Sartre said that hell was other people.

He was partly right.

Hell is forever walking down a street in the black dark night. The buildings are desolate, abandoned, and the alleys are wide and gaping, full of malicious whispers and soft laughter. If you stop, the consequences will be unimaginable, so you keep walking, always looking behind your shoulder, always running past the never ending gamut of alleys.

Hell is lying awake in your bed with a burned out nightlight on the wall. Shadows scratch against the windows and noises you don't want explained hiss and thump on your doors. You want a drink of water, you want to piss, but you're paralyzed. You can't even piss yourself because if you make even a little noise they'll see you, they'll know you, and then you're dead.


Hell is being locked in a room with a phone that's constantly ringing. You won't answer the phone because every time you do it's just breathing. Soft at first, but each time you pick it up it's louder and harsher, coming closer. You can hear the hate even in just that breath, and you know that whoever's on the other line has the keys.

Hell is fear.

I should know. I live there.

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It r lame, I know. But it was in my head, and wanted out, so out it goes.