Suicidal in Heaven – A Journey of Choices

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55

LV

I reconstruct myself feeling delicious smells of food. My stomach growls like never before, I remember I haven’t eaten since I got to hell. Which probably was a long time ago. I didn’t even remember the last time I had eaten, not even considering the time I was alive. All those smells hurt me, I crouched with my hands on my stomach. It hurt, the hunger was so much that I felt like throwing up, even knowing there was nothing to pour out.

I stayed in that position for an eternity, but if the concept of time existed in hell, it probably didn’t last more than a minute. I crawled to the center of the Circle of Gluttony. There was food on the floor, I took it and ate it. It was an old bread, but it made me get up again. Though the bread was so hard it broke my teeth, it was the best bread I’ve ever had in my life.

Now able to walk, I looked around. I must’ve been in the Arabian food wing. I was in the Arabian food wing, I recognized the language because of the handwritings that seemed more like scribbles than handwritings. Do the Arabs, when they see our handwritings, think about them as drawings in strange formats and not handwritings? Or is it our handwritings so common in the world that its global comprehension is deep rooted as handwriting, which didn’t happen with the Arabic handwritings?

I took the GPS, I wanted Italian food. But first I wanted to find out who was the lord of the Circle of Sloth.

Belphegor. – Informed the voice from the GPS.

So I searched for restaurants specialized in Italian food, I found out that inside the Circle you can’t teleport to another place within itself. It didn’t matter, lasagna is worth any effort, even if it’s not very good. Italian food is the best food in the whole universe. I walked without complaining, I was about to eat something I loved. How could I complain?

If I wasn’t so hungry maybe I’d remember I was in hell, and, being in a place of suffering and torture, I couldn’t be completely happy. Not even with something I loved so much, like Italian food.

I arrived to what seemed like my private version of hell, the Italian district. A district that, probably, was bigger than Italy itself. The restaurants were infinite, or close to that. They all served the same kind of food, but each had its own specialty. And more than that, each with method of preparation from a different country.

They don’t prepare the dough in Italy, like they do in Vietnam, or in Brazil, or in New Zealand, or in the United States, or in Japan… not only the tastes of the population are different, like the atmosphere and styles of seasonings. You can try to imitate, but each dough will have a different taste depending the country in which is made. Even if the recipe is the same.

I’ve never been to Italy, so it wasn’t hard to choose from where I wanted the restaurant to be. Now, choosing the restaurant itself revealed to be a herculean task. There were millions of choices. And I hate having to choose without having references and opinions of others, simply because I can’t take guesses. But there was nothing I could do, I chose the restaurant that seemed more industrial (I’ve always preferred restaurant food to homemade food) and got in.

On the inside, it was a mix of modern and traditional aspects. The modern could be seen on the lamps, on the tables and chairs. And the traditional also showed on the tables and chairs, and it was also present on the waiters (all old people) and in clothes. But how can tables and chairs be modern and traditional? Easy, they’re made out of rustic wood. But they’re excessively elaborate, it’s easy to notice the aid of technology to make the cuts and even to sand them.

I sat on a table and a waiter came to talk to me:

Name.

I answered and he took some sort of palmtop from his pocket and wrote my name with difficulty.

You may eat what you like. And since you’re new here in hell, as well in this restaurant, allow me to explain the system of the house. – I stopped listening when he said I could eat whatever I wanted, those words were very beautiful. – Are you listening to me, sir? – I nodded, his question brought me back to the role of listener and took me away from the role of dreamer. – We have two options, and this is the only Circle of hell that has choices. First option, to eat the best meal you’ve ever tasted in your life, with the stipulation that you’ll only stop eating after your stomach explodes. – That didn’t sound good. – Or you can eat the worst meal you’ve ever had, but a portion that’ll feed you the right amount you need. – I’m in hell, what did I expect? Simplicity and happiness? - What’ll be your choice, sir?

I looked at the waiter, nothing seemed real. Although eating ’till I blew up made me feel like one of John Doe’s victims, it didn’t sound so cool. On the other hand, the worst meal of my life wasn’t ideal too, I wanted to have a good first impression of Italian food “made in Italy.” But a bad impression was better than having my organs blown up.

The bad one, please. – I said.

Terrible choice, sir. – He said and went away.

I wasn’t afraid the food was worse than I thought, he probably would have said those words no matter what I chose. I found it curious he didn’t ask what I wanted to eat, but ten minutes later the lasagna arrived and I almost threw up.

It smelled rotten, the dressing seemed to be made out of urine. There were hairs on the surface, I knew it was pubic hair. I cut myself a piece and saw the ham had bones in it, and the shredded beef was actually feces. There was a white dressing, but I didn’t even want to know what it was made of.

Here it is, sir, your meal, prepared by Beelzebub himself. – Ruler of the Circle of Gluttony, the GPS informed me. – He never cooks, except for very special clients. I hope you enjoy it, and know you have to eat everything.

I did what I had to do, the smell made me throw up. Of course, I couldn’t turn my head on time, which made the vomit fly over to the lasagna.

Excellent, more dressing. – The waiter jested.

I couldn’t begin to eat it. I tried to get out of there, but the employees grabbed me and began to force feed me the lasagna. I couldn’t not eat it, I lost my ability to fight. All I could do was seeing my anger rising, it became so big that my squirts of vomit were flying over three meters away. My body was shaking, I was red and could feel veins popping inside me. Even my heart was failing. I finished the lasagna, when I felt I couldn’t hold on any longer, I got up. But I wasn’t at the restaurant anymore, I was somewhere unknown…

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