A Vision of Hell

In a clearing in the woods, I'm in a pen about 30 ft. wide by 50ft. long. Actually, its just a roped off area. The rope is a yellow, plastic twine, held up about waist high by thin poles. I am in this pen with about 10-15 other people. They all look insane, disconnected.

I notice that there is another layer of cord, larger in diameter than the one that contains me, with about 5ft. of space in between. Standing on the other side of this cord are people with round faces and huge eyes. They're always looking into the inner-pen, but the 5ft. 'moat' both sides just out of arms reach.

There is an opening in one corner of the pen, but a strange force tells me not to go through it.

Brett comes to visit me- finally a familiar face! He stands in the gap between the two sets of rope. I ask him, "Where did Dad go? I had bought him a soda from McDonalds, but I returned, he was gone". Brett tells me, "Dad is dead. He has been for years". Something inside me knows that he is right and that the pen I'm trapped in is timeless, but its the first time my ears have heard it. "No," I say, "that was just last week". "No," he says, "that was over 50 years ago". I can't argue- I know he's right. Plus, his visit seems to be only for a limited time. "Mom died too, and Aunt Ev." His voice trails off as his words begin to sink in. He begins to leave and I follow him around to the opening in the pen. No words, only screaming feelings; "Don't go! Please come back to visit me again, Brett! Please come back again!" He's gone and I can't follow him out.

I turn back to 'the Keeper' of the pen in a fury. He stands with other guards in a roofed porch-type thing with a wooden banister all around, and steps leading up to the front. I walk right up to the banister in front of him and throw a punch. It lands lightly on his cheek. Furiously, I beckon him closer, and to my amazement, he leans forward with a smile. I hit him in the mouth and hear a 'clank'. I hit that hideous smile smile again, hurting my hand, again hearing the 'clank'. The Keeper is an ugly troll of a man: short, balding, a rosy face littered with spots and freckles. The pain and clanking, I realize, is coming from his 4 solid gold teeth, all worn and jagged, his K9's a little larger than normal. He laughs at my fury and frustration of not being able to leave the pen. I look over my shoulder at the opening.

"You've got it good in here, sonny," he says. "You think whatever is out there is better?! Try this!" He lowers his hand and I drop 3ft. into a small pit filled with millions of nugget-sized demons, all biting and ripping at my body from the waste down; an indescribable, unearthly pain. Instantly, I'm back standing on firm ground in front of the Keeper. I understand my place and walk back into the middle of the pen. I look out to all the wide-eyed people staring in and conclude that these must be the people that tried to leave. They are now in another world, an inferno as Dante described it, eyes fixed on the small pen of grass that they once caroused, as unimaginable, torturous devils turn their bodies and souls into personal playgrounds.