Neon Skulls and Bronze Floors

The incomprehensible darkness that surrounds you cannot be adequately described with words... Who will take care of the dogs if you don't make it out alive? You ponder that, but you rush through the wrong door in a state of stupefaction. There can be no going back. You take a look behind you, but there is no sign of a door. You have no choice but to pass through a dark, dirt tunnel filled with faceless, undead people who feed off your fear. There is no other option in sight. Every one of the horrifying images writhes in agony and moves in unnatural ways. Despite your best efforts, it's hard to look away from their hopeless, stained eyes. Fear rises to the edge of your lips as they follow you as you speed by. However, you control your screams. You don't want to draw more attention to yourself. Your nerves are gnawed by their mournful cries, which begin to rise as soon as they see you. You cannot help them. Even if you could, you wouldn't help them. When you look ahead, the light in the distance grows brighter and brighter as you move further away. It's a way out. You mistakenly thank God for this. Here, God does not exist. You only benefit from the reality of panic and fear. The faces that have yet to pass are being stretched out by pink, disfigured tongues. The sight makes you sick and stops you in your tracks. They extend far enough to slather you in the vile slime that drips off of them. It doesn't feel like home. You think it could cause cancer or warts. or, even worse, get burned. However, your primary concern is getting to the light. As you run straight through the repugnant tongues, your hands come to the sides of your head, shielding your face from being touched. As you exit the exit, you scream in agony in the air behind you as you hyperventilate. In a room with no ceiling and a circle of doors in front of you, You're shivering even though the sun is setting. You're terrified beyond belief, not because there isn't any heat! This time, there are four doors, all of which face you, but only one of them has a knob. When you look back the way you came, you see people flailing their tongues, making it impossible to go back that way. Your focus shifts back to the doors that haven't been opened and are stacked a few feet apart along a wall with wood panels. Except for the knob-equipped one, they now all have neon-white skull and crossbones painted on them. You believe it is a ruse to influence you to select that option. It swings open, slamming against the wall flush with it as if reading your mind, revealing an evil-looking vulture with yellow eyes. He is grabbing something. This is a book. The Holy Book! After tearing through the pages, it gives you a deathly look. Before launching itself in your direction with wingspan wider than the room itself, it repeats the action repeatedly. Just in time, you duck, narrowly avoiding its razor-sharp talons. You stumble toward the door on the left, which is the furthest away from being open. In a slow rhythm, the skull and bones pixelate into a dark red. You have no idea what it means. You only care about escaping that enormous bird intent on harm. You charge through the door, leading with your shoulder, and quickly close it behind you. In a desperate search for any sign of home, you jerk your eyes left to right. Instead...

You see a garbage can. In the middle of a parking lot that is illuminated by a blue moon, it is just standing there. Your attention shifts to the green motorcycle that is parked nearby. In the entire area, it is the only other thing. Though you've never rode one before, you might consider using one to get home. When the covers of the dumpster break open and slam back against the metal, you cautiously move forward, only to flinch back in fear. You fall to the ground as the blast of sound echoes directly in your face... Two hands grip your arms from either side before your mind can catch up. You are being lifted by something. Your head is pointing at the concrete, so you don't know what it is. You notice what appear to be hands made of dark, rubbery seaweed when you look where your arms are being held. Even though you struggle, the grip is too tight. Whatever it is, it effortlessly pulls you toward the dumpster, spilling glowing fog over its rim. The fog is breached by dozens of trembling fingers waiting to accept your offer. The futile struggle you put forth increases at the mere thought of being thrown there. What comes next can't be stopped. You are thrown into a sea of anxious fingers as the sturdy, rubber-like hands lift you into the sky. They are filthy and cover you completely. The dumpster's covers snap shut almost immediately, cutting off the light. As the fingers drag you down into the darkness and vanish, delivering you to whatever fate awaits below, you become disoriented and hear whispers overlapping and buzzing right at your ears... The surrounding area is illuminated by the golden light falling from above. You try to locate the source, but you can't. The ground appears to extend in all directions and is a pure bronze slate. It appears to be wet when illuminated. You do so. It is not at all wet, but it is very cold. This location is both strange and quite familiar. You would think it was quiet if you didn't count that irritating drip. Calm.

It's fleeting... Your thoughts spiral out of control. Clarity must be obtained if you intend to survive in this location. You get up, ready to move, but you can't decide which way to go because you look in every direction. Long, grey, marble steps rise twenty feet above the bronze floor in front of you, just a dozen feet away, rumbling against the ground. Your gaze slowly moves up their bodies. Terror is redefined when they reach the top and reveal the waiting scene. He is it! The Architect, the very cause of your terrifying anguish! You can tell it's him because a friend you can't remember right now is also in this location looking for a way out. While you were looking for a way back home, you tried to avoid this at all costs. However, you have now met face to face. He waits impatiently for your arrival while tapping his fingers on a black crystal throne. Behind the throne, dark smoke rises in the air as the gold light grows brighter. Your eyes collide with his, caught in a pull that you can't seem to let go of. His skin is a midnight green color, and his hair is a mass of black curls that rise and never fall in waves. It's hard to miss the red eyehe right eye. It comes to your mind as an image that you are unable to place. He is dressed in a black suit and a white shirt with a white tip. Dress for a funeral. You look for a way out, but the light only keeps you and the architect apart; everything else has gone dark. Dark as coal, his devious smile reveals decaying teeth covered in plaque. He stops in the middle of his motion as he sits with his legs crossed and raises his chin and hand. Your focus is on the action. His fingers slam together like sparks in a single swift motion– You are immediately strapped to a gurney and lying flat on it. You are surrounded by incomprehensible mechanisms. He is standing at the gurney in a flash! He didn't leave the throne as you recall. You instinctively beg and plead for your life, but the Architect does not care about your ability to bargain. He only cares about determining your threshold for pain. You try to break free by wriggling and twitching. Nothing assists. He summons a small, black table filled with pointy instruments that he intends to use extensively by waving his hand. Because of the gleam of your gold necklace around your neck, he pauses for a moment. He gently raises it with his left hand to examine the crucifix that is attached to it. He removes it from your neck with little effort. His spit lands on the revered charm, which has suddenly doubled in size. He starts by slowly pressing it against your forehead, and it burns like hot metal. Your skin is being branded with the cross image. The pain is too much to bear... Unbearable... patch

Before you can get out of the dream, the final image that sticks in your mind is his twisted smile... However, you are not in bed. You are connected to all of the tubes and wires in your field of vision that are attached to lifesaving equipment. Realizing that you have awoken, a number of friends work diligently by your bedside. Your parents are standing on the opposite side, their expressions blurring. Your mother holds a clenched Bible in her left hand, and a crucifix hangs from her right hand. She has been waiting for hours here, hoping that your condition stays stable. The room feels a sense of relief at the signs of your progress. Your loved ones are pleased to see that you were able to survive that perilous combination of alcohol and barbiturates. It was an error. Last night, you tried to have a good time and almost killed yourself. The swing-open door to the room opens. Everyone turns to look at the doctor as he or she quickly enters to check your vitals. Your blood pressure goes up when you see him because of the scar under his right eye, the mass of black curls on his head, and the dark green scrubs. Your nightmare remains fresh in your mind. You try to figure out what it all means, but you don't know where to start. Your mother moves closer to you, encircles you with her fingers, and smiles softly. You try your best to smile back. You want to tell them about the dream, but speaking is hard because you have a tube in your mouth. You take some time off. You give a lot of thought to the idea of opening doors that weren't meant for you. You are so fortunate to be alive. You've experienced both sides of Hell in vivid detail and have no desire to return.