My name was Jacob, though such things as names are of little significance now. I still remember much of what may be considered my life. I remember, and I watch. At this present moment I stand at the end of a long, trodden path; watching, looking back, and seeing you. I see the pain that clouds your eyes - before you lies a fork in your road, threatening the comfort of your sanity. Whither shall you go, my friend? What path shall you take?

Wiser men than I have said that our roads begin and end, rarely embarking in the same place, never following the same path. Yet when you finally reach where I now stand, you will realize that the destination is not nearly as important as the course you take. That path is for you and no other, for it has been ordained that we all find our unique course in life. That course shapes you, molding the character you embody and the fate that you are doomed to follow.

One constant remains - all roads lead eventually to the fork, because it is there where our journey truly begins, where our road finally takes upon bearing. I see you there now, the fork lying at your feet. You hesitate, gazing first in one direction, and then the other. It is a choice we must make, which path to choose, and the consequence of that choice is never apparent. Your foot hovers in indecision, your next step inevitably leading you towards your journey's end, wherever that may be.

I stood where you now stand. I was there as all have been and all will be. And I abhorred that dark place, where my uncertainty and doubt manifested itself fully for the first time. Each man may see things differently. To me, that fork was a cramped, dark room, absurd as that may be. Yet it was real, we could taste it, touch it - despise it. And by we, I mean the Seven.

They had shamed us, stripped away our souls, our identities. Take away a man's identity and he is nothing. And that's what we were, or what we had become. Nothing. Our identities were the last things we could hold on to; the only thing we had thought they couldn't take away. And yet they stole that from us, severed the last shred of individualism we had left in our possession. They, the great forces working against us always, had succeeded. We had become lost.

No! Our identity they could never take away; we begged for that one truth. Yet that mercy was withheld from us. They mocked us, leaving us desperate and shamed. We were left to simply ponder the bold truth of our existence. Lock seven men into a small stone room laden with indisputable answers and they will desperately seek the void of questions. A paradox is all that remained among us. Contradictions upon contradictions.

We were seven, as I said. I come to you as one of those infinite Seven. This is my paradox. Though you may not know it, every man who has lived or has yet to live will eventually become one of those Seven. It is there where all paths must cross. It's our junction of life, the fork in our road. Do not try to comprehend it, because comprehension of this nature is beyond you or me or any being lesser than Him. Understand only this, all paths will eventually lead you to the Seven, and once there, you will finally understand everything, even that of which there is no understanding.

Quite simply, we shall know.

I give you this warning: do not seek for understanding as salvation, because you will not find redemption there. Parables speak of blind leading the blind into the ditch. You shall see that this is not always true. Those who most often fall into the ditch are those who see, willingly at that; for the simple reason that they will not accept the alternate path. I have seen it, and so shall you.

My name, as I said, was Jacob. I come from the path less traveled. These are my memoirs.

One of the demons spoke.

“You have family, kid? Mother? Father? Kid sister perhaps? I had a family once, till they sold me to foster care, for the price of a pack of cigs and a shot of weed to boot. And there was no care to the fostering either. I grew up with dysfunctional families who thought they were doing the world a service by taking on a waif like me. Flaming idiots, without a clue on how to raise a bloody messed-up kid like me. So I dropped out of high school at fifteen, disappeared from the government-funded pothole they claimed was my home, and made off on my own. I was city scum - prostitutes teaching me the birds and the bees, making a living by shoveling horse dung for whatever company would hire dirt like me. The kind of company that hires bodies and not employees.

“Listen to me, boy, and don't look so glum. There’s a moral to this story. You know what that is? I think you do, or are starting to. The world doesn't give a damn about you. It sure don't care about you feeling the heat. About time you start accepting that." He smiled, exposing black fangs fit for the carnivore he was. "I hear they torture people here. Pain so bad that you can't even scream. You ready for that, kid?”

A roar filled my ears – the morbid laughter of Satan, chuckling in the nightly air. Do you remember the light? he asked, and then began to sing. Hellish chords resounded about me; dark archangels reveling in the fiendish melodies. Their demonic eyes gazed at me from the shadows, laughing and mocking, spitefully imploring me to join the enslavement that they shared.

"Leave the kid alone, Gibbs."

Suffocated by hate, malice, and hell, I pressed my lips tightly silent; my eyes dreading even the small amount of light we were allotted. Pure, unadulterated darkness would have blessed me by hiding his face; a twitchy, sneering, gecko countenance that fists seemed invariably attracted to. His taunts I had no difficulty in ignoring. His face, though, presented an unyielding distraction that I decidedly did not need. It was remarkable, really. His face inspired more agitation than any insult he could have spewed. He must have been aware of that, too; the brute refused to back off.

"They say pain will make a man do anything." My demon’s dark, wide eyes sparkled with glee. "Pain breeds submission. If enough is applied, one gets to be where he can't live without it. Pain becomes a way of life. How about you, kid? You know pain?"

Rivers of sweat washed down my face. I gazed into the eyes of my monster with as much dispassionate calm as I was willing to muster. Absurdly, I recalled that one was never to look into the eyes of a savage animal, as it allowed the beast to sense your fear, enraging it to violence. Though at that moment, I would have welcomed the sanity of violence. Reality had been shattered, leaving me disorientated and lost. Nothing made sense, and that horrified me. I realized I was too ignorant to understand.

Gibbs' smile widened at my silence. "No - you don'tknow pain, do you kid? Not true pain at least. That will change, soon enough. There are many faces to pain, kid. I know ‘em all. You just might learn to enjoy it."

"Shut-up, Gibbs. I said to leave the kid alone."

Slowly, monstrously, Gibbs' raving gaze broke from my face. He cocked his head toward a shadowy figure sitting across the room. "Take Ronin here, kid. White-collar trash coming in here like Lucifer on a white horse. Thinks he’s better than the whole lot of us. Better clothes, bigger brain, but without a mule’s sense of how things really are. He's gonna feel the fire, just like the rest of us. He can’t talk his way out of it."

A muffled laugh erupted from the darkness. "Don't pay attention to Gibbs, kid." Ronin leaned forward from the stone projection that served as his seat, his reflective face gleaming dully in the pale light. "He's just looking for a dupe, and you present the perfect specimen." His mouth curved into a smile. "Trouble is, if the world doesn't care about you, it doesn't give a damn about him either."

Gibbs laughed, an explosive annoyance that echoed wearily off the stone walls. He winked tauntingly at me, satisfied as it seemed, yet his face grew uneasy. His brief scowl did not escape my eye, and I permitted myself a fleeting moment of pleasure at Ronin’s victory. Gibbs remarkably became silent, withdrawing without moving, becoming one more dark, ghastly figure in a room teeming with dark, ghastly figures.

It was picturesque; we really were. Simply Picasso.

Shadows danced around us, mocking us in their dark delight. We despised the darkness, the scarce light in perfect harmony with the sour atmosphere. Yet we hated the light even more than the darkness. It was sickly, threatening – without hope. Gray wisps of smoke danced slowly across the room, illuminated dimly by Ronin's cigarette. Damp, stone walls imprisoned us in our cold cage; puddles of fetid liquid collected along the ground. A barred window and stone door were the only assurances that we hadn't been sealed up to live eternity in this dank horror.

We were seven. Gibbs' short figure leaned up against the wall close to the door. His body never ceased to twitch; fierce, nervous energy coursing through him. Ronin and I sat on our stone benches opposite each other. One stood gazing quietly outside our dark window. Another paced unsteadily along the back wall, drifting from shadow to shadow. The others I never bothered to look at, though I could hear their tortured breaths rasping in the dark.

I wondered when the screams would begin. Someone always screamed, I had been told; horror drove them to it. This place resonated like a scream incarnate. And most of us swore that a faint wail drifted through our room, murmuring sadly like a chilling breeze. I could hear it; sometimes even savor its subtle despair. Terror assaulted all of my senses, but none worse than those unspeakable sounds echoing about us.

Another moment passed, silently. Ronin puffed contently on his cigarette. He was a black man, solid with intelligent eyes scouring behind small spectacles. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, a soiled necktie hanging loosely from his collar. Unlike the others, he seemed unfazed by his environment, at times almost comfortable in it. He managed to smile without sneering. As it was, he found himself fit to break the silence we had fallen into.

"Anybody know why we're here?" he asked casually, and someone screamed.

Our door grated angrily in response. Every gaze focused involuntarily on the stone hatch as it swung sluggishly open, exposing a hole of darkness bereft of any promise of escape. From it, the silhouettes of two burly men morphed into existence. They entered our chamber silently, hands empty but for their fists – yet that was enough; no man could challenge them. Wards, we called them. They walked with effortless purpose, clothed in pure black garments that made it nearly impossible to focus on them. Their passive eyes probed the room, kneading every soul, quickly locking onto the pacing figure in the rear of the room. One of them opened a grim mouth and said, "Richard Nolan, are you prepared to die?"

A name. A rush of emotion assaulted me. They addressed the pacing figure with a name. There was significance in that, I somehow knew. It confirmed we existed. Yet as they spoke his name, they seemed to shear that identity from him. He became nothing more than a body; an inanimate vessel lost without purpose.

Nolan had stopped moving. His vehemence was refreshing. “What? Do I have a choice?"

“Come,” was the immaculate reply.

A breathless instant passed. Courageously, purposelessly, he defied them. His dark figure rippled with taut fury, a muffled laugh escaped from his lips. He tossed a forlorn glance towards the barred window. The light faintly illuminated his face; his cheeks clenched with exhausted resolve. Shaking his head vehemently, he withdrew from the shadows and staggered towards the doorway. Without a word, he strode passed us, the wards falling in step behind him as he passed them through the doorway. All three disappeared into the darkness beyond.

The door grated shut. Somebody screamed.

And we were seven again. A new figure had arrived, appearing from the dark emptiness like a specter reborn from the dead. He seemed to simply walk into existence. No one knew how, or when he had come, and no one asked. It no longer was important.

The newcomer lifted a foot towards the center of the room, then stopped. His hands were dug deep into his pockets, his feet shifting nervously. “My name’s Jordan,” he offered hesitantly. “I seem to have…seem…” His voice trailed off. A pale, blank expression crossed his face as he gazed at his surroundings seemingly for the first time.

“Welcome to the show, Jordan,” said Ronin, smiling faintly.

“Welcome to hell,” someone muttered. Another scream.

Silence.

Ronin blinked thoughtfully, and cleared his throat. He flicked away the dead stub of his cigarette and lit another. Someone began to sob.

"No one has tried to escape from here?" asked a quiet, unfamiliar voice. The man next to the window had turned, his sober eyes gazing first at me and then resting on Ronin.

Ronin cleared his throat again. "Yeah,” he answered, “This fool named Russell who tried. Didn’t make it to the door before they beat his head in like a prune. They dragged him out of here, by his hair." He smiled and shrugged slightly. “Your choice. I won’t stop you.”

I nearly gagged with nausea. The man by the window gazed at Ronin silently for a moment, then bowed his head. His lips moved as if he were speaking, though I could hear nothing but an incoherent murmur from him. He turned to stare outside his window once again.

Ronin had begun speaking again. “Which brings me to my original question. Anybody know why we're here?” He paused. “Anybody want to know?"

"Maybe we're dead,” answered a voice from the floor, where a man laid prostrate with his eyes towards the ceiling. “Maybe this is hell."

"Maybe you're just stupid," said Gibbs.

Ronin laughed curtly. His smile was damnable. “I know why we’re here. Or why I’m here at least.”

Silence. Another scream.

“Well?” demanded Gibbs.

“Anyone here believe in dreams?” answered Ronin, his cigarette hanging lazily from his lips.

“Christ,” muttered the man on the floor, “We’re in flaming hell and you want to talk about dreams. ”

“You keep lying in your puddle, Vaughn, and keep your mouth shut,” said Ronin. “I’m not talking about the sleep-induced fantasies that most people mistake for dreams. That’s harmless illusion. No - what I’m talking about are true, mentally stimulated images; an attempt by our minds to delude us into believing the impossible is reality. Anyone believe in those types of dreams?”

“I believe,” the man by the window answered softly, “in what is.”

“There is no ‘what is’, old man,” said Ronin indifferently. “‘What is’ is too absolute to be applied here. Haven’t you learned that yet? Everything is relative, dependent on our perspective of things. That includes everything; heaven, hell and everything between – including this place. My thinking is that it’s for symbolism. Yes - that’s what I think this place is - a symbolic delusion. The only thing that remains absolute is the logic behind it.”

“Stark raving mad,” cackled Gibbs. Vaughn muttered an incoherent agreement from the floor.

Ronin ignored them. “It’s rather meticulously simple. We are in a Rubik’s cube of illusion; logic defined by symbolism. Most likely scenario? This place doesn’t exist, not in reality. That means none of you exist – not to me anyway. And maybe to you I don’t exist. This is my dream. The rest of you are here to symbolize something, perhaps horrors or figments of my past. You are just elements, representing whatever the hell it is you’re supposed to be representing.”

“Arrogant like the devil, aren’t you?” said Gibbs, grinning madly. “Hiding yourself in a little dream world, is that your game? Well I don’t symbolize nothing. I’m here, real as dirt; causing hell and having hell thrown back at me. Fine by me if you’re not satisfied with that. But it seems to me that even dogs know to come in during the rain; while you, Ronin, in your infinite wisdom, stay outside and try to convince the clouds that rain doesn’t exist. Your logic is full of crap.”

“And what do you know about logic, Gibbs?” retorted Ronin, eyes narrow. “Just break our situation here into chewable, concrete absolutes for a moment, so even you can swallow it. Remove the abstract if you’d like. Our number has always been seven. One goes, another comes in. Circle of life. Nobody remembers a damn thing about how they got here. No one was drugged, beaten, or forced their way here into imprisonment. We were there, wherever there was, and now we’re here. That’s it. I am not content to accept that this is hell. I ask why. Why are there always seven of us? Why can’t we remember how we got here? And the only sane explanation I can come up with is that we’re not sane right now. That this is a delusion. One I hope to wake up from very soon.”

The mad light in Gibbs’ eyes grew dark. “So, using that crap you call logic; the reason there’s no women here, is because whoever’s locked us in here is a faggot.” Someone chuckled harshly. “Or do you have a better explanation?”

Ronin sighed, and rubbed his eyes. “The human mind is just about the only thing that man hasn’t fully destroyed. This, everything here, is its way of fighting back. Our minds are not capable of understanding what is happening here, and thus they have created for us an imagined little world, providing us with physical analogies on what we believe is going on. That’s all it is. That’s all everything here is. Everything is so perfectly impossible that it can only be self-induced, paranoiac hallucinations. This place doesn’t exist because it can’t. It’s too absurd to be reality.”

Another scream ruptured through the air. The sobbing grew more violent.

Gibbs bristled with venomous life. “I believe it’s about time we pulled Ronin’s head out of his....” He trailed off into silence; his manic grin collapsed into an uneasy scowl.

Something felt wrong. Darkness swirled about. The air grew heavy and oppressive, almost suffocating to breathe. Screams drowned our room, horrifying in their conviction and anguish. Vaughn scrounged to his feet. Balls of sweat beaded his dark face, his eyes hovering on the brink of insanity. “Damn this!” he roared, “Who’s screaming?” The walls began to wail, voices reveling in their chorus. Vaughn seethed at the black figures around him. “Who?” he demanded violently. “For God’s sake stop! Stop or I’ll kill you! Kill every last one of you until you stop!” The darkness spun around him with churning chaos.

The man by the window turned towards Vaughn. He took a step forward, but stopped as Vaughn flailed madly about. “Easy, friend,” he said, softly. “Do not lose yourself; too much has been lost already.”

Vaughn paused for the briefest of moments, mouth quivering. “No. No! ” he shouted. “I am not your friend. Do not call me that.”

“The man’s right, Vaughn,” said Ronin, frowning faintly. “Best take it easy. It’s safer that way. For you and us.”

“Safer?” Vaughn whispered, and then shook his head violently. “No – this is wrong. I’m not staying here. I’m – ” he broke off, then roared, “Who’s screaming? Damn you, who?”

Gibbs grinned maliciously. “It’s your mother.”

“Shut up, Gibbs,” warned Ronin fiercely. “Let it rest!”

“You’re all screaming dogs! Sons of...”

The door rumbled harshly, arcing sluggishly on its hinges. The room inexplicably grew darker; all seven men unconsciously shrunk from the opening. The screaming and sobbing suddenly ceased.

Silence.

Two wards entered the chamber. Their stone eyes began to search.

“Dear God, no,” cried Vaughn.

“Timothy Vaughn, are you prepared to die?”

Vaughn gagged, his mouth frozen open in a silent, horrified scream. Blood or sweat began to drip from his face. No one moved to support him.

“Christ,” he muttered, lost.

A soft rustle whispered through the air. Vaughn collapsed violently to the ground as a fist found the soft flesh of his stomach. His breath heaved in ragged gasps as he groveled along the floor, his hands groping in horror and agony. I pitied him, but could not move. Or would not move – I no longer knew which.

Vaughn seemed to sense his end. “No,” was all he managed to whimper, as the wards dragged him by his feet out into the darkness beyond.

The door shut, and somebody screamed.

Silence. A newcomer had appeared; ignored by all.

“Why?” I asked softly.

“Why what, kid?” said Gibbs fiercely.

I gazed at Ronin. “Whether this is symbolism or not doesn’t really concern me. The walls are still real; the pain’s real. Whatever horror is beyond that door – that’s real too. Explain to me one thing, though. Why are we all here, and why is everything symbolic of something else?”

Ronin puffed on his cigarette. He stared back at me calmly, significantly. “So the boy speaks.”

“Yes. I also listen.” I paused, then persisted, “Why?”

He shrugged a response. “I don’t know. Even if I did, who is to say that the truth of this place for me would be the same for you too?”

I shook away this answer with a sigh. “You seem fond of hiding behind the abstract. Yet how can you treat truth as anything other than absolute? Haven’t we then lost the one thing that keeps us alive - a purpose? Take that away and we’re nothing. We might as well not even exist.”

Ronin smiled. “Good. You’re learning. When was truth ever absolute? When did it become absolute? Who made it absolute?”

I remained determined. “Take away what we consider absolute and nothing but anarchy remains. Nothing here really is then. All is subject to the whims of the human imagination.”

Ronin grinned again - faintly. “And enlightenment comes upon the children of the world,” he murmured. His eyes became curiously dull as they gazed past me and into the shadows. He seemed to lose a shred of his confidence. “You, by the window,” he called softly. “What’s your name?”

The man turned. He seemed to sense the significance of the question. “Julian McCabe,” he answered simply.

“And what do you see out that window, Julian McCabe?” Ronin asked, a thoughtful bitterness violating his voice. He gazed at me with a silent accusation. Learn boy, he mouthed silently, knowledge is all around you.

McCabe turned back to the dark window, a soft expression weathering his olden face. “Life,” he answered yearningly. “A faraway light - a candle in the dusk. It’s beautiful.”

Ronin coughed and sighed. "That's funny," he muttered, throwing his cigarette forcefully down to the ground. His hand twitched nervously as he lit another. "I didn't see a thing." He gazed back up towards me, his frown frozen like a confession.

I understood, then. Remarkably, no one screamed.

“What do you see out that window, kid?” His eyes still accused me. He’s afraid.

“Water,” I answered, softly. “A river.”

McCabe turned sharply towards me. His eyes burned narrow and intense. “There’s still hope for you, son.”

Gibbs laughed and bobbed his head violently. “Hope? Hope? What the devil do you think is beyond that door?”

“Pain,” cried a voice, gleeful in terror.

Strength returned to Ronin’s voice. “Pain, hell, lakes of fire, whatever the human mind can fantasize about the unknown. Me, I think whatever is beyond that door is what every fool soul had coming to him. You’ll all go to your separate hells, unlocked from the nightmares of your mind. I don’t believe this place exists, and that makes me immune. There’s no hell out there for me, because I deny it.”

“Denying it makes it no less real,” said McCabe.

“Believing it makes it no more acceptable. Nothing here exists. It's symbolic of whatever it wants to be symbolic of. It’s like living the nightmare of another man’s dream. It doesn’t exist because it can’t. It is outside the realm of human comprehension. Therefore, it is not. I deny it.”

Our door whined open again. Soft footsteps thundered across our stone floor. Most turned their heads away in disgust or despair.

“James Moran, are you prepared to die?”

Their voices had a gentle horror to them, resolute and simple – almost melancholy. Voices draped with an indescribable sadness that would likely drive us mad if we had knowledge of it. They stood waiting, demanding – cold and compassionless.

Predictably, someone screamed.

Not Moran. He sat against the far wall and did not move, arms crossed defiantly across his chest. He spat on the floor before him, his face white with calm dread, knowing exactly what would result from it.

“Symbolism,” he muttered blankly, and was shot dead.

Echoes from the gunshot thundered through our room. I sat startled, never realizing the wards had been armed. Horror overcame over me, as I gazed first at Moran’s slumped figure and then back to the wards. Without hesitation, they grasped Moran’s ankles and dragged the corpse out the doorway. Crooked red lines trailed their path, as I finally realized what the collected pools of liquid were on the ground. Someone vomited violently, spilling his outrage over the uncaring floor. The door closed with a tone of finality behind them.

Silence. A scream.

Again, we were seven.

“Are they illusory, too?” asked McCabe fiercely. “Dreams? Figments of our imagination?” Ronin did not meet his gaze.

Gibbs had become restless again, his breaths shallow and urgent. I imagined him licking his lips ravenously, eyes roving from man to man searching for a lamb to scathe. "What do you do, Ronin?" he asked finally.

“Do?” retorted Ronin indifferently.

Gibbs grinned giddily. “What’s your work?”

Ronin matched his grin; his eyes narrowing slightly. "Operations manager. For one of those corporate companies you shovel horse crap for."

"White collar trash, then?” Gibbs’ jaw twitched agitatedly, his mouth shriveled into a wry sneer. “Should've known, you're too ugly for actual work. Who browns your nose for ya?"

Ronin coughed contently and puffed on his cigarette. "You know what's wrong with trash like you, Gibbs? Your entire life all you do is screw and sweat. And you're good at neither. If my nose is brown, your head must be buried in dung."

A strained laugh cackled from the shadows. One of the newcomers, Jordan, summoned the resolve to speak. “Anyone know what we did to deserve this?”

“We didn’t pay our taxes, you git,” said Gibbs. “The Feds owe money to the devil too.”

“No,” answered Ronin, softly. “It’s much simpler than that.”

“What?”

“Ask the kid.” Ronin nodded his head towards me. “He thinks he’s beginning to know.”

I lifted my eyes from the floor, gazing unwaveringly at Ronin.

Gibbs turned towards me and grinned. “You keeping things from us, kid?” he mocked. “Don’t make us bust your skull open for you.”

I dismissed impulses of violence and stared at Gibbs mutely. Scalding sweat trickled into my eyes but I held my gaze stubbornly. McCabe turned from the comfort of his window and answered for me. “We sinned, you pariah of idiocy. We have failed our God.”

Deliciously, Gibbs was startled into silence. After a terse moment, he shook his head, and muttered. “Christ! I don't know what’s worse - white-collar trash or Bible-thumping clergy. So much scum in one room.” Gibbs’ abrasive eyes narrowed and he grinned. “I know your kind, preacher man.”

“No,” gritted McCabe. “You do not know me. I am completely beyond your comprehension. You cannot even grasp the simplest virtue of decency. You seem content to damn yourself. Worst thing is you already know what’s coming, and you do nothing. Nothing! Are you such a fool? I warn you, beware of what you already know to be true.”

Gibbs laughed fiercely. He extended his hands to either side of him. “Welcome to the highway to hell, preacher man!” he shouted. Wails and horrific whispers chorused all about us. “Damned? Me? Yes! And onward we all will go to this lake of fire, this flaming torment of the hell your kind preaches. But, preacher man, tell me one thing. If your God has saved you, why do you find yourself here with the rest of us heathen? Why, preacher man? Where is your God, now? Where?”

“All men must die,” answered McCabe, softly. “That road we all share. I am no preacher; I don’t even think of myself as a religious man. But I see the road ahead of me and choose to avoid the darkness. That is why I see light out this window.”

What do you see, Gibbs?

Ronin sat staring indifferently at the ground, oblivious to the conflict that had erupted. He glanced at his watch with a reserved grimace, casting the gnarled stub of his cigarette to the ground. His empty hands and face now seemed brittle, bereft of purpose. “You pray to your God, McCabe,” he said softly. “See if He can save you from this. It won’t do you any good. He can’t save you from something that doesn’t exist.” He spoke as if he was trying to convince himself. “It is only a dream.”

“No, Ronin,” said McCabe. “I don’t pray for myself anymore. I pray some for you, but you cannot believe what you don't understand, and such is why you see nothing outside this window. You refuse even the possibility of hope. Thus, I pray most for him.” McCabe pointed towards me. “He alone still feels hope, I see that. He alone has the capacity to let his heart believe.”

Ronin wasn’t listening. He gazed at the ground with a weary, resigned smile, and whispered, “Hope.”

“Reginald Ronin, are you prepared to die?”

Sweat stung my startled eyes. The door stood open; the wards waiting and silently intent. My thoughts raged – how had they entered without us hearing? Helpless, paralyzed, I watched as Ronin rose from his seat. He smoothed out his shirt, and glanced briefly at me, eyes unreadable. “I was born, wasn’t I?” he answered them, his eyes meeting mine for a moment longer, and then was gone. The door closed behind him, and the terror began again.

Gone, within a moment’s breath.

Silence.

Learn, boy. Knowledge is all around you.

The atmosphere changed – growing more volatile, as if Ronin’s absence rent a void in our hapless fellowship. He commanded a calm stability amongst us, as if by will alone he could deliver us from this horror. I missed him, miserably. Gibbs grew more unsettled and virulent, as if Ronin’s departure destroyed the last remnant of his self-control. I feared him more now, what he could do unchecked. I felt alone.

We were seven again. That, even a child could predict - though something was now different. A sense of something wrong came over me. The screams abruptly stopped; all of us astounded into silence, but for one weak soul cackling in glee. All eyes focused on the newcomer; the soul that had taken Ronin’s place.

A woman.

Hungry eyes peered and lusted. Voices whooped in deranged laughter. She sensed the peril immediately, her eyes darting from soul to soul surrounding her. In horror, she withdrew protectively into a corner, pressing fiercely against the unyielding walls as if the stone at her back could shield her. Figures crept towards her, hands groping forward.

“The devil’s brought us a gift,” drifted Gibbs’ manic voice.

She screamed.

McCabe was quicker than I. He thrust forward and shoved the nearest man roughly to the ground. Another man leapt forward – I met him with my shoulder and threw him into the wall. He crumpled to the floor, cursing and thrashing, but did not approach again. The other men hesitated, as McCabe and I formed a protective wall against the rest of the room.

Silence. Contempt pulsed through my body.

Gibbs sauntered forward, grinning fiercely. “Imagine that, a woman - complicates things, doesn’t it now?” He paused, and his smile widened. His eyes darted from me to McCabe. “Tasty-looking dame, ain’t she?”

“Back off, Gibbs,” warned McCabe. “Not another step.” The woman behind us dropped to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees. I glanced back at her - she looked little older than a girl. Her breath trembled with a sob.

Gibbs laughed, winking at no one in particular. He hazarded a step closer, his concentration directed towards me. Another step brought him uncomfortably near, as he leaned forward to whisper in my ear, “What's your name, kid?”

The question confused me, startled me with its unexpected oddness. What is he doing? I recovered enough to answer, “I've been called many things in my life.”

“What's your mother call you, then?” Gibbs’ voice grew softer, darker. He seemed confident in his ability to unmake me. Ronin’s absence left me defenseless, vulnerable. “Or don't you have a mother?”

I gazed forward, resisting him; refusing to let him defeat me this way. "She called me lots of things too."

Gibbs’ smile scalded my face. “Ever close your eyes, kid,” he asked tersely, “and wish for death? And then realize, you’re already dead – been so for some time. Blood starts seeping from your tongue as you bite down to stop yourself from screaming; breathing so hard that your lungs seem to burn inside you? Ever do that, kid? I know you have, boy, because you’re doing it now.”

What the devil? Searing images violated my mind as he spoke, dazed visions of pain and fear. His voice seduced my senses, becoming the only articulate element I could comprehend. Dully, I could almost make out McCabe shouting at me, warning me. Terror coursed through my lungs and veins, viciously depriving me of my life’s blood. Coldness seeped into my limbs, inflicting pain I could neither ease nor scream in defiance against.

Do you remember the Light?

Darkness plagued everything around me. The devil beckoned. Resistance was absurd, the dream of a child. His influence poured over me like honey on skin, draping me in vile comfort. For the briefest, infinitesimal moments, burdens immeasurable fell from me, and blindly I felt free. Indiscernible hands grasped me, forced me to bow to my knees. Prostrate, my brief gift of comfort began to fade.

Behold!

A figure stood before me. I could not see him, but his presence radiated such power that my soul felt and recognized him. I am Abomination, was his answer to my unspoken question. His thin hand crossed near my face, arcing to a point beyond my vision, and I hazily followed his robed arm to gaze feebly out our window.

Someone screamed. I almost didn’t realize it was me.

Desperately, I tried to turn away. A cold hand grasped the back of my neck, wrenching my head towards the window. My unwilling eyes gazed upon reigning darkness, where once a river of celestial magnitude had flowed. I had gazed upon that river, revered its vitality, placed faith in the hope that emanated from it. Gone. Its destruction ended me. My lungs lurched noxiously, laughing as my soul shattered within itself. I believed – knew – myself to be damned. Take me now! I tried to shout at the walls. What more must I wait for?

McCabe’s refreshing fist to my jaw broke Satan’s seduction, the visions fading to emptiness. Mistily, I felt my body swoon and crash to the unforgiving floor. My eyes became blind with pain, blood rolling from my lip and dripping thunderously from my chin. I was deafened by every sound, roaring so acute that I writhed in agony.

Through the roar, a voice, different from before, spoke:

Do you remember the light, son? You caught a glimpse of it at the very beginning of your life. From that moment you have spent the entirety of your lifetime blinding yourself to it. Does the darkness hold such appeal to you? Are you capable solely of thinking and feeling, but not being? The light still burns inside of you, faint but true. You know it, do you not? A tremor of lost purity still within you, gasping again for the light of day. The darkness is before you now. Are you still seduced by it? Let faith restore your sight, boy. It is you who must cross that river. You and no other.

Dark vision returned to my eyes. Violently, I coughed a mouthful of blood from my throat. The acrid taste in my mouth keened my senses, jolting me into awareness. I felt McCabe’s hand grasp mine, gently raising me from the dank floor. Tenderly, he wiped the blood from my chin, whispering, “Believe, boy. We’re walking through the Valley even now. Do you understand me?”

Understand?

Blankly, I nodded, gazing at our cage with eyes just beginning to see. McCabe’s supporting hand fell from my shoulder, and I stood of my own free volition. A strange confidence coursed through my veins, emanating from a place far from my body or our room. I felt different, I realized. I felt redeemed.

Salvation awaits. Prepare yourself. There is still the Choice.

“Julian McCabe, are you prepared to die?”

Hatred cast fourteen eyes towards the open doorway. The wards stood, oblivious to discussion or strife. Their gray eyes spoke nothing, betrayed nothing, daring rebellion like one would dare the sun to fall from the sky.

“If it is my time,” answered McCabe. “Then gladly.” He turned only to gaze at me. Light now burns in you as well, brother. Your time soon approaches. Bide it well. His footsteps echoed faintly as he walked across our room, hesitating only slightly before the doorway. He stepped into the gloom beyond and was gone.

Brother.

I envied the end of his road, wished to be traveling by his side. Again. Soon.

Gibbs’ face burned with irate passion. He lunged at our doorway after it sealed, battering a fist against the stone hatch. “Now, preacher man!” he shouted. “See if you still believe in gods after they have finished with you. Try! Escape their fire! You’ll burn with the rest of us heathen, you flaming git!” He fell back to the floor, coughing brutally. He turned to gaze at me with pure malice. “Just like him too, boy,” he muttered, spitting black saliva to the ground. “No escape.”

I hazarded a painful step closer towards Gibbs, who shrunk groveling and defeated before me. Doubt and hate ravaged his face. He and I suddenly became the only animate beings in the room. Alone. “Escape?” I said slowly, my stiffened lip causing me discomfort. “No escape. You’re right.”

Gibbs smiled faintly, not understanding the power that had come over me. He scrounged to his feet, a stubborn fire returning to his face. “Ronin was wrong, boy, about it all. Fools always are. You know what this place really is?”

Yes. “No. Explain it to me.”

“It’s life, boy,” he answered. “Life’s a prison, see. It’s been so all my life. We live in a little box and pretend to be free. But it’s not that way; never has been. Most come to realize that. They look to death as freedom then.” Gibb’s eyes grew cold. “Fools. Death is not freedom. Death is a trap, a false hope like all other hope. Even you can see that, being here, knowing what’s out that door. A prison within a prison.”

“Life is only a prison if we choose it to be, Gibbs,” I said, “and that box is only as small as we make it.”

“Don’t start talking like that, kid. Don’t you dare. It doesn’t suit you. We are in a prison here, and we’re all going to die. You, me, and every other damned soul here.”

“No escape?” I whispered.

“No escape,” he echoed.

A gentle smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “You’re right, Gibbs, in a way. There is no escape from here. Not any escape we are capable of, at least. That much I’ve seen.”

“You see nothing, boy,” Gibbs said, scowling.

“I see many things,” I replied. “I see people who refuse to hope, people who cannot accept that the escape from their own demise does not reside within themselves. I don’t pretend to know why we are here, or what hell lies outside that door. I do know that if I am in here, I have failed somehow, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent that.”

“Melodramatic, kid,” said Gibbs. “When did you become so flaming enlightened?”

I gazed at him softly. Comprehension flooded my thoughts, guiding my words. “What do you see out that window?”

Fear shimmered across Gibbs’ face. He took a searing step forward, fists clenched. “Who the devil do you think you are, kid? You think seeing rivers outside this rock makes you different from the rest of us?” He spat at my feet, cursing at the stream of blood that coursed down his chin. “No different,” he muttered. “Just deluded.”

“What, Gibbs? What do you see?”

“Go to hell,” Gibbs whispered.

“Darkness? Your own demise, perhaps? Do you think this is all illusion? That window has a purpose, Gibbs. It’s a looking glass into fate. It’s where our answer is.”

“I’m disappointed, kid.” Gibbs sighed and grinned. “I thought you were smarter than that. Billions of people in the world think they’ve got that one answer. What makes yours right?”

I permitted myself to return his smile. “Smart? I never claimed to be smart. Blind perhaps, but I’m beginning to see. You wish for me to explain something of which no explanation is possible, something I myself yet do not understand. I have heard a calling, and am willing to walk that path wherever out there leads. We all have that calling - every last man, even you. Most just choose to ignore it. It’s a knock on our door. Answer that knock, Gibbs – now, while you still have time. The devil already has the key.”

Gibbs seethed in fury. “Who in hell’s name do you think you are, kid? What right do you have to judge me – to judge anyone?” He raised a quivering, accusing finger. “You know who you are, punk? Just another one of them. Righteous dung who can’t see past their own perfection. The world is not your playground, to impose morality on us heathen. For what, kid? Why? To prove yourself better? To get the last laugh? If you believe that crock of crap then you’re more a fool than I thought. You’re not satisfied deluding yourself, you have to drag me to your hell with you.”

I coughed. “What prevents you from seeing, Gibbs? You’re not blind. You see the end before you, the fate of the path you walk. What is it Gibbs? Guilt, perhaps? Or is it shame? Or hate?”

What, Gibbs? What?

“See?” Gibbs chortled in glee. His delirious laughter assaulted every sense and comfort. “I see everything, kid. I see a punk, whose every bone and muscle I despise. A babe still yearning to suckle on a woman’s breast. You haven’t lived yet, kid. You haven’t felt pain. You are nothing. A child. Believe whatever the devil you want to believe, punk. I will destroy you. You cannot control me.”

He grinned triumphantly. I pitied him - he mocked when he should have feared me. I was beyond him. My gaze pierced him with the double-edged weapon that had been given unto me.

I forgive you.

Gibbs screamed. His body snapped violently, convulsions racking his limbs as he flung himself back against the wall. “Damn you!” he shouted, his face gnarled with rage. “Do you think you have the right?”

“Thomas Gibbs, are you prepared to die?”

The wards stood, deadly and graceful, immaculate as stone. I watched Gibbs fiercely. Beware the darkness, brother. His eyes’ sank from me, to the ward at the door, and then bowing towards the floor. “No,” he whispered, nearly incoherently. He gazed back at me, and forcefully mouthed. No!

Uncaring, oblivious, the ward moved and grasped Gibbs’ arm. Gibbs violently pulled himself away, nearly collapsing to the ground. “No,” he gritted, fear hardening his throat from shouting. “You can’t. ”

“Come.”

“Burn in hell.”

A fist struck Gibbs in the nose. His blood rained to the ground as he crumbled to his knees. A muffled shout of outrage escaped from his lips as another fist bludgeoned his face. A hand grasped his collar, dragging him senseless out of our chamber.

Beware the darkness, brother.

My heart burned cold. I slowly dropped myself to the floor, wiping sweat or tears from my eyes. A dread fell over me, terror that I had failed a service expected of me. Gibbs was gone, damned. I had looked at him as my enemy, my torturer. Yet for him I felt consumed with sorrow, more than for any other. I prayed for him. I hoped.

Seven.

“What – what is this place?” I dimly heard our newcomer shout. He looked from soul to soul, begging for an answer, met with only silence. “Who are you? What is - why won’t you answer me?” His eyes finally rested onto me. “Please,” he implored in a whisper, “what is this?”

I met his gaze, softly. My voice could no longer convey an answer. I gazed at him, and that was enough.

“No.” He shook his head, face ashen. “My God no. Not like this.”

“That’s right,” said a resigned, unfamiliar voice. “You’re dead. You’re among friends.”

Friends. I whispered silently. My eyes roved through the suffocating darkness, searching each unfamiliar face. With a calming dread I realized that none remained of the six present when I first arrived. I had unwillingly become the elder statesman. The next knock was for me.

I rose from my seat, ignoring everyone about me. My feet dragged reluctantly across the ground as I sauntered towards the window. I closed my eyes, clasping my fingers tightly around the steel bars. Visions of hell roared in my head. When I finally reopened my eyes, I fully expected to see nothing but the damnation of darkness outside.

No. A glow, hardly perceptible, illuminated the darkness in the great distance. Not the sickly glow that defiled our room - but pure golden light, burning peacefully in the unreachable horizon. Minutes passed, I could not tear myself away from that sight, captivation so complete that I could almost forget the horror that surrounded me. Almost…

Do you remember the Light?

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Jacob Whitmore, are you prepared to die?”

Slowly, I turned back towards the doorway. I gazed thoughtfully at the wards that stood there. “I’m already dead,” I answered quietly.

“Come.”

I nodded, casting a final, wistful glance outside our window. I took a couple of steps forward, then stopped to turn to the remaining souls in the room. “There’s more than this. There is that promise. Never forget that.” Without waiting for a response, I walked past the wards and into the gloom beyond our door.

The door boomed bluntly shut behind me. The two wards silently took a stance on either side of me, firmly guiding me forward. I could see nothing, darkness smothered every step I took. Resisting the urge to run, I contented myself to let the wards lead me where they may. Our steps echoed with a tinny percussion about us.

How many, I wondered, had walked this path as I did now? Thousands? Millions? All of humanity? For all I knew, death awaited me at the end of this journey. Yet, strangely, the darkness and the walls threatened me no more. Screams, agonizing in their fury, echoed harmlessly about me. A calming fire had consumed me, a void that quelled my fear. Almost – nearly, I felt free.

Unexpectedly, the darkness wavered and a faint light emerged ahead of us, though whether it was distant or near I could not tell. I grunted in surprise as my convoy halted abruptly. One of the wards reached out towards a handle that seemed suspended in midair. Suddenly, I could trace the silhouette of a door, which swung open noiselessly to a small room. A hand from behind grasped my shoulder and pushed me roughly in.

I stumbled to my knees, catching myself with my hands. Thrusting myself to my feet, I glanced back in time to see the door slide silently shut, the wards outside. A quiet cough snatched my attention away from them. I turned to gaze at my surroundings. Unadorned, stone walls enveloped me like those from our cell, no less gray or foreboding. To my left and right stood two more dark doorways. An empty chair and an oak desk provided the sole furnishings in front of me.

Behind that desk sat an old, grayed man, meticulously scrawling in a rustic book. A flickering candle rested on his desk, the only illumination in the room. It hardly lit things enough to see, but it was more than I had been accustomed to for so long, and it seemed blinding in its intensity. Every wrinkle and fold of the man’s face became visible from that flame, shadows dancing across his skin.

Without looking up, he gestured towards the empty chair, with an authority that deterred defiance. He began to speak before I even completely found my seat, “Jacob Whitmore, date of birth November 14, 1980. Date of death, still to be decided.” He paused for a long moment, and then began to write in his book again.

Several more moments passed. I wondered if some action or statement was expected from me, though the old man gave no sign, and I could not summon the daring to speak. Finally, he lifted his pencil from the parchment, and his fierce gray eyes rose from his work to rest on me, gleaming dangerously. His ancient mouth hardened into a frown, and he spoke, "You have choices, young man. Grave choices. Life is full of choices, but you know that, boy. You’re clever.

“There's three doors out of here, you see. There's the one you came from, but you can't go back, boy. No one can go back. It's the rules they made. So you have the choice of the other two. It's a simple choice, really. Go to the right and you and your fellows all die. Go to the left and you and your fellows all live. That’s your choice to make, but it’s simple really.” He gazed at me for a moment longer as if to emphasize his point, then turned back to his book. His hand twitched feverishly as he scribed.

I blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

A grin spread across my face. Not an ounce of humor resided in my body, yet I laughed. Gently at first, then an explosive volley of grim laughter raked my body. The old man seemed oblivious, continuing to write as if he had been undisturbed for all eternity.

Slowly, the laughter subsided. A silly grin remained on my face – my last defense against insanity. My eyes began to scour the room, finally resting to the doorway to my left. Freedom. Oddly, it seemed less threatening than any other element in the room, almost seductive, a soft light emanating from some out of sight destination beyond. Yet the light seemed stale, and would wax into a dull brightness and then wane into utter darkness. My grin abated into a faint, sad smile, and then collapsed into a slight frown. I turned to my right, at the other doorway, narrower than the one to my left. It was almost completely dark, save for a tiny speck of light in the nearly indiscernible distance.

True light, small but sure.

“Well?” demanded the old man, still scribbling in his damnable book.

For a moment, I ignored him. My eyes caught sight of a sign above the right doorway, words scribbled in nearly illegible characters. Dust and disuse disfigured the lettering, yet its message suddenly bloomed clear to me:

I rose slowly to my feet, a grim frown of purpose setting my lips. I turned back towards the old man, my words resonating forcefully, “Let me tell you something, old man. I've seen the darkness." His archaic head arced slowly up, his expression seething between astonishment and fury. Before he could speak, I continued, “I’ve seen what I once was, and I will not go back! ”

“What are you saying, boy?” the old man nearly shouted.

My brows narrowed. I took a resolute step to my right. “I won’t choose that life, old man. I believe in the path less traveled.”

"But you can't choose that way, boy. It's foolish. It's downright asinine. Are you to tell me that you will abandon all pretenses of sanity and destroy yourself for some foolhardy notion of faith? You disappoint me boy. I thought you were clever. I suppose I was wrong."

“Clever?” I suddenly grinned. “To choose death over life? No, not clever - a fool. You have no idea what power that gives me. Power to deny you, to deny all of this. I believe in other things. I believe in truth. Real truth, not the falsity that you have spread since the beginning of time.”

“Lord of fools!” the old man raged, rising precariously to his feet. “I shall drag you to the Son of Satan himself and have you scourged for all of eternity!” Fear disfigured his temples, his pencil snapping in his balled fist. “Wards!” he snarled. “A rebeller! Wards!”

The door behind me cracked silently open. Desperately, I grabbed the empty chair and whirled it fiercely towards the opening doorway. The chair ruptured into dozens of shards, delaying the wards for the briefest moment….

I ran.

The old man seethed behind his desk as the wards pushed their way in, the room empty but for them and a few wooden shards scattered across the floor. Above the right doorway, the sign had blazed into life, the letters glowing with a fiery red.

You are, so be.

“Put an end to him,” he ordered quietly, and sat down to his work. He grasped the broken end of his pencil, glared at it briefly, and began to write once more.

I ran.

Save me. Forgive me. Remember me.

Darkness shrouded the corridor, shadows innumerable dancing about the walls and floor. Heavy footsteps roared behind me, never slowing, pursuing with unrelenting zeal. Blindly, I sprinted through those halls, dazed and lost, never for a moment knowing where I was going, or what end may come.

Pave me a path, O blind eyes…

Abruptly, I stumbled upon a small chamber; a suffocating, putrid stench assaulting me like a fist to the jaw. I collapsed to the ground with nausea, writhing in agony. Vomit spewed from my gut like a cry of outrage.

No!

I collected myself to my knees, still gagging over the reek of Abomination. Dim focus came to my eyes as they attuned to the darkness. About me, corpses lay stacked haphazardly upon each other like discarded rubbish, endless columns of death. Dozens – hundreds of them, surrounding me with an accusation of silence. Their fetid essence filled every pore of my being, saturating my soul with images of horror, of their demise.

Ignoring the tears of shame that seared down my face, I suffered my way to my feet. Grasping my gut to steady a whirling stomach, I forced my body to lurch forward. One step, and another. Forward, always. Driven onward by the clamor of footsteps behind me. My pace steadied, quickening from a saunter to a dash. The rank fumes suddenly disappeared, leaving me with only a bitter taste and scarred memory.

I ran – for forever it seemed. I passed through dozens of corridors and pathways, all winding about each other, leaving me disoriented. Sweat drenched every fabric of my clothing, and more than once I fell roughly to the ground in the dark. My eyes now refused to adjust to the blackness that surrounded me, every continuing step blind as the one before it.

Brightness suddenly struck me senseless. My hands involuntarily covered my face, shielding my eyes from the pure white light that enveloped me. Slowly, as the pain in my eyes subsided, I let my hands fall from my face to gaze at the environment about me, squinting heavily. For a moment, I feared that I had indeed been struck blind. Nothing but a blank, unadulterated white met my eyes, stretching to infinity. Yet the white had depth, bending upon itself in the distance around me, forming a vast, endless chamber. A dull murmur filled the chamber, like a multitude of voices whispering from afar.

I lifted an unsteady step towards the center of the room. Vertigo gripped me, though I didn’t know why. Something felt odd about the ground before me. It seemed to cave into itself with every step I took. The murmurs about me grew louder and more distinct. I lifted my foot to take another stop, and then froze, astonished. My foot hovered in midair above a precipice, a monstrous canyon stretching to either side of me for infinity. I stepped back, knees weak and buckling

The murmurs erupted into a deafening roar. Countless souls groveled, groped, and wailed within the confines of that chasm. They climbed atop each other, reaching their hands up towards me, their faces begging me. I fell to my knees, my hands hanging over the precipice. Help them! cried voices within me, eyes full of terror staring at me from below. Their eyes frightened me, shook the core of my soul. Eyes that had witnessed things I would never wish to see.

"Not all who fall into the ditch are blind. So fall even those who see."

Startled, I looked up into the face of a hideously deformed man, sitting peacefully next to me. Boils and sores covered his skin; his clothes tattered and soiled. Yet his scarred face retained a quiet nobility, tranquil in his suffering. How he arrived there without me hearing or seeing, I can never answer.

He looked down at the people below. “There are some who cannot accept the path set before them. And thus they fall here, willingly and eternally. Others – others do accept the path for a time, but fall from it.” He paused for a ragged breath, which I supposed was a sigh. “Is the path too narrow, perhaps? Or, rather is it that their minds are too narrow?” His battered, yet unbroken, gaze lifted back to me. “Go now, unless you too wish to fall.”

I rose slowly to my feet, and he pointed across the canyon. I turned, to notice for the first time a narrow, rope bridge stretching across the expanse of the chasm. It swayed haphazardly on its moorings, swinging rhythmically like a pendulum. Several people hung from the bottom of the bridge, their hands grasping upwards in a frantic attempt to pull themselves back to safety. They cried fiercely for help, some losing their grip and falling screaming into the canyon.

Doubt crept into my stomach. “Guide my paths, O my Lord, that my way may be straight,” I whispered.

“Go! ”

Propelled by his voice, I threw myself onto the bridge, grimacing as it strained precariously under my weight. I grasped the two rope rails on either side of me, balancing myself on the thin wooden plank running through the bridge’s center. Vertigo crushed my lungs. One step caused the trestle to groan ominously below me. I closed my eyes, trying to forget the appalling distance that I had to cross. Another step nearly broke my balance, the unsteady motion of the bridge causing my stomach to lurch.

Voices roared from below. Hands raised upwards towards me in mock worship. I forced my vision forward, refusing to look down at the sea of humanity below me. One step, and then another. My pace steadied, my confidence growing with every sure footfall. The bridge soared terrifyingly over the ravine, drifting as if moving sideways. Onward and forward, always. The screams resonated more forcedly, willing me into joining their demise. Fear of a fatal misstep nearly thrust me into a run, the end near, so near….

Till the perfection of tomorrow….

A hand reached from the abyss; fingers wrapping around my ankle, chilling me with their touch. Violent tugs ripped at my leg, wrenching my grip from the bridge. A cry escaped my lips, my balance destroyed and my body pitching over the edge in a horrifying moment of free-fall. Seconds slowed to eternities, I fell as if sinking in a pool of molasses. Every conceivable doubt, guilt, and sin assaulted my soul. The voices below me reveled in victory; chorusing rancid melodies to my fall.

From dust, to dust….

My body flailed about me inhumanly. I drifted down through the air so sluggishly that I wondered whether time itself had ceased. Blindly, I thrashed my arms about, sifting through the air searching for salvation. The chasm below threatened to swallow my soul in eternal darkness, voices within willing me into their damnation.

Spawn of sin and Satan….

“No! ” I shouted, nearly screamed. Suddenly, my hand closed upon firm substance. A jolt snapped through my limbs as my body swung precariously over the canyon. Stony, cold fingers still grasped my ankle, more fingers clawing up my leg. I looked up, saw that my hand had closed upon the bottom rope of my bridge. Forcing my body upwards, I reached high enough to grasp the rope with both hands. My limbs screamed in outrage. Terror raged within me, tears of agony pouring down my face. I could not see the soul pulling at my leg, nor any longer make out an individual form below me, everything melding into a sea of black.

Lakes of Fire await… damnation is upon you!

I hung as a dead man, unable to move or breathe. No effort could pull me back onto the bridge, the burden clinging to my legs too grievous. My grip slowly slipped, a sliver at a time, tearing at the ligaments of my arms. With a snap, one hand ripped free, and I rocked fearfully on the support of one hand.

I screamed.

Damnation is upon you! Deny Him! Deny Him!

“Save yourself, Son of Man!”

I forced my eyes to look up. On the bridge above me loomed the deformed man, denunciation burning in his eyes. His mouth was set in a firm frown. “Save yourself!” he shouted again.

Help me. I begged mutely, unable to articulate a word or breath.

“Help yourself!” he roared. “I cannot aid you. Believe! Do not deny your soul unless you wish to join them.”

Believe, Son of Man!

Rage and power flowed within me. Every muscle and ligament strained upwards. I kicked my legs down violently, struggling against the being that had taken me captive. My free foot connected with solid flesh, the grip on my leg weakening and then breaking free. With a thundering shriek of desperation, the soul fell from me into the swelling dark sea below.

Suddenly free of my burden, I pulled my body back upward, lifting myself tenderly back to the relative safety of the bridge. I forced myself to my feet. Looking about myself, I saw that the once blinding whiteness of the walls grew darker, more ominous. Shadows crept about from every conceivable corner. And the bridge seemed different – altered in some way I could not immediately fathom. The tempest of voices still roared below me, souls furious at being denied their prey. I felt their lust, still hungering for me.

Next to me, the deformed man frowned. His eyes glowed brightly as he pointed across to the far end of the bridge. “Now go! Doubt no more.”

Wider – the bridge was wider now. Sturdier too. The sudden realization left me nearly oblivious for a moment. I stomped on the bridge first gingerly, and then forcefully. It felt solid beneath my feet, not a tremor quivering through it. I looked back up to gaze at the deformed man, but he had already turned, walking slowly back to the side of the bridge I had come from. I gazed at him for a short moment, questions I somehow knew would be left unanswered filling my mind, and then turned to the direction he had pointed. No hesitation dragged my steps – I ran.

A moment’s sprint found me at the end of the bridge and onto solid ground again. A dark, monstrous doorway loomed before me, every shadow imaginable seeming to converge within it. I slowed my step as I passed through, an uncomfortable breeze shimmering over my skin. I had entered a void, an eerie, silent blankness that enveloped everything around me.

Alone – I felt alone, but not afraid. The silence oppressed me, breathing grew labored and strenuous, yet I surged on, ignoring the forces fighting against me. In an instant, the darkness again dissolved into almost painful brightness. I squinted slightly, but swallowed the impulse to shield my eyes. The surroundings seemed endless, terrifying. Whiteness covered everything - the walls, ground, and ceiling alike adorned in perfect ivory – but for several dark, indistinct shapes before me. Abruptly, they sharpened into focus, and I gasped in astonishment.

And though I walk through the valley…. I whispered silently, and then stopped. The vision swirled about me, my mouth agape with mute wonderment. Through the valley… I stepped slowly forward, my legs swaying slightly. I suddenly knew that the end of my road drew near.

Of the shadow of death…

Seven wooden posts jutted starkly from the ground, contrasting fiercely with the bland whiteness of the ground. Shackled to the posts, lying prostate on the ground as if they didn’t have the will to move, were five men; those taken before me. The posts were spread apart from each other, a narrow path emerging between them.

I walked forward, my mouth set in a grim frown. I approached the first couple of posts, stopping in recognition of the two souls chained there - Nolan, and Vaughn. My presence blinded them - they screamed in agony as I passed by, desperately shielding their eyes from the pure light that flamed within me. They crawled away from me as much as their shackles would allow. A crowns of thorns adorned their heads, dried blood matted about their faces and hair. A small emblem nailed to the top of the posts that held them bore two simple, ghastly words.

Once Kings.

I closed my eyes. A cold chill streaked down my spine. Whispering a prayer, I turned onward, towards where I felt my heart being called. The next post I passed bore the dead body of Moran, bent double around the pole, still with a hand shackled firmly to it. Bowing my head in a silent gesture of respect, I took another step forward to find myself face to face with Ronin.

Ronin’s face seethed with rage, breath churning from his mouth. He shielded his eyes, squinting heavily, but his gaze did not lower from me. The thorny crown above his eyes dug deeply into his scalp, trails of blood streaming down his face.

Yet he glared at me, unflinching and defiant. And he seethed.

"Don't you dare do this to us, kid," he snarled.

I stared at him, quietly. Pitied him even. "Perhaps logic can't save you after all."

The obstinate fire in his eyes subsided for the briefest of instances. His cheeks and mouth dropped in astonishment and horror, shriveled like a broken man. He threw himself at me; jerking back violently as his chain caught him and threw him hard back to the ground. He clawed at the ground, raving to reach at me, curses spewing from his mouth in a stream of vulgarity. Terror and pain contorted his face, as he clawed continuously at me in desperation. His eyes horrified me, sending a shiver down my spine. Empty, soulless eyes.

His hand never reached me, falling short inches from where I stood. So close. Grief welled up within me, but I turned away from him. Forward always, child; never turn back. I nearly collided into the next post, grunting in surprise. An empty shackle hung limply from its side. A faint, sad smile crossed my lips. An inscription in the wood atop the post bore the words, I was. Now, I am.

“Soon, brother,” I whispered. “Not long now.”

A moan to my side grasped my attention. Gibbs sat slumped against his post, head bowed to his chest. I walked softly to him, and as I reached him, he turned to gaze at me. Tears of shame mingled with the blood on his face. His eyes, nearly hidden beneath his crown, flickered with every imaginable emotion. He turned away from me.

So fall even those who see.

My tongue felt swollen in my mouth. I yearned to say something, anything – a word of forgiveness or apology. I felt mad with helplessness, struck silent with impotence.

Go, child. Forces pulled at me, urging me forward, and I turned to gaze at the last post, resting empty and alone amidst the white sea of the room. I strode hesitantly up to it, and stopped. I quietly lifted the unoccupied shackle dangling from it, wincing as coldness chilled my hand to the bone. Stillness fell over me, as the shackle slid easily and perfectly across my wrist, a flawless match born from hell. Horrified, I threw it from my arm, the metal thundering against the wood of the post.

Words etched atop the wood caught my eye. You are, so be. Go.

A shiver ran down my spine, doubt melting from me. I smiled, blinking away tears. Go! I tore my eyes from the post, gazing at the expanse before me. I blinked, and frowned. The blanket of white came to an end before me, floor meeting wall scant paces away. In the midst of the wall rested a massive gateway – reaching so high in the air I could hardly see the top of it. I backed slowly a couple of steps, mouth open in awe, realizing the doorway was in the shape of a cross.

I strode reverently to the base of the gateway, the open space shimmering inside of it. For a moment, I could do nothing but stand silently before the gate, a flicker of uncertainty crept into my soul. My eyes tried to pierce the glimmering space beyond, yet it exuded only a tranquil emptiness. Do not waver.

Two letters, scrawled roughly into the stone wall next to the gateway, suddenly caught my eye.

J.M.

I grinned, and then laughed, tracing the outline of the lettering with my fingers. Excitement and passion surged through me, new life bristling to bloom. “This path we all share,” I whispered. Soon.

A soft murmur filled my ears. Turning around, my mouth fell in astonishment, my breath ceasing within me. Thousands – millions of people surrounded me, filling the expanse of the room as far as I could see. Countless souls, chained all of them to posts scattered about the chamber, all crowned with thistles and thorns. They were terrifying in their infinity, a multitude of lost potential, lost dreams. Their tormented wails shook the room.

Once Kings.

I fell to my knees. Breath filled me again, in gasps. I gazed from face to face, their suffering draping over me, their screams assaulting me. My eyes locked onto the empty post scant paces away. So near. I choked in revulsion, air heaving painfully from my lungs.

Go.

Slowly, I lifted myself to my feet. I turned back towards the gateway, desperate to leave the horror behind me. Forever. My vision swirled before me; I nearly collapsed in wonder. The roar of screams behind me quieted to a whisper; time slowed to a stop. I smiled, and laughed.

Countless initials filled the wall, saturating the infinite expanse to either side of me. Millions, billions of them, surrounded the gateway like an army, engraved in eternity. I took a single step backwards, humbled. All of them burned with an ethereal light. Some faint, hardly noticeable; others bold and fiery. Many were written in blood, the crimson lettering burning fiercest of all.

“You don’t understand, do you kid?” shouted a shrill voice from behind. I did not turn around, Ronin’s voice I would never forget. He sounded small and weak amidst the roar of moans and laments. “There’s nothing out there for you! Nothing! This – everything - means nothing! Listen to me, boy! You choose that way and you damn us all!”

I ignored him. His derision echoed harmlessly off of me. My eyes were set on the cross gateway before me. I knelt down before it, reverently, extending my hands to either side of me. Power consumed me. I closed my eyes, and believed.

“I am,” I whispered. He is.

Two shots thundered through the room. I looked back; two wards ran towards me with their guns raised. I looked down to see myself dead before the gateway, two bloodied wounds swelling in my back.

But they could no longer touch me – I had become free. I had already passed through.