where I rest between shifts. It's a small, forgotten room, far from the others. There's no need for decoration here. There's no need for anything.
I float into the corner and let my form condense, though there's no need for sleep. I can never fully rest. Not in Hell.
And then, as I begin to sink into the familiar numbness, something strange happens. A voice. A whisper. It cuts through the emptiness like a blade.
"Do you want to leave this place?"
I freeze. My form trembles, the air around me rippling with an unfamiliar energy. I should be used to the silence, but this—this is different.
The voice is… not of Hell. It's not from a tortured soul. It's not from one of the other demons. It's something else. Something foreign.
I don't know how long it takes for me to respond, but when I do, it's in a voice that feels foreign to my own ears.
"Who's there?"
The voice doesn't answer. But the question lingers, echoing in the silence of my mind.
Do I want to leave this place?