VII: Limbo

Wish I'd started with this one and stayed true to the numbering. Oh well.

In my mind's eye, I see the river Acheron wend it's way twixt Hades and the overworld. Throngs of ashen, sullen shades trudged bowed towards vast black gates. Beyond, the vale of sorrow, the lightless void, where hope and goodness never tread. Onwards we march, nevermore to see the light of Paradise, into perdition's waiting arms. Into Hell.

But I am not dead. Nor are my travelling companions. Not outwardly, at least.

Subjectively, it no longer matters what the world truly is. Even as I type this, I feel the colours draining out of my vision and my soul, leaving me with mere monochrome, with the occasional splashes of crimson and jade, and the hint of an unknown and malevolent hue. The spirited activity of living, from my dimly lit window, look like the aimless shambling of penned cattle, chewing cud and waiting for the slaughterer's bolt. Some can take in the sun's warmth, look upon their world and know that it is good. Others, like me, can only hear the sound of the hourglass, the shallow pain of the knife pressed against one's back. I may have a pulse, a steady breathing rate, and verifiable neural activity, but I realise that I am not one of the living. Existence denies me, and what it doesn't I deny myself.

Stranded on the shores of Acheron. No way back. Only forward. Into Hell.