Fond Memories

In the river, boys and girls stand waist-deep, but their lips are still dry.

Before the table of cakes and apples, sugar and syrup and stew, prisoners' stomachs curl in on themselves, like snails, raw and turgid with hunger.

There are eight hundred and thirteen devices hanging on the wall of a chamber in which time does nto seem to pass. Each one is a fresh horror, and though they are used only once, it seems like an eternity to their victim, seated in a chair, weeping to see the blood-crusted screws, saws, and knives.

There are only two layers to hell, and only those who have visited the deepest layer are wise enough to crave the safety of the first. Physical torture above memory. When one is called down the stairs, locked away, it is only a matter of minutes before they beg for a hammer to their fingers, for hunger like a wolf's jaws, for a thirst no wine or water can satisfy.

Memories can be your worst enemies. When each passing disappointment, regret, betrayal, and lie arises, bitter as acid, stretching your insides like elastic, you will weep like a child.

When you are out of tears, there is nothing to do but endure the pain. When you are in hell, death is not a reprieve. It is a fond memory.

Art by Matt Barley

Text by Lucie MacAulay