Hell is People

by Siena Gostigian
Hell is People Siena is a fifteen-year-old writer. She has been writing for over four years as a coping method for her depression. Now she has written over 65 different stories.

“Hell is not a place. Hell is people. There will be people anywhere in the world who will put you through hell — or at least that’s what I thought when I grew up in this facility. They always told me that they would ‘cleanse’ me, to ‘fix’ me. But they only made things worse. “

Hell is not a place. Hell is people.

There will be people anywhere in the world who will put you through hell — or at least that’s what I thought when I grew up in this facility. They always told me that they would “cleanse” me, to “fix” me. But they only made things worse. I was never told of my condition. I simply thought that’s what most people went through. I believe I’m what they call “possessed.” Except my soul is fused with a demon, unable able to be exorcised… so no matter how many exorcisms they might try, I can’t be “fixed.”

But that doesn’t stop them from trying over and over again.

This place seems to be a mental hospital… or that’s their cover at least. The staff seems kind and helpful when you visit. But if people knew what was really going on within the facility, you would see the sick bastards that humanity has to offer. I don’t even know how they could call demons so bad when they were torturing so many children. We were sent there after a diagnosis from a doctor that would make us seem mentally ill. Then they’d send us to this “unique” hospital that was run by a church to exorcise demons without the public knowing. I had only a few memories of the outside world, since I was there for so long. I only really knew pain and fear, and, you get the point. They would cut me, whip me, abuse me in every way you could imagine. An easy day would be consecutive shock therapy to make my horns go away.

If I wasn’t cowering in my human self, I would act up in my demonic self. So every time my horns grew I would be chased around the building by the nurses with a crucifix. Then they’d dunk a bucket of holy water on me to try and make me “normal” again.

But the “holy” water would make me hurt more unimaginable pains. I would have to read an uncountable amount of holy scriptures a day, which made my brain feel like it was melting.

If I grew the tail, they’d yank on it if they were in a good mood. If they were slightly upset, they’d make little cuts on it with a knife. If they were angry, they’d cut it right off only for it to regrow a few hours later. They would burn holes in my wings with a lighter. I don’t even want to talk any more of this.

You can see how terrible this is to do to a child. Even if they are possessed, this torture isn’t the answer.

Teaching a child only pain makes their mind even worse, corrupting it from the inside out, like drilling little holes in the brain. I was driven to the edges of sanity; I would often be talking to myself, my only company. But I couldn’t speak much outside the holy scriptures. The one that I always recognized was called Matthew 25:31-46. I never knew why, but that was the one I was forced to do the most.

If I wasn’t reading scriptures, usually I would say something along the lines of “not normal, not normal.” I would constantly try recalling the outside world, so I could have a little bit of hope. But I don’t even remember who put me in here. I don’t know who my family was; I only knew the staff here. Maybe I was an orphan, or was I the child of a religious kook. I’ll never know.

The bright lights with the white painted halls and rooms were all I knew. There were a few windows, but you couldn’t see much outside of that. Fog and mist were the only things in sight.

My hospital gown would have numerous blood spatters on it because of my torture. I’d get the habit to pull and chip at my horns because I was taught to believe they weren’t normal. These monstrous people had made such an impact on me to the point where I was doing their work for them. Torturing myself because of their horrific message that was engraved in my mind on what was and wasn’t normal.

Nothing about me was or will ever be normal, an albino child with horns, a tail, and wings covered in blood nearly 24/7. Even the name I knew as myself read demon. “Dantae” isn’t the most common name you’d give a child. I always hoped I could find a way out of this “hell,” to escape. I always plotted it. I tried as much as I could, but they’d always catch me then back to the burning of my wings or writing scriptures.

But one day, I was being kicked and beaten by one of the head staff members in an isolation room. My nose was gushing blood, my rib cage nearly broken, and he kept yelling at me for I forget why.

Then, something just clicked on in me. Like I had tapped into a deeply buried power. Suddenly, my hands and horns were engulfed in flames. It didn’t hurt me, but then my attacker started to step back. I soon jumped onto him and used my flaming hands to burn him, and then I stabbed him with my horns. He started wailing out with pain as the fire spread across his body.

Soon he burned to a crisp. His glasses were covered with ash. You might think this is evil for me to do, but if you were living in my situation for years, you would have felt the same, nothing, no remorse. This man, one of the directors, should have dealt a long, painful death. A taste of his own medicine.

If he was a true man of faith, he wouldn’t do what he did, leading who knows how many children to their doom.

After I tore out my bloodied horns from his tubby chest and smashed his little glasses, I looked at his body. And I laughed, a laugh that would probably sound sadistic to you but I knew that my lead torturer was dead. Now I could have a chance to escape. I then looked behind me. There was small window near the ceiling of the room. Soon my feet were naturally engulfed and made me kind of float up to the window, and then I put my hands on the window, and the thick glass melted. I then squeezed through the tight opening. I saw a barbed wire fence, and then I used my fire to lift me over the fence.

I was out. I was free! I stood frozen for a few seconds trying to process what had happened. Then, I realized that I had to get as far away as I could. I started running, my bare feet hitting twigs and thorns of the nearby forest. I breathed in the fresh air. I never felt more alive.

But suddenly I tripped over a long. I was knocked unconscious.

 

When I woke, everything was foggy. As my vision got clearer, I saw the same white walls and the same little bed I knew as home. Then the realization washed through me. All I had just experienced was an illusion. An illusion! I started screaming and screaming in my bed.

Then, my door creaked open. I saw a sinister, evil face. My lead torturer was right in front of me. His cracked glasses were glaring off the fluorescent lights. “Dantae,” he hushed me with his stubby fingers, “be quiet, or do you want the holy water again?”

My pale face grew pink. I started crying. My eyes were a waterfall. My hopes were raised so high over an illusion. It felt so real, but I was hit so hard. I couldn’t even tell what had happened.

Then, he dragged my out into the hallway, tugging at my silver hair. He handed me over to the nurses where I was taken back to shock therapy.

Everything repeated itself again. The torture. The mindless, inhuman fucking torture! I realized this is what they call “eternal punishment.” Something they had showed me in the scriptures that I never truly knew the meaning of.

And for what did I do to deserve this?

Nothing in my control.

I was born different.

 

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