Origins of Hell (Excerpt)

Amazon  |  B&N  |  Apple  |  Kobo  |  Smashwords
Claudius Merloche was enlightened. He had killed himself with a pistol in the mouth, collapsing onto the grave of his wife, their two small children buried at their side. He was dead before the black birds took flight from the trees.
When he awoke, his wife slept in bed, her blond hair fanned about her, a messy sleeping beauty. He smiled, then raised the ax and butchered her head. He stopped after her neck was a stump, a pulp of flesh, bone, feathers, and hair hovering above–twenty-two whacks. He had imagined his vision of that painting, where the man had air for a head, his hat seemingly floating. He took clumps of her hair and dabbed them about the pillow.
Next, he visited with his daughter. Sitting in the rocking chair, he placed his ax in his lap and watched the angel for fifteen minutes. For sleeping so quietly, she was rewarded with two whacks; his son, fifteen. Boys were supposed to be men–stronger, protectors. He fixed himself a glass of warm milk, turned on the late show, and fell asleep smiling. Next time, he’d use chloroform and place them together. The children could lie across their mother in opposite directions. When Claudius awoke, his wife slept in bed, a messy sleeping beauty. He raised the ax.
The first hundred repetitions, he cried inside. He fought to control himself and the cold hunger that needed their blood. But he knew their death was peace, the only way to sleep. Otherwise, he’d be awake for eternity. The hundredth and fourteenth time, he had accepted his futile attempt to control destiny as an act. He needed to feel like a good person.
Hacking their heads, he got his sleep. He woke up, repeated, always thinking how he could evolve artistically, his own cross. The surrender, the release of the horror, anger, and self-consciousness, opened a space in his mind: He hadn’t killed his soulmates. Why was this his hell?
The two hundredth and fiftieth time, he stood over his wife and raised the ax. This wasn’t her. He hacked away. He visited his children. This wasn’t them. He hacked away. The two hundredth and ninety-seventh time, he understood. Drinking his warm milk, drifting to wherever the dead dream, he had his next true thought: He blamed himself for their deaths. If he hadn’t worked late, he would’ve been home to protect them from the random psychopath that snuck into their house and slaughtered his family into art. Having felt the numbness, desperation, and impotence it took to find a flickering moment of harmony in such gore, he knew he couldn’t take responsibility for this deed. Seeing these people as holograms of guilt freed him enough to fulfill his task, freeing him to experience a new thought, one his own, releasing him to do what he had originally deemed hopeless: he took control. There were still twinges of regret as he saw his loved ones so serene in their slumber, but he did what he had to. A second chance at life, the afterlife, awaited him.
The three hundredth and fiftieth time, he thought about the monster. How sad to find peace in misery, misery in peace, to live tortured by urges twisted. How could God do this to someone? Simple. There was no God. This man was not guided by demon nor angel, just a nature that refused to reward its host for doing anything noble. How hard had this man fought before giving in to the compulsion to kill, for how long did he deny–try to deny–that he only had one resort to calm the agitated waves, the flickering, rotten peace that was not true peace? Karma was a wheel that spun faster and faster the harder you tried to stop.
And there was enlightenment. No Heaven, no Hell–only karma, the energetic thrust of our accumulated and omnicycling thoughts, feelings, and deeds that sent our souls hurling through the vortex of existence. Conservation of energy declared souls never died; they only transitioned into another state. As pure spirit regaled at another frequency, another realm, everything was of his own manifestation, his reality an instant mirror of his soul. He went to sleep the four hundredth and ninety-ninth time and awoke in a circular room with nine doors.
The space smelled musty; the air, damp and heavy. The wooden floors were scuffed with white marks, faded and cracked. The walls, the doors, the dome above were generic white. As an act of good will to the next karmic traveler, Claudius willed the floors a polished mahogany; the walls, a soft seafoam; the doors, a sunny yellow; and at the center he placed a table with a vase of tulips, his baby girl’s favorite flower. His son’s favorite number was three, three gifts for their supposed savior. And yet, why did everything feel so damned? Claudius counted three doors around and went through.