A Different Kind of Hell
Shapes and colours whirl and twist in a bizarre ballet, overwhelming your senses with their wild, dreamlike movement. But suddenly, everything had changed—the sharp shriek of tyres cutting into a deep, unsettling quiet, the harsh crash fading into a strange sense of floating.
Gone is the firm grip of the steering wheel, replaced by the emptiness of this unknown space. Here, the chaotic burst of the accident seems distant, muffled like it’s beneath the waves. Time seems to stretch and warp, dragging you further into this endless abyss.
Your mind is blank about the accident; you are only aware of diving into an unending blackness. There’s no start or finish, just a dizzying drop into an abyss of shadows. Chilly, ghostly breezes whirl around, filled with bits and pieces of old talk and quick memories.
These whispers of the past send shivers through you, mixing a bone-chilling cold with a feeling of being lost in space—a strange void that’s empty of both reality and optimism.
“Where am I?” Your voice, rough and strained, fills the void. It fades into the silence, unanswered. Shadows dance around you, silent and mysterious.
You stretch out, seeking the touch of something known, something real. Yet, your hand finds only air, your grasp closing on nothingness. This chilling moment reveals your truth—you're no more than a lost spirit, a shadow of your former self, floating in an unknown void.
Drifting, unanchored to reality, you wonder: Are you caught in death’s grip or lost in some in-between world?
Your past shimmers in broken pieces: you, a pastor in the middle of a sermon, voice booming, capturing the entire church in its spell. Every pair of eyes glued to you, filled with wonder and deep respect. Your words ring out, filling the sacred church walls; snippets of powerful sermons; the congregation’s reactions half-caught in the air.
Your once-forceful voice now seems distant, fading into a whisper. You were a fierce pastor whose voice was robust enough to stir souls or instil fear, a strict father whose sharp look alone could hush his children, and a tireless seeker of souls dedicated to guiding the doubtful and rescuing the lost.
The faithful would cling to every word you said, seeing you as their guide to redemption. Back then, your words were the ultimate truth, unquestioned. But now, adrift in this void, the solid ground of your beliefs crumbles, shifting from the certainty of a preacher to the reflection of a seeker.
In the whirlwind of your thoughts, an image of a halted watch comes to life, its hands still—a vivid reminder of your shattered bond with time and your loved ones, especially your son. Faces drift through the darkness—a vision of your wife, your followers, and your son.
Ah, Olisa, your dear son. The scars you left on his delicate heart still haunt you. Memories flood back of the times you punished him for his challenging questions—questions from a young boy grappling with the harsh truths of life under the guise of a ‘loving’ deity.
You dismissed his curiosity with harsh words, shutting down any discussion, insisting on blind devotion. You had no patience for doubt, no space for Olisa’s battle to grasp the concept of God. What once was a barrier to guard you against your own uncertainties—your disdain—now melts away into a sea of regret.
“Papa, why does He let people suffer?” Your young boy had asked, his voice soft and seeking, his eyes filled with innocent curiosity rather than challenge.
Standing tall above him, your voice boomed: “You must never question the Lord’s ways! They are beyond our understanding.”
Olisa’s voice quivered. “But Papa, if God is good, why do bad things happen?” His wide eyes shimmered with tears he fought to hold back, his small hands balled up in a mix of fear and confusion, as if your harsh words were pushing him into a corner.
But then your hand came down sharply, silencing him. “Quiet! No more of this blasphemy!” you commanded. As you spoke, a whisper of doubt crept into your mind, quickly squashed but lingering like an unsolved puzzle.
Tears streamed down his cheeks as he whispered, “I’m just trying to understand.” Looking at him, you saw not only his tears but the unyielding spark in his eyes, revealing his quiet struggles with faith and defiance against your authority.
“There’s nothing to understand, only to accept God’s will,” you declared sternly. “Now, pray for forgiveness, or risk losing your soul forever.”
While you linger in this memory, the abyss pulses like a slow, mournful heartbeat, mirroring the pain of that time and weaving your past agony with the torment of now. In that moment, a faint voice of future consequences—a sliver of doubt—stirred within you, only to be smothered by your intense denial.
You were a coward; your once-unshakable faith now crumbles like a decaying castle filled with cracks and crevices. You cowered behind your belief in the Almighty, evading the truth of your paternal flaws.
Ensnared in rigid beliefs, you crushed your son’s tender spirit under the guise of salvation. Now, in this void, your rigid shell of certainty shatters, laying bare a deep well of unspoken sorrow and yearning for the son you let down.
More memories rise like ghosts—your wife’s hollow gaze, the crumbling faith of your flock, the growing distance from your child. In your desperate quest for souls, you blinded yourself to the loss of those dearest to you.
With every memory tinged with regret, the shadows deepen, becoming more suffocating, while the wind’s whispers grow sharp and accusing, toxic and heavy. You had hoped your fervent beliefs would mould him into a virtuous son.
Yet, all you did was push him away from grace. Amidst these deepening shadows, your thoughts churn in turmoil, the broken bond with Olisa growing louder in the hush.
Olisa shunned religion, seeing faith as shackles rather than solace. The haunting notion that your own son is doomed forever because of you tightens around your throat, a grip more terrifying than any unseen hand. Bereft of prayers, especially your son’s, a path only to darkness unfolds. Oblivion calls out to you.
Your mind wanders to faith, once a steadfast stronghold, now a decaying tower in this domain where past actions burden your soul. In this lonely abyss, memories and present moments tangle, forming a collage of old decisions and their ongoing repercussions. Memories, once individual strands, now intertwine, stitching a cloth of your present sorrow.
A Voice cascades through your awareness—not merely a sound but a soothing hum, a gentle heat that infuses your spirit, sharply different from the chill, numb emptiness surrounding you. It brings instant clarity in the chaos. Its essence touches the depths of your soul—profound yet tender, admonishing yet benevolent.
“There remains hope, My son,” It declares. “Your boy’s heart holds onto some compassion. His soul, though scarred, is still whole.”
You fear to even dream of redemption. Not with the scars you’ve left behind.
Firmly, the Voice admonishes, “Now is not the time to forsake faith. Your son might still extend the salvation you’re searching for.”
Your body trembles, lost in confusion. “How can Olisa ever let go of my wrongs? He despises me; he despises the God I spoke of so fiercely.” But amidst your sea of sorrow, a dim recollection flickers to life—the unsure curve of Olisa’s lips when you gifted him that Game Boy, a lingering spark of affection enduring through your tempests.
The Voice answers, “To many, faith is a haven in life’s storms. To others, it’s a prison of steel. You built that prison for your son. Yet, there’s still hope for forgiveness for both of you.”
Tears stream down your cheeks like soothing rain on a parched soul. Maybe this Being speaks the truth—there might yet be a slender thread of rescue.
The Voice and Its solace slowly vanish, plunging you back into darkness. Yet, within you, a weak beam of light flickers. This glow, reflecting your growing realisation and regret, fights the surrounding gloom.
You cradle its wavering light, protecting it from the gusts of the abyss. It stands as your only anchor—your thin belief in your son’s and your own redemption.
You float there, watching, waiting, gripping a tiny thread of hope that Olisa might still have forgiveness in her heart. Your past deeds have dug a deep divide, but maybe there’s a way around it. Surrounded by darkness, you hold tight to the thought of mending not only your spirits but your hearts, too.
As a glimmer of hope lights up within you, the endless darkness around you begins to change. Scary shadows soften and shrink away. A dim, cosy light starts to shine far off, getting brighter and warmer, fighting back the dark that surrounds you. It’s not Scripture or memories that keep you going, but the chance of being forgiven.
This gentle light, steadily shining, fuels your hope that maybe you can still be saved. You realise something important in this moment of quiet understanding—that salvation not only comes from above but from the warm, healing touch of connecting with others and forgiving.
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