Tales from A Lucky Denizen Who Escaped Hell - Part 1

I escaped from Hell. (Which, yes, unfortunately means Hell is real. Sorry to burst your bubble if you hoped Hell was just something that religious people made up to scare you into following their way of life.)

To make a long story short, I was in a car accident in Florida sometime in 2003. The exact details don’t matter. Next thing I know, I awake in this…place. I felt like I was drowning. I was stuck inside of this enclosed space filled with a smelly liquid. I started clawing at the walls of my enclosure until the container I was in just sort of burst open and I spilled out, along with the liquid I had been drowning in.

As I quickly learned, this was the City of Hell. And it was the most horrific thing I’ve ever experienced. Hopefully my story makes things a little easier on you when you, inevitably, end up in Hell yourself.

As you might imagine, I was terrified out of my mind. One moment I was driving my car, the next, I was drowning, and then when that stopped, I found myself on what looked like some kind of back alleyway behind a dilapidated concrete building, and everything smelled like ash and rot.

Turns out I’m luckier than most. I known some mid-tier level martial arts. I had joined a class years back to stay in shape, but I also wanted to hone my self-defense skills. So when this deranged naked man came charging at me from the darkness of the alley, I had some training to fall back on, and I defended myself, managing to wrestle away some piece of what I think was bone from the man and stabbed him to death.

This was just the start of what ended up being a long, scary, and quite frankly shitty journey through what I came to know as the City of Hell. (I’ve heard it go by other names—Inferno, Dis, or just “Hell”—I’ll refer to it just as the “City of Hell” since that’s what it is.)

I’m using this platform as a way to tell other people about what Hell was like without getting sent to an insane asylum. I know you’ll just think this is another internet creepy story, but thankfully, with Reddit’s anonymity or whatever, I think I’m safe from a psych ward (yes, I am in therapy; no, I haven’t told my therapist that this really happens, but he buys that they’re really bizarre nightmares; but he did tell me I could write “fictional” stories online to try to process what he’s described as a series of traumatic episodes). At any rate, I’ve seen too much to go without sharing.

Let me tell you about how I survived in Hell—and, somehow, lived to tell the tale.

I’ll give you a brief background of what Hell is like.

Welcome to Hell

There’s a city at the heart of Hell, a city born from the depths of despair and fashioned from the nightmares of the damned. Chaos reigns supreme there. The air is thick with the stench of rot and misery, a putrid cocktail that assaults the senses and lingers in your lungs. You’re well-advised to steer clear of dark alleys and “abandoned buildings.” These fleshy, fungal sort of pods are all over the walls, which is where you start your life off in Hell, as I did. Claw your way out of the fleshy pod, like I described, and if you’re lucky, no one will be around. If you’re unlucky—which is far more likely—another damned person will be lurking nearby waiting to feast on your flesh.

As far as I can tell, the City is really all there is there. It’s huge. And life, if you can call it that, is nigh impossible. But you can, and will, die there—and reincarnate, or come back to life, or however it works, right back there in the City of Hell. If you get killed, prepare to wake back up in your growth pod thing. If you live, you better be ready to kill someone if you want to eat.

You think I’m being dramatic. But there’s almost nothing to eat in Hell except other people. We’re all just a bunch of broken beings bound by a single instinct: the primal desire to survive. People claw at each other, fighting for every scrap of sustenance, every precious drop of tainted water. It’s a merciless dance of violence and desperation, where weakness is a death sentence and mercy is an indulgence long forgotten.Bands and alliances of the damned ebb and flow, each an island of fleeting stability amidst the sea of turmoil. Strength and cunning are the only currency that matters, so if you happen to be a brutal or physically strong person, you may have a chance. If you’re not…well…I’m sorry.

Survival is hard in the City of Hell. Not only is everyone out to kill you, but even if you’re lucky enough to kill first, raw flesh isn’t exactly very nutritious—especially when the corpse is plagued with infection. I guess germs still exist in Hell. If you can light a flame, you’re better off than most. But flame attracts attention, so it’s a catch-22.

And then there is water—a life-giving elixir that is as scarce as hope is in Hell. Clean water is but a distant memory, replaced by a noxious brew of filth and decay. Those who dare to search for a drop of purity must navigate a treacherous path, where the thirst for survival competes with the fear of disease. Boiling water is your best bet.

I didn’t survive much longer after I first woke up in Hell. I managed to kill that guy who was trying to shank me, but then I ran into someone who was bigger and stronger than I was. I can still remember the fear that coursed through my veins as he disemboweled me and began feasting on me while I lay there dying…Hell isn’t a place for the weak.

I was in Hell for a while—I guess around 20 years, since it was 2022 when I escaped. A lot of shit happened, and I’m not sure which parts were the worst. Why don’t I tell you about some of my early days.

The Meat Markets

Cooperation and order are pretty rare in Hell. In fact, they’re nigh impossible to find outside of an established group or tribe. But there was one place that was, by the city’s perverse standards, almost civilized—most called it the Meat Markets. If you could overlook the fact that it dealt in human flesh, it was a hub of commerce and twisted cooperation.

I first stumbled across the Meat Markets after a week of survival. I was trying to find a group to join and hadn’t been having much luck. Then I came across this more open area where there seemed to be a larger number of people than are usually gathered in one place. Had I accidentally stumbled into someone’s tribe? I was bracing myself for the end…and then someone shouldered me out of the way and just…kept going. I realized this was somewhere new and I decided to stick around the area for a few days to figure out what it was.

The Meat Markets were always busy, with Hell’s residents bartering and trading their wares. Here, the currency was not gold or silver, but flesh and bones—or tools, or sex, or what have you. As best I can tell, a number of the more established tribes formed a loose alliance for the purpose of having access to better “quality” food products. Even in Hell, economics and the law of comparative advantage rules (although don’t expect your MBA to do you much good here).

Rows of stalls line the grimy streets, each adorned with the gory display of the butchered dead. The sellers tout their offerings with a strange mix of pride and resignation. Fresh cuts were displayed on hooks, limbs are stacked like firewood, and skulls are arranged as macabre decorations. Hell doesn’t have a lot by way of decor shops.

“Freshly harvested! Best cuts in the City!” I remember one vendor called out, waving a severed arm. Another merchant showcased a row of skulls, each with a story etched into its hollow sockets, a grim souvenir of the damned.

When I first stumbled across the Meat Markets, I couldn’t help but marvel at the ingenuity of these damned souls, carving out their own niches in the merciless landscape of Hell. I couldn’t deny the strange sense of order that prevailed here, and in a way, it almost felt…peaceful?

But make no mistake; the Meat Markets were not for the faint of heart. The competition was fierce, and alliances were often formed and broken with the speed of a heartbeat. It is Hell after all. Thankfully, the resident tribal guards do a pretty good job of killing anyone who starts to cause a commotion. They don’t want access to their supplies disrupted.

I remember once when a heated dispute erupted between two vendors, both claiming ownership of a particularly fresh carcass (they do their meat chopping fresh there, by the way). The argument escalated quickly, and soon, they were at each other’s throats. In the end, it was the stronger and more ruthless vendor who emerged victorious, driving a bloody bone shard into his rival’s heart with a sickening thud. And then that vendor had more meat to sell. That’s just how it goes.

I’ve been to the Markets a few times since then. I don’t always see the same vendors there—my theory is that the tribes only allow the markets to operate so that they can scout for the best butchers and then they invite them (or take them) into their own little group. I’ve never stuck around long enough to ask a guard, though.

The Sewers

In my earlier days, I discovered the sewers when running for my life. Scared out of my mind, I ducked into an alleyway and fell down what I guess was some kind of manhole. I tried to live there for a bit. Never again. I managed for probably a few weeks, but that was it.

Life in the sewers of Hell is a daily struggle, a ceaseless battle against the unforgiving elements of this godforsaken place. It’s a world of perpetual darkness, where the only light comes from the faint, flickering glow of phosphorescent fungi clinging to the walls. The fungus seems sort of like the fungal stuff near the pods people are born into, but they’re about as edible (that is to say, not really—but desperate times). The stench is suffocating, a putrid cocktail of decay and filth that clings to your very soul. More than usual in Hell.

Cooking food is a luxury that few can afford. Like any part of Hell, most residents subsist on raw, rotting scraps scavenged from where and who they can find them. But in the sewers, more than most, fire poses an especially great risk—if you can get it started.

In the sewers, fire is both a blessing and a curse. The lower you go, the cold it gets. The cold of Hell seeps into your bones, making warmth a precious commodity. But lighting a fire down here is a dangerous game. The sewers are filled with pockets of explosive gas, ready to ignite at the smallest spark. Ironically, that’s how I went out. I won’t be doing that again.

If you do manage to light a flame without blowing yourself up like I did, you’re practically a sitting target because the tunnels are so dark as it is. So good luck.As with any part of Hell, finding clean water is a constant struggle. The putrid water that flows through the sewers is a breeding ground for disease and infection. Drinking it without purifying it first is a death sentence—but fire can be a death sentence, too. Ironically, the sewers have some of the most water in Hell, catching runoff (and every other liquid) from the City, but cleaning it in the sewers is no easy task.

And then there’s the flooding. Hell is a realm of torment and chaos, and the sewers are no exception. Torrential rains can turn the narrow tunnels into raging rivers in the blink of an eye. Many have been swept away by the rushing waters, lost forever in the darkness below. And if you get caught against a submerged wall, drowning in infected water and sewage isn’t the most fun way to go.

Survival in the sewers requires resourcefulness, cunning, and a ruthless will to live. Those who thrive down here have learned to adapt to the harsh environment. They know where to find the safest spots to rest, away from the threat of flooding or the prying eyes of predators.

Some have even managed to cultivate the phosphorescent fungi, creating makeshift gardens to grow in the darkness. These groups are really the only way to survive in the sewers. They band together to both grow their gardens and purify water using fire, while others stand guard to ward off attackers.

But no matter how well-prepared you are, danger lurks around every corner. Literally—one wrong turn and you could find yourself lost from your group (if you’re lucky enough to have one), caught in a flash flood, or drowning in a pile of human waste.Life in the sewers of Hell is a relentless struggle against the odds. But some people choose it over the terrors of the City proper. I think I’ll take my chances with the City.

How to Escape from Hell

You’re probably wondering how I got out of Hell in the first place.

Escaping from Hell is a fool’s dream, a delusion born of desperation and a longing for something that can never be. But still, the damned can’t help but yearn for a chance at freedom, no matter how slim the odds may be.Rumors of a way out circulate through the City like whispers in the night. The most fabled path is that of the pillar of fire, a celestial anomaly that descends from the heavens and touches the infernal soil of Hell. They say that on rare occasions, if fate deigns to smile upon you, you might get lucky enough to catch a ride on that column of fire back to the world of the living.

Like I said…I’m a lucky guy.

That said, it’s still a gamble with cosmic odds, a lottery of souls where millions hope for the grand prize, but only a handful ever get the ticket. Those who yearn for escape keep their eyes on the skies, praying for the heavens to open and deliver them from their torment. You have to be not just fast, but in the right place at the right time.

The journey to catching the elusive pillar of fire is a twisted dance of luck and cunning. The first step is finding a place of elevation, somewhere where the heavens might notice you amidst the mire of suffering. Some say atop the crumbling towers, others suggest the slopes of the Bone Mountains, and some even tried to build a Tower once (that didn’t go so well), but the truth is, no one really knows when or why these pillars form.

Then comes the waiting—a soul-crushing vigil that stretches on for eternities. You sit there, night after night, gazing up at the stars with hollow eyes, praying for a glimpse of that celestial beacon. And all the while, you must be vigilant, for other desperate souls might try to take your place, to shove you aside and claim your seat in the grand lottery.

And if, by some twist of fate, you do see the pillar of fire, the race is on. You must dash, run with all the strength you have left in your damned bones, to reach that point of contact between Hell and the divine. It’s a mad scramble, a chaotic sprint where hope and despair intertwine, and the prize is the chance to escape the eternal abyss.

I managed to catch a pillar and ended up in the body of some middle-aged woman who, best I can tell, was some kind of psychic or witch or something. So I’m not sure what role the occult plays in those pillars of fire.

But for most, the dream of escaping remains just that—a dream. They continue to roam the streets of the City of Hell, forever bound to the cycle of torment and despair, never knowing if they’ll ever find a way to break free from the chains that bind them. And so, they endure, clinging to hope, no matter how faint it may be.

My time in Hell was, without question, the worst and most horrific thing I’ve ever experienced. Maybe I’ll write more about other experiences I encountered while there. But this is how I ended up there and how I escaped.

When you end up there one day, I hope you get lucky like I did. I’m dreading the inevitable day I find myself waking up inside one of those pods again.