In my little corner of Hell, they’ve strapped me to an old and uncomfortable, wooden chair. The restraints have torn through my skin to the bone, and my flesh is now falling away in a spreading green rot. Now and again, I remember why: I died in this chair when they pulled the switch, and when I came here, I was still in the chair.
That’s how many of us are, trapped in the moment of death. The drowned man continuously vomits water from his never emptied lungs, I saw a woman hounded by disembodied fists pummeling her from every angle, the suicide man is always reloading his shotgun and blowing out the back of his head, and I am here, waiting for the next big zap.
You can see it coming like a far off storm, flashes of lightening growing ever nearer. Just as in my life, I wait for it, wait a lifetime for that final—Final! There is no final here—moment. I watch the storm, knowing the inevitability of it. Yet sometimes, it approaches only to retreat; the lightning strikes a foot away from me, and then the storm passes.
So, the worst part of my life is replayed and replayed.