First of the Fallen (Neophyte Series 1)

11. On Through the Never

                HEAD SPINNING, STOMACH TWISTING like countless knots tightening, and his chest convulsing with utter dread, the sensation of pure, unadulterated evil drew nearer by the second. Like the clouded black figures that roamed the hallways of St. Michael's Hospital, he could not bear the emotional torment and unadulterated hate that radiated from the dark walls of the swirling vortex.

    Screaming as all sense of sanity was lost, Michael free fell through the black portal of lightning and smoke, like whirling through the innards of a tornado, kicking and flailing through the darkness as the piercing surges of pain grew heavy and relentless. Clasping his chest, he prayed the pain would subside, but death felt inevitable.

    Inside he could hear voices, familiar people he'd known for years, though many he had not spoken to since childhood. The smoky walls formed the likeness of many—too many to count, but each one of them represented a moment of doubt and sin in his life, played out all around him like a twisted charade—a play of personal anguish, guilt and remorse. Every moment of shame and vulnerability broke him down one insufferable moment at a time, until his soul seared like hot embers in his heart. It was as though the portal itself could see the darkest reflection of himself, where no good or honorable memory existed, forgotten in a never-ending stream of relentless sin.

    In his darkest of thoughts, he prayed for resolution—amends for each wicked or selfish deeds as they played out all around him, whatever form necessary. Whether it be punishment or death, Michael cared not, as long as the all-consuming guilt would cease. The sweet release from life would be a blessing compared to what he was fighting to endure, reminded of every person he ever hurt—every impure thought made out in real time.

    'Oh, but a delightfully sickening web, the wonders of the human mind.' A deep penetrating voice shook the very walls of the vortex. 'Wasted potential, deeds merely thought but not acted upon. How the conscience hinders the very notion of freedom.'

    'Make it stop!' he screamed, able to stand the torment no longer, both psychological and physical pain slipping him into madness, and the echoing of sadistic laughter accompanied him through the whirling portal. The gut-wrenching odour of decay turned even more pungent, and as Michel looked downward, a solid black nothingness could be seen at the end of the tunnel, barreling toward him at incredible speed.

    'Wait!' he cried out, but before he knew what was happening his body landed upon a hard surface with a resounding thud. The impact should have broken every bone in his body, his meat suit pulverized upon impact, but there he laid thought and flesh intact.

    Everything hurt, every slight movement an unyielding agony. Struggling to move, he realized he'd broken his arm and possibly fractured his skull. Parting his eyelids, Michael expected to see something—anything, but there was only darkness.

     "Have I gone blind?" he wondered, reaching his good arm out to feel around, pawing at the darkness.

    Michael's fingers grazed his face as he felt the warmth of blood dripping steadily from his nasal cavities, trickling down his face. There was a dislocation upon the crown of his hairline, his skull cracked like an egg beneath swollen flesh. Disoriented and top-heavy, he stumbled over the rocky terrain, but when he caught himself before landing on his head, his arm snapped like a toothpick, and he let out an echoing cry for help.

    'Help me.' a voice echoed back, the deep penetrating voice mocking him.

    'Who's there?!' he cried out but only laughter replied. 'What the fuck happened to me?' his words came out in gurgled bubbles, blood coating the base of his throat. He was hurt—perhaps near fatal, he had no way of knowing outside the searing agony that came with the slightest touch or movement. 'What is this place?'