Deeper and Deeper the black bird wandered into the blacker oblivion. He had walked through the cold dark many times before, but never had he considered being trapped in it. No matter how far the bird wandered, there seemed to be no end to the tube. There were turns, but no end.

After making a turn out of countless turns, the bird could see a light ahead. He was not fooled, he did not get his hopes up, for he knew had devious the light was, he knew how it beckoned him forth, only to trick and devastate him.

Still, there was no going back, but there was little drive to move forward.

Stepping out of the tube, the floor, the walls, the ceiling, they were all so surreal. His environment was not of metal, of sand, of plaster, but of wood. There were no bodies, no feathers, no organs, no blood. Just him, the wooden environment, and a board with lights.

The board was white and had twenty-five numbered red lights, some lit, others dim. The numbers were written in white, and at the top of the board in red were the words, “have faith”.

More memories had come rushing back, painful memories of his failures, each one resulting in a death by electrocution. The numbers he had picked were the ones that had gone dim. Unfortunately, there were still twelve numbers lit up.

One was dim, as was twenty-five. Five was dim, as was twenty. The corners were all picked. Seven was picked, sixteen was picked, eighteen was picked. Ten was chosen, six was chosen, thirteen was chosen. Eight and nine and four were all pecked. Every important number seemed to have been guessed, anything relevant was assumed, yet wrong.

The crow began to flap angrily again, cawing and huffing and a fury as the words on the sign above mocked him. Even when he slowed, the bird strutted across the floor frustrated and defeated.

There was no logic or reason behind the number, no clue or hint, no sign. He simply had to pick and hope and pray. “Have faith.”

His in stomach, in his heart, the corvid could feel his experiences, his trials, and his tribulations of this life welling up, as if his fate was already decided for him. If it was predetermined, what did it matter? He would simply experience this all again, and again, and again. Was it even worth it to try?

Yes! It was worth it to try. No matter how unlikely the odds, every attempt brought him closer to getting the right number. There were only fourteen numbers left. Success wasn’t likely, unlikely, or impossible; it was inevitable.

Flying up to fourteen, the crow pecked the number, the light growing dim as he did. Nothing happened.

As he continued to keep himself aloft, the bird wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. Fear had begun to corrupt his excitement and pride, until the board began to move to the left, revealing an exit.

Through the exit was a beautiful ray of sunlight highlighting a bountiful sky of pink and orange. In an instant, the avian took off into the clouds, merging with them, never to be seen again.

“You’ve hurt so many of them. You burned them, crushed them, and hung them. And still you think they’re your friends?”

“They’re all I had.”

“That is no excuse. You’re horrible. But not irredeemable.”

“Do people like me go to hell? Is that where this conversation is heading?”

“No. You will not be made to repent for all eternity; such a concept is a human's narrow view on punishment, a senslessly spiteful idea fueled by foolhardy revenge. Stiil, those who inflict suffering must pay for their crimes, they must learn from their mistakes and understand the pain they caused. You will know how you’ve hurt your “friends” until you’re deemed forgiven. Only then will you be allowed peace.”