Curt's Inferno

I hate this hell hole. Ironically it’s my last place of refuge, the only way I can escape from this prison. Isn’t it funny? Running out of one hell and retreating into another. Its insane how inside of this prison cell I’m also trapped in my own mind.

Walking down the long aisles of the church I’m surprised at how much it has changed. I walk over to the first pew and sit down. The wood is warped and cold to my touch. The blue incandescence shines through broken stained glass windows of saints and disciples. I sit and stare at the podium in the very same spot in which I sat twenty years ago, listening to my father preach “the good word.” Seemingly out of nowhere I hear the voice of my old man slowly elevating me with the power of his voice. “My brothers and sisters, now is the time to take action against the evils of this world.” I try not to think of his voice but I struggle with him inside my head. That voice that I hate, that voice that I downright loathe is forever embedded in my mind. My hands grab my head as if possessed, as if I can somehow tear the pain out of my mind, yet the voice comes faster. “No longer will the white man be a minority, but we will be the majority over all Jews, Niggers, and Mexicans and whoever else that disobeys God’s laws and lives their lives in sin.”

I try to stand up but my knees tremble violently. All around me I hear the painful clatter of cups and goblets being crushed against the frozen floor. The brilliant blue light that once shown through the very eyes of Saint Peter was gone. In its place crept in a morose red light that burned my eyes like smoke from a raging fire. Through the windows I see nothing but smoke and the reddish yellow glow that scorches the sky. I gather my senses enough to discriminate an aroma that accompanies the smoke. The smell reminds me of mouth watering meats being cooked at a backyard barbeque. Moans from men and women protrude through the roar of the fire. Quickly I realize that my beloved aroma is that of the burnt, decayed flesh of the fallen.

The floor heats up around me so that the rubber of my shoes merges with the floor. I struggle to keep my balance but realize that my knees aren’t shaking, the entire church is. This sudden realization gives me a severe case of vertigo and I quickly lose my balance. I stumble into the aisle and fall onto the floor.

I land on my knees and pray, as if kissing the feet of the messiah to persuade him into waking me up. He hovers above me, holding salvation just out of my reach. I see a lone statue of the virgin with bloody tears and I hear the screams of men and woman crying out from the pit to their forsaken God. The fire from the pit burns my ears and my eyes and sets my heart on fire, searching for compassion and pity for the fallen, yet finding none. The screams get higher in pitch as the pain of the damned men, women, and children increase with every minute that goes by.

At first I dare not look in the pit, but something draws me to it. I move with difficulty, walking through the screams as if moving against the wind. I move to the edge of the pit which is not that of a fiery inferno, but that of the eyes of the virgin. My eyes meet with that of the virgin and I can’t help but look into her tearful eyes, into my own soul and see something indescribable. The pain was so intense that I was instantly blinded, for what I saw for one second was more than any man should see in a lifetime.

I try to scream yet some unfamiliar feeling tickles my throat. Something slowly creeps up my throat as I gag uncontrollably. Darkness comes over my eyes and my ears as the world seems to silence itself. Cold blood rushes into my mouth, sliding between my teeth as I cough. Suddenly, I get an overwhelming urge to vomit. I open my mouth wide as the blood and maggots flow feely. I can feel the maggots holding on to my teeth as the seemingly endless amounts of blood flows from my throat. The loss of blood makes me weak and I fall to the floor. Fluids shoot out of my mouth like a busted shower head. Slowly, the blood reduces until only a small stream runs down my chin. My arms flail around me, feeling for the virgin. Her statue is cold and damp as my fingers caress her face, smearing the blood that is now gushing from her eyes.

I pick myself up from the floor and face the virgin. Some sense of mine tells me I have locked eyes with her. My fingers touch her temples and suddenly my vision comes back, except… I quickly realize that I am staring through the virgin’s eyes. The face which should have been mine was actually that of my fathers. I can see smoke coming out of his charred eyes and the red and yellow color of blood and maggots that flowed feely across his lips. I close my eyes but I cannot escape the image that has been forever burnt into my mind. Not knowing what to do I let out a loud scream that echoed in the churches’ massive halls. When my scream had ended and I regained some of the sanity that I managed to retain, I opened my eyes one last time.

My eyes make a weak attempt to open. At first, my vision was blurred, but as I regained my stature I realized I wasn’t staring into the eyes of the virgin or my father but that of my mother. She was smiling at me with that beautiful smile that I always took for granted. I looked over my mom’s shoulder and saw the all too familiar swastika flags that draped over the window of our savior. I noticed that my body had somehow reverted to that of my ten year old self. People filled out every pew so that late families were forced to stand in the aisles. They were all listening attentively to my father. My mother draws me close to her and points to my dad. She moves her head next to mine and whispers in my ear. “See, Curt? Someday, that’s going to be you up there.”