The first 62 miles were the most tense and long. I didn’t feel confidence while walking, each step was dreadful. I didn’t know what could happen to me. Actually, I did, and that was much worse than not knowing. Having experienced so many tortures, having known how much pain I could feel, I was afraid of falling victim to some demon. I was a suicidal, and I deserved everything I was going through and would still go through, but even though I embraced that idea, I didn’t want to suffer. Even when they know they deserve, who wants to suffer?
I should try to turn myself into a masochist, at least this way hell wouldn’t be so hard. But something tells me it’s impossible. Now that I know Lucifer exists, something tells me he wouldn’t let people enjoy the tortures. Maybe hell it’s the only place where masochists don’t exist. Funny…
After 62 miles of pure tension, with my adrenaline levels almost exploding and the certainty that at any moment I’d suffer some kind of pain that would make me want to die (again), or make me think of how stupid had I been, to the point of thinking the pain and loneliness I felt while I was alive were great enough to make me want to take my own life, I allowed myself to relax. At least a little. Of course, I could never feel 100% relaxed, at least now I didn’t stop after each step to look over my shoulder. Even my steps got back to normal, instead of the rhythm that would make a turtle with a limp pass by me that I had begun with.
Another 62 miles went by and nothing happened, I confess I was even more relaxed. There was almost no fear or insecurity in me. Who am I kidding, there wasn’t any fear or insecurity in me. I was walking even more relaxed then inside the town, I was sure nothing would happen, I was the only person in a desolated place. The demons probably had better things to do than watching me, there was a whole hell of people they could torture, punish eat, throw, have fun with… I was just one, in an isolated place. I was safe.
I walked with confidence, and the next 62 miles were the fastest I’d walked in my whole death. Because I’d never walked 62 miles when I was alive, I don’t think I’ve ever walked 62 miles if you count the distance I’ve walked my whole life. I call attention to the verb of the sentence. Yes, I must have traveled more than 62 miles when was alive, but considering laps and crawling (when I was a baby, and by car, bicycle, skids (or was it rollerblades? I’ve never figured out the difference between one and the other), scooter, skate or any other mean of transportation you can think of. The 62 miles I must not have traveled while I was alive was taking in consideration my feet as means of transportation. I’ve never lived, what made me spent my time sitting/laying down.
According to the GPS, there were still 621 miles to get to the Circle of Asmodeus. I began to run, I was excited about the possibility of covering my naked body with some clothes. And because of the rush, and also because hell was a hellish place, I fell down. And as I fell, I gazed into the abyss and it looked right back at me. The irony made me smile.