Even before I can walk a demon grabs me by the arm, I get scared and try to free myself from his grasp, but the demon is strong and doesn’t allow it. Although, let’s be fair, this demon’s touch is much softer and tender than the other one, the one on the counter. He doesn’t hurt me, he’s just aggressive.
Is it good to have bones again? – The demon asks, and its soft voice makes me think it’s a she.
I don’t answer, I’m afraid I’ll say something wrong. I’ll suffer for being a suicidal, and who knows how many sins I’ve committed in life besides that, I don’t need to add contempt to the list. Not that I would have any disregard for a demon, or a she-demon, but who knows what are the etiquette rules of hell. How should I know what’s considered normal behavior and what’s wrong?
Don’t worry, nothing you’ll say could offend me. – She says, as if she had read my mind. – I’m reading your mind.
I can’t hide my expression of surprise.
How? – I ask.
You’re really trying to figure out the logic of hell?
Didn’t you leave that you behind?
Her question reminded me of something I had forgotten, not through any fault of my own. I want to be somebody else, but it’s hard to let go of a behavior you’ve had for over two decades. Besides, all the pain I’ve been through didn’t help me to keep focus on that change.
You’re going to be my guide? – I take a chance.
Guide? – She laughs. No, I’m just another torture.
The pain begins as soon as she says that. Not a physical pain, but a mental one. All the bad memories come out, all the times I felt sad and depressed. All the times I did something I rather forget, all the times I saw someone suffering on my account. Needles penetrated my feelings and opened spaces for knives to tear them apart, when the demon was through I understood what the words “pain” and “torture” really meant. Everything I’d been through so far was nothing. Physical pain can’t be compared to mental pain, I wanted to die. I asked, I begged, I prayed, but all I got in return was silence.
She left me on the floor, I couldn’t even cry. Shock wasn’t enough to define of my situation, there were no words to describe the state I was in. Even without having no way of measuring time, I know I spent a lot of it on the ground trying to recover from what I had experienced. There were times I thought I wouldn’t be able to do so. The funny thing is that the only thing that kept me from giving up was the thought that I would get better, ’cause, if I didn’t, I couldn’t go back to being tortured. I got better, just to be tortured again.
I’m a suicidal, I deserve to suffer.