seymoure

Chapter 94

Hell is Cold

Every joint and bone he possessed screamed at Slip.

“We’re going to make you wish you had just chosen to jump,” they shouted. “What made you think you were a hero, Shortstuff?”

His hands were knots that barely held his weight. He knew that they would not do so for much longer.

The thing he hated most was the shivering. He couldn’t stop it, and that alone could throw him off the side.

Every finger felt as though it had been jammed, then pulled out to the extent it could without leaving the hand.

He focused his thoughts on climbing; anything else and he would have to, as a thinking, feeling individual, give up. No one who could put two ideas together would know that this was pain that would have no pay off in the end and he might as well put himself out of his misery.

He was essentially blind, as there was no discernable light anywhere to be seen. He hadn’t thought about it for a bit, and only one thing brought it back to mind.

He was breaking some of the ice that formed on his hands when a shard of it landed in his mouth.

It was blood.

Somewhere along the line he had started cutting up his hands and the cold had been so pervasive that he hadn’t noticed it.

Then it began.

The tremor began in the sole of his right foot and advanced up his leg.

Perhaps this is what death feels like as it creeps up your body.

He fought it with the very marrow of his being, but it was stronger than he. The trembling was warm. The vibration gave him something to think about besides the cold.

It traveled up his legs and around the back into his shoulders.

When it hit his hand, he let go.

It was not a choice; it was just what the body told him it was doing. He did not get a vote.

As he fell he closed his eyes. He didn’t know why; he couldn’t see anything anyway.

Then the most amazing thing happened.

The air began to get warm. The farther he fell, the warmer the atmosphere.

“Damn,” he thought, “Maybe Hell is warm.”