Black is a pretty colour in Hell
I wonder. Am I in hell yet? I feel nothing. The pain is there… but dull; invisible; yet I know it’s there. Dying is a peculiar thing, after all. I feel nothing. I suddenly find myself grateful for the lack of feeling. Should I be? I hear only the agitated beat of my heart and the ringing, excruciatingly constant and pressing upon my head as if I were back home, holding my breath and hunting for my mother’s necklace as the muffled crash of waves persisted above me like thunder.
My father christened that evening “the most foolish thing your mother had ever had a part in”. Believe it or not, “the most foolish thing my mother had ever had a part in” is in fact referring to the time my mother had attempted to use one of the dogs as a model for her extravagant, incredibly expensive, and, in the opinion of everyone except perhaps my father out of sheer politeness —or love— unbearably hideous jewelry while on a family holiday… less than thirty meters from the North Sea. Much to the delight of the children, the dog was distracted by what it likely saw as one colossal blue playground. Before any of us could even comprehend the seriousness —or irresistible hilarity of the situation, the energetic little bugger was already shaking himself off, violent and tempestuous like the recoil of a cheap machine gun; water sprayed in all directions, as did pearls, gold pieces, and other expensive trinkets. My mother, on the other hand, never particularly relished the memory that I assume must include quite a large deal of “what in the whole wide world was I doing”. Though foolish, I could think of a great many incidents that my father completely outdid that particular antic.
I hear something… occasionally the ever present ring is interrupted by a swift, deep sound. But I cannot make it out and do not want to. It’s hiding something. In Hell death is the only noise. My fear takes over as I realize with a sort of stupefaction that I do not want to die.
I smell something through my right nostril. The other one is clogged with blood and ash. But all I smell is more blood. Dirt and sick hang over me like a thick, impenetrable haze of stench.
I struggle to move my eyelids. They feel heavy. I heave my soot-covered lashes and see the world through the smoke. I see Death. A broken animalistic blur of a man, a stranger, vomits beside me. I notice his grey overcoat and thick black boots before his crippled corpse crumbles in front of me. Death took him too. The blood and sick and dirt make up an overwhelming terrifying aroma of Death. Not only do I smell it’s clawing breath, but I see it too. So I close my eyes. I keep them closed for so long, sealed so tight that a myriad of colour takes over. My stare fixes upon slow swirls of yellow, swelling balls of purple, and green, gold, and blue spirals. The colours are vibrant and yet blunt. Like some kind of exotic colourful angels come to ease my passing, they surround my world and soothe me. I relax. I keep my eyes closed so tight it should hurt but I don’t feel the pain, or I’ve grown used to it. But soon the colours take shape. My angels, corrupted by visions of Death, turn to demons so horrifying I would scream if I were not paralized by fear. The shapes form Death. The hair on my neck stands like a proud, ignorant soldier. I look elsewhere, away from the colours and the shapes, away from Death. I focus only on the darkness. I like the darkness now. I relax once more as the soldiers on my neck are educated. The colours fade. I see only black. Black is a pretty colour in Hell. But I am still afraid.
I feel cold. I feel cold dirt. I feel cold wind. I feel cold clothes, wet with sweat and dry with blood. I shiver. I taste the warmth of hot milk. I am ten. I drink it in quick, and, as my grandfather points out with his signature questioning nod and leathery smile, rather noisy slurps. My grandmother, on the other hand, swallows a third of the sweet, refreshing beverage in one single gulp.
“How do you not get burned?” I ask while heaving my body out of the awkward position I could swear was comfortable a minute ago.
Lips still shut in relish of her latest mouthful, her countless wrinkles stretch across her old and tired face in mild amusement. Her thin smile is barely the size of my big toe. She opens her mouth to answer but before a recognizable sound escapes she is interrupted by my howl as a result of my clumsiness. “Maladroit” my father would say. He has a horrendous British style of french, but I feel the heat slowly dissolve into warmth. My grandparents fade, the hot milk is gone. All is black. I feel warmth on my legs. I feel a throb. I feel pain and I now realize it’s not the milk. I feel pain. I feel Death.
I feel a piercing yearning to open my eyes. I am afraid to see. I do not want to see Hell. Black is nice here. Black is a pretty colour in Hell. I try to block out the pain but, as if enraged by my feeble attempt to fight back, it returns with neither mercy nor relent. I want the pain to end. I want it to end. I want to die.
I fight on.
How long has it been? The ringing, now only a low hum, only muffles my hearing. I hear explosions. I hear cracks, screams, and panicked, indistinguishable cries. Bang. Bang Bang. I hear Death. I hear the sounds of war. I am afraid. I must open my eyes. I say farewell to black. It’s pretty. I will look forward to seeing it in Hell.
I open my eyes. I see black.
High above me the black is riddled with the sparkling glow of the stars. Their light stretches downwards towards me, the dim blur that is my teary vision corrupts and distorts their glittery splendour. The stars are crying. I turn my head downwards. Through the smoky fog of war I see fire. In the fire, I see animals. They gnarl and grunt, bolt, sprint, and scuttle and rip each other’s throats. They howl and scream and fire and kill. I look away.
I feel old. I wonder if my grandmother ever felt this way, I wonder if she wanted it to end. Eric punches me when I act old. I smile. Smiling hurts. I begin to cry. Eric is here, somewhere out there. I told him to stay close. My little brother. I cry.
I see men near me. They drag themselves across the dirt, nursing their wounds with shaking hands. Occasionally, a glint of metal catches my eye. Then a flash of light and a thunderous bang startles me. I am afraid. I know something is wrong. I cannot move. I feel pain. Suddenly I see a man. He is far, so I squint. He walks slowly, clutching his side. I cannot move. I am hurt. I need help. I open my mouth. I taste ash. I try to shout. Nothing. I try again. My voice is coarse and dry. It pains me. My throat burns. My lips, cracked and baked, leak warm blood over my chin. A tortured rasp emerges. I whisper. I talk. I raise my voice. I shout. I cough blood. I scream. I watch him stop. He turns towards me. He sees me and hurries towards me. He is close now. He is not afraid. He has no helmet. His face, his short, messy hair, and the thin, torn bandage wrapped around his forehead is caked with a gruesome coat of soot, dirt, and blood. The epitome of a movie star soldier approaches me. Behind the mask of war his admirable swagger boasts pride, bravery, and indifference to suffering. He carries his wounded body across a battlefield as he would strut into a bar. He is close now. His strikingly blue-grey eyes and comradely expression somehow reassures me. He seems to disregard the horrors around us, as if it were only a game. How can he not be afraid?
Fool.
“You a–alright mate?” Was that a hint of fear I heard? A smile knots his stained visage. “Never been so glad to see a friendly face. Here. Let me just—”
I scream. I face the ground and dig my head into the dirt. My hands, quivering with both cold and fear, search hopelessly for a way out. My legs hurt. I scream again. I turn my head back to the fiery blur that is the battlefield. Maybe he is alright. Maybe… I imagined it. Could all this be just be a terrible nightmare? I am home. My parents are on the porch, on the dreadfully ugly green chairs. God I love those chairs. Eric is downstairs, he just sneaked into the kitchen for some pie. In roughly thirty seconds he’s going to knock over a fork and get caught. Clumsiness runs in the family. Father will chuckle. He will make one of his trademark jokes that are so terrible I will laugh. Mother’ll tell him off.
I see his crumpled body. I look away. I close my eyes. I hate Death. I see black. The salty sharpness of tears joins the blood and dust gathering in my mouth. I don’t even bother to spit it out. I open my eyes. I see Death. I close my eyes. Claire. I see Claire and despite what remains of my crumbling efforts, a single tear escapes my eyelid. It’s salty trail is warm and short.
Her skin, soft and vibrant, shines in the golden glow of a sweet summer evening. My stare is transfixed on her pale visage and her long luscious flow of chestnut coloured hair. A pair of bright green eyes stares back. I lean towards her. She does the same. I see her soft cheeks crease with that smile I love so much. I reply with my own. We are inches away. I see the freckles that dot that tiny nose of hers like stars. Slowly, melodiously, we close our eyes. I see nothing. I open my eyes. I see nothing. I see black. I must be dead. It’s okay. I see black. I relax. I forget. I see black. But it’s okay. Black is a pretty colour in Hell.
