The path chose for me the moment my foot left the ground.
Stone shifted beneath my step, groaning like something ancient disturbed from sleep. The air thickened, pressing against me with an invisible force, and gravity—absent only moments ago—returned with intention. I was no longer walking forward. I was descending.
The light above dimmed.
Not suddenly. Not violently. It faded the way hope does—slow enough to notice, too slow to stop.
The path sloped downward in wide spirals, carved into black rock that shimmered as though wet. Every step echoed, not outward, but inward, reverberating through my thoughts. With each echo, a memory stirred.
Not visions. Not scenes.
Judgments.
I felt them before I understood them—decisions I once defended, words I had justified, silences I had mistaken for wisdom. They wrapped around my legs like unseen chains, not stopping me, but making every step heavier than the last.
The heat grew stronger.
It wasn't the heat of flame, but of proximity—like standing too close to something that radiated consequence. The air tasted metallic, sharp with bitterness and old sorrow. Breathing was still unnecessary, yet the instinct to gasp returned, driven not by need, but by fear.
Then I heard it.
Voices.
Not screaming. Not pleading.
Explaining.
Whispers drifted through the chasm, layered over one another, each voice convinced of its own innocence.
I had no choice.
They deserved it.
I meant well.
I didn't know.
I recognized those words.
I had used them myself.
The walls around the path began to change, no longer jagged stone but smooth, reflective surfaces. As I passed them, shapes appeared—distorted reflections that shifted too slowly to be mirrors.
Figures walked beside me, some ahead, some behind. They did not look at me. They were trapped in their own downward momentum, eyes fixed forward, mouths moving endlessly.
Confession without absolution.
One figure stumbled, falling to its knees. The ground beneath it cracked open—not with fire, but with lightless depth—and the figure vanished without a sound. No one reacted. No one slowed.
I realized then the cruelty of this place.
Hell was not chaos.
It was order without mercy.
A structure where cause was preserved forever and effect never concluded.
As the descent continued, the path narrowed again. At the edge, far below, I could see shapes moving in vast formations—circles within circles, each rotating at different speeds. The center pulsed faintly, like a heart beating beneath the world.
Something ancient watched from there.
Not with eyes.
With awareness.
I felt its attention brush against me, testing, measuring. Not deciding whether I belonged—but how deeply.
My steps faltered.
For the first time since awakening, I wanted to turn back.
But the path behind me had already sealed, smooth as untouched stone, erasing any illusion of retreat.
A realization settled over me, heavier than the heat, sharper than the fear:
This was not punishment for being evil.
This was consequence for refusing to understand myself while I was alive.
The descent steepened.
And below, the whispers began to speak my name.