It's Not What You Think

I think I dreamed of Hell.

There was no fire and brimstone, no pitchforks. No sulfur or choking smoke. 

There WAS fog. Thick, black fog, like ink in the water. An unseen elevator opens, the yellow light bathing the area while I walk through the sliding doors. Behind it, a sound. A sound of a motor, like an old drag racer, revving its engine. The elevator has disappeared. When the car moved closer, so did the fog, masking the source. Ever closer, nothing but a set of headlights piercing through the darkness.

Suddenly. An alleyway - just wide enough for the car. Running down it, away from the menace, but there's no end to the street. The car lurches forward, the low rumble of the motor becoming a predator's roar.  I trip, and turn to face the attacker. Stumbling backwards, the headlights burning my eyes - forever getting closer, but never quite meeting me. Just at that moment, I felt a fear like never before: a despondent hopelessness that soaked down into my existence like spilled wine down a white tablecloth.  

Then, the car was gone. With a final rev on the gas, it swerved past me, and I was finally alone, the black fog beginning to fade, yet still palpable enough that its smallest arms reached into my nostrils. filling me with that fear again.

Diesel fumes and rotting flesh. 

The Fight

Chili Thom