In hell

[NaNoWriMo Day 11]

[Warning: This is poorly written and completely unedited. I just want to get a novel written soon.]

Raul didn't know how long he had been walking for. He didn't feel tired, and there was no measure of time or distance where he was. He didn't know if he was walking in circles.

There was a faint smell of sulfur in the air. It steadily got stronger. It got strong enough that it reminded Raul of raw mustard oil they used to massage expecting mothers and newborn infants and their mothers. The air became thick with the smell: Raul was having trouble breathing in. He was panting, though he hadn't changed his pace. The sky was now slight orange-blue colored, and the temperature was steadily rising. The terrain changed too. The flat, dark and mossy ground gave way to warm, gradual climb. The ground was covered in what seemed to Raul like dry moss. Raul could make out the texture of the dried moss on the ground by the orange glow of the sky.

Raul knew he wasn't in hell. Even if there were a hell, there was no reason for it to resemble volcanoes. He figured this was further proof that regardless of his living status, this was all going in his head. This is a dream, a dream, this is not real, he told himself. I should wake up. Wakeup wakeup, wakeup! He coughed. The smoke irritating his throat, and he felt like he was being choked by a heavy invisible hand.

The sulfur stench had gotten unbearable. Raul paused to retch. He felt like throwing up. He took in a big gulp of air from his mouth. The air tasted like oily, shiny metal. He started tearing up. He couldn't swallow. He kept walking.

The mild orange glow of the sky had turned to bright orange-red. The sky was brighter than any full moon sky he had ever seen. Far over the horizon against the bright sky he could see moving figures. He picked up his pace, despite the difficulties. He didn't want to collapse before finding someone else: he wanted the trip to have made sense.

Raul was exhausted by the time he reached the top of the mountain. He could barely breathe, he was drenched in sweat, and his mouth tasted as if he had subsisted entirely on rotten fish oil for his entire life. His legs ached as if they were penetrated by tiny knives all over. He was ready to give up. He had trouble keeping his eyes open. His hands and legs felt heavy. He couldn't walk any longer. He got down to his knees and started crawling towards the moving shapes. He couldn't muster up enough energy to look up: he crawled slowly, like a sad dog staring at the ground.

*****

He had made it. He was there. In this strange dreamscape, he had found a place with other beings. It was a pity he was not in a position to do anything about it. He had tried. He had tried to survive, he had tried to fight. The exhaustion and assault on his body had been too much though. If someone punches me, he thought, I'll die. The gods, if they are behind this, have won, he thought. I was foolish to dare to think I was beyond judgment. I can't compete, he thought, I have been shown my true worth, and now, I'll die forever. My life was pointless, and now I'm going to die a pointless death, away from everyone and everything I care about. He gave a weak sob, that sounded like dying shriek of a pained animal. He touched his forehead to the ground. I came from the soil, and now I go back, without having made any change, he sobbed. I'm dirt, fertilizer that dared to think, powerless beyond imagination. He remembered having thought of himself as an ant that bites the enemy before dying, earlier. I just want to see what's happening here, he thought. Collecting all the energy had had in his muscles, he raised up his head.

The scene was so magnificent he cried in amazement before he lost consciousness.