My vision grew blurry as I panicked. The text repeating itself over and over in my head. Anchoring my thoughts to the events taking place in front of me. Forcing any other ideas out of my mind. Making sure I paid attention. Every minute detail of every second was thrust into my head. Forcing me to relive one of the worst days of my life. I didn't have time to fully process my thoughts before my body moved its eyes over to the object of my worry.

My Father.

Hunched over the pleather steering wheel sat Dad. A few years younger than when I had been summoned, yet his disheveled appearance, gray hair, stubbly beard, and eye bags said otherwise. He sat in quiet anger, his eyes glazed over as he brooded.

No words were exchanged during the drive. Only the tapping of Dad's fingers against the steering wheel interrupted the crushing silence. I begged my body to speak. To interrupt the silence, to apologize, to warn it of what was to come. Once again, my body regulated me to a meer passenger and continued its mindless browsing on the internet. This continued all the way to our house.

To the point where no warning could save me.

My Father threw the car in park in the driveway and opened the garage door. My body mindlessly moved out of the car, sliding the old minivan's door open and exiting. Eyes still glued to its phone.

"Shit! Move now! If you don't, he's going to hurt you!" I screamed, praying that my body would listen. Despite my warnings, my body pressed on. Even though I knew the punch was coming, it still took me by surprise.

My Father's fist crashed into my face with enough force to throw me to the ground. Pain radiated throughout my entire form. What should have been just a punch felt hit as hard as a freight train.

"What the fuck!" My body yelled.

"Get up." My Father's deadpan voice unchanged despite the situation. He casually walked over my fallen body and pressed the control to close the garage door.

Trapping us in.

"Daniel. Get. Up." he repeated.

"Don't! Stay down. Please, if you get up, he'll crush you! Just stay down and hide." I kept warning, hoping my body would listen to my advice.

My body slowly moved onto its hands and knees, taking its sweet time to realize the situation. My Father took the opportunity to drive his foot into my side. Making both me and my body scream in pain.

"Why?" My body asked in between tears.

"Why? You're really asking me why?" My father paced around the garage, growing faster with every step. "Why? Maybe it's because I have a pathetic son. Perhaps it's because that very miserable son had the balls to assault his sister's friend in MY HOUSE. I figured if you've got the guts to assault that poor girl, then you must have the courage to stand up for yourself. To take on your old man. NOW. GET. UP!"

My body weakly rose tears and snot streaming down its face.

"You need to apologize, run, do anything, please just make the pain stop." once again, I begged. Only to be interrupted by a gut punch that hurt worse than anything I had felt in the pit.

"Please stop." my body begged.

"NO, that's not what you need to say right now!" I yelled back.

In response, my Father only made the beatings worse. He struck me again and again until his knuckles bled. Making sure to hit wherever he thought it would hurt the most.

It felt as if my soul was collapsing in on itself. Each hit reverberated throughout my entire body. The emotions my body was feeling, the pain, terror, and despair, cut through me like knives. I yearned for the pit. To once again be hidden under the blanket of crushing weight that was the pile. I didn't want to face myself. I would do anything to hide. To escape from my Father.

To escape from myself.

The beating came to an end with a final punch to my stomach, causing me to spew out puke.

"Your the worst thing that's ever happened to this family." my Father said as he moved into the house.

My spirit freed itself from my body. Now anchored to the ceiling, forced to peer down onto my beaten body. As the pain faded and my body went numb, I was nearly forced to agree with my Father. I was a pathetic sight. Beaten black and blue. Cradling my stomach and crying. Mourning how unfair my life was. I wanted to start over. I could be better than this.

I could feel my soul empty. Where there were once painful emotions was now nothing more than a cold void. The void ate away at my body, slowly spreading until every pore of my body felt genuinely empty.

It was odd how much I wished for some sort of physical pain, something to reflect the internal struggle that was ripping me apart at the seams.

It was a cruel sort of struggle—one of those struggles where you feel empty. Like you couldn't think even if you tried, with that hollow feeling that plagues your chest. Worst of all was that underlying buzz in your mind. That sadness and shame that floats into every thought and action.

Guilt.

With each passing moment, the guilt flowed up inside me. It was no crushing pain, no debilitating suffering. It was merely a shallow, flowing stream. One that I wanted to hide from more than anything else.

I was lost in my mind. So profoundly focused on my own suffering that I missed my body's first movements. My body dragged itself to the cabinet on the left wall of the garage.

A spark of dread filled me before soon fading away. I knew what was happening, but I didn't even have the strength to beg my body to stop. I watched as my body rummaged through the cabinet and pulled out a rusty bush machete.

My body slowly drew the blade up to its throat, pressing it down ever so slightly. Tears exploded out of its eyes as guilt and fear fought for dominion over my mind. My body kept putting pressure on the blade until it nearly drew a red line across my throat.

The fear of death momentarily overtook my guilt, and my body threw the blade away. Preferring to instead lay on its back and succumb to its shame.

I stared on, lost in my guilt and humiliation as the ethereal fog covered up my body. Leaving my spirit alone in an empty gray mist.

"How pathetic." I couldn't help but say aloud. "I was too much of a coward to end myself."

"There is nothing cowardly about living." A warm baritone voice interrupted. "It took great courage to resist your guilt. To give yourself another chance."

"What do you mean 'great courage' all I did was lay around and wallow in self-pity? How did that take any courage whatsoever?" I replied, not even questioning the voice's presence.

"You chose to live despite everything. You decided to face your guilt instead of running away. if that is not courage, I don't know what is."

Somehow the voice's words only made me feel worse, making the weak stream of guilt turn into a full-blown torrent. "I can't face it. I did run away. Now I can't correct my mistakes even if I wanted to."

"If you had the chance to correct your mistakes, would you?"

"I already told you I couldn't. I just so happen to be stuck in a hell of eternal suffering where even death isn't an escape. I'll never be able to see my family again, let alone correct my mistakes."

"Would you correct your mistakes?" The voice repeated.

"....Yes, I would. Even if I had to suffer a thousand deaths, I want to fix my mistakes. I want to change. To be better. "

As if reacting to my words, the mist began to churn. The fog slowly started picking up speed until it became a violent storm.

"Good. I look forward to seeing if those words are genuine."

With that final line, the fog collapsed in on me, and everything went dark. As light entered my eyes, I found myself still in front of the gate. Before I could react, I felt a warm pain as teeth pierced into my legs.

I felt actual relief as I was torn from the gate and eaten alive. No longer forced to relive my life. To be swallowed by guilt. As I was brought back to the pile the compulsions hit harder than ever before.

'It's hopeless.'

'Give up.'

'You don't have the strength.'

'You are worthless.'

I barely resisted the thoughts as I was seated back down in the comfort of the bottom of the pile. The crushing weight, ripping and biting calmed me like the embrace of an old friend.

I almost gave in to the compulsions accepted my fate at the bottom of the pile. But the conversation I had with the voice kept playing in my head—a constant reminder of my words.

That's right. I can't stay here. No matter what, I can't give up now.

If I ever want the guilt to leave, to be better, then I need to move now.

Rage flooded into me. Anger at this world, at my situation, and at myself for just accepting it all. Any fear of the pain of the pile, centaurs, dogs, or the future was quickly destroyed in the rage and hatred that came straight from my soul.

I'm not done yet.

So long as life beats in my chest, I will not give up here! I tore through the pile once more. My body being destroyed as I threw myself forward. I erupted from the top of the pile. Letting out all my rage in a garbled roar.

“ARRRgrrrGHhhgrrrrrrAhhh!!!”

I stood firm, ready to face the arrows and hounds, but I was interrupted by a new form of pain—something different, a sharp and pointed incision instead of the everyday pounding.

I looked down at the source of the pain and saw a runed bone dagger sticking out of my chest.