Beautiful Is Hell, Until It Isn’t

*The world is gone. Everyone who has ever lived was tried, and as a whole, they were deemed to fail.*

Today is April 31. And I am lost. What am I supposed to feel on the date of all life's death? I am Ethan Garroway, and I died on 31 April 2026 along with everyone else on Earth.

When I first entered hell, it was overflowing with people-and it still is. At first, it was like a crowded room that stretched on forever. Now, everyone has their own plot of land in the sky, and it can be whatever your mind deems right. One minute, you are with your child, happy, the next, your darkest fears have taken over, and you lose all thought, just wanting to survive.

Unlike what people paint it as, hell is beautiful. While there are some bad moments, most of the time, if you are deemed worthy, your inner demons don't take over, and you are at peace. I see my mother's house before it was burned down. My neighbor, on the other hand, sees all the people he has ever killed. Very different visions, but I appreciate how everyone gets what we deserve, or sometimes what we want. That man's dream is to kill again. And my dream is to see that house as it once was.

It's strange to think how all of humanity ended up here in hell. Why? I think it's because everyone who was worthy of going to heaven gave up and did atrocious things before dying. I think that Satan made us do terrible things because I think God is not real. Satan tricked us into believing in someone who is made up, a figment of our imaginations. Satan tricked everyone into believing in a higher power, following every word said, until it inevitably ended in everyone's death. No one has ever met him. All of humanity ends up here in hell, and no one has met the higher power that supposedly put us all here. All of humanity was deemed unworthy, and knowing what I know, I think for the right reason.

On Earth, in the months leading up to The End, I was happy. At the time, I didn’t understand what was coming. It sounds as if The End was the last day everyone was living, but it wasn’t. We went to hell three months after The End started. It was the beginning of a period where we were allowed to do anything we had ever dreamed of doing in life. It led to the end of civility, love, laughter and happiness. Heaven was something made up to make the world do more good than bad. So not everyone killed each other, and so there was a purpose for people. Somewhere people could go in the end. But here we all are dead. The End led some to hide, seeking to outlast those still alive. I guess Satan deemed them too interested in their survival and not enough in how to save humanity. The End led people to burn down houses, towns and cities. I guess Satan deemed them too invested in destroying everything and not enough in... I don't know. Something.

When The End started, I thought that I did well. I thought I was doing what was good for people, opening a shelter for those who couldn't fend for themselves. But Satan didn't take it that way. When I was alive, I converted a school into a shelter. I lived in New York, which led to the building fitting more than 1,000 people. Mainly mothers and children, but also elderly and disabled people. It was fear controlling everyone at every moment, not knowing if another massacre was going to occur outside the school doors, or if someone from the inside would change their mind about wanting a safe haven, and kill.

Two months before everyone died, there was a man who pounded on the large metal doors to the safe haven I created, begging for help. It was just after midnight, and the hallway was dark. He said, "Help, help! Men are attacking me. I am going to get killed!" The knocking didn’t stop right away. It went from pounding to shaking to tapping. Then nothing. I told myself that meant I made the right choice. I'm not so sure now. Let him in or not. Let him live or not. And I landed on the latter. The risk of this man actually being chased was probable, but there were tricksters and killers out to get anyone. Maybe that's why I got killed along with everyone else. Because of the steps I had to take to keep everyone safe.

I had to ration food for everyone. If you had snuck an extra cookie or a bottle of water, punishment would ensue. But it was for the good of everyone. My mother and I would go out every week to scavenge as much food as possible. Everyone would get a piece of bread, a bottle of water, and some beef jerky. If you were growing, you would not grow anymore. If you were old, you would no longer live.

Sometimes, when I am in my mother’s house, before it was burned down, I hear it again. Weak voices speaking of their distrust towards me. Raspy breathing. Hunger. I feel it too, my stomach twisting, empty, just like theirs were. My mother says she hears children laughing in the other room of her safe haven. But she never mentions that it always ends in crying.

I thought I had learned to live with the silence. I thought the knocking was just something my mind created to punish me. But tonight, in my mother’s house, I have realized that it is worse because it’s the anniversary of The End. The knocking, the screaming, is coming from outside the door instead of inside my head. It isn’t faint anymore, it’s deliberate, patient, waiting, like my mind has finally found all of my internal secrets and turned them into Satan, letting him know that I don’t deserve peace like I thought I did. I think that I have met my end. And maybe that’s good. I can finally give up. Let go.

And then the knocking stops.

For a moment, everything is quiet.

Too quiet.

And then I hear my name.