I have been in this place for seventeen days prior to this first recording. I wish I had had access to a recorder prior to this, but Rapture dollars hold no value in hell. So many people are deluded that this is some other world, but their bodies are warped in ways greater than any Splicer I've ever seen. They call it Ryslig, some Scandinavian-sounding thing. I have questions, but am only answered with nonsense. What follows next will be the briefest review of my time so far in hell.
I AM dead: he did it. I know he did. I could not have imagined that pain. I came to with blood on my head but no wound, and was offered a drink. The waters of Lethe are pink as Sander's rouge, and turn a man to a confection in the blink of an eye. It was seven days before I was flesh and bone again. Of all the torments of hell, this is not one I would have imagined.
They are all madmen, mad women, the lot of them! I've said as much, but the greatest example of this is how rampant altruism is. One would think there would be less of it among the wicked and the dead, but I am appalled at how many souls are infected with the cancer of compassion. They insist I will NEED them, this pack of Oblomovs - but I would rather die again, if there is death for the dead.
I have found a decently sized Scandinavian style house. There were several weeks' worth of mail in the box for a Henrik Galder, a banker by the look of his papers. Not another sign of him, despite a car in the garage and food in the icebox. When I went up to the master bedroom I found the cause: a deadly amount of blood and viscera on the floor starting at the bed and trailing toward the window. Outside there was no sign that the fellow had jumped. Blood, but no body. It is a mystery I do not need to solve: if no one cared to come for the mail, no one cared to come for the man.
There are far more than nine levels of hell. The one I was transported to so suddenly in my sleep, along with many other lost souls, is nothing like any I read of in the Inferno. Desolate ruins and massive, feral beasts that bear far too striking a resemblance to those who attempted to befriend and protect me, thinking me weak because I still look myself. The only weakness I showed was not shoving my torch in that Grapevine woman's face. Perhaps then she would not have given me such an ... intimate view of her teeth.
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8/22 Y1 - No Value In Hell
Date: 8 Sep 2022 03:49 (UTC)8/22 Y1 - После смерти нет покаяния.
Date: 8 Sep 2022 03:57 (UTC)8/22 Y1 - Cancer of Compassion
Date: 8 Sep 2022 04:00 (UTC)8/22 Y1 - The Mail and the Man
Date: 8 Sep 2022 04:08 (UTC)8/22 Y1 - Dante's Miscalculation
Date: 8 Sep 2022 04:14 (UTC)