He watched them being whacked by invisible sticks from the ghouls of souls who had been murdered, or worse again, would turn up to now taunt their foes in retribution.
Men who were once fierce and women who were beautiful, metamorphed into animal types with beast-like features becoming humanly unrecognisable.
Did they really believe that they could escape their own action's consequences? Foolishly optimistic and selfish, this procession of offenders had no idea where they were going or why. Unseen objects pelted them from afar, needles jabbed and knives gashed into their astral skin: it was a miserable sight to see.
The walk was now beginning its climb. Puck could hear two figures at the front fighting with one another. They had come in together after a drunken car accident and parts of their body were missing. One was still acting as though they were intoxicated, whilst the other was cursing angrily.
Puck moved up through the crowd to see who they were, to find that the brain boggled character was a woman, and the one swearing obscenities was Marley's father. Puck recalled that the man had a problem with booze and a terrible temper some decades before.
The woman with him was not his wife, so Marley's mother must still be alive. Puck felt relieved at this and that he should go to Marley who must not have been given the news yet, else he would have felt her grief.
He took one more look over at her father in his wretched state - there really was nothing happy to report here. He had died exactly as he had lived and was still very much the same person as before. Puck felt the pity of it and scanned the crowd to see only futility everywhere.
-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series
Here you shall pass among the fallen people.
ReplyDeleteSouls who have lost the good of intellect.”
So saying, he put forth his hand to me,
And with a gentle and encouraging smile
He led me through the gate of mystery.
Here sighs and cries and wails coiled and recoiled
On the starless air, spilling my soul to tears.
A confusion of tongues and monstrous accents toiled
In pain and anger, voices hoarse and shrill
And sounds of blows, all intermingled, raised
Tumult and pandemonium that still
Whirls on the air forever dirty with it
As if a whirlwind sucked at sand. And I,
Holding my head in horror, cried: “Sweet Spirit,
What souls are these who run through this black haze?”
And he to me: “These are the nearly soulless
Whose lives concluded neither blame nor praise.
They are mixed here with that despicable corps
Of angels who were neither for God nor Satan,
But only for themselves. The High Creator
Scourged them from Heaven for its perfect beauty,
And Hell will not receive them since the wicked
Might feel some glory over them.”
Dante, The Vestibule of Hell