I arrive gradually, over months, one sense at a time—first, no matter what I eat, the sickly-sweet taste, then, the unshakeable smell of smoke, then, the sound of bells in the wind, then, I see the wires, strung across all things, and then, finally, I feel the touch. Then everything is soft, spongy, and I sink, all the way down to Hell.
When I finally get to Hell, it is crowded. But not with figures whose eyes glow red high above, nor with chattering AIs, nor with little pig-demons with metal grins—those here to torment me are (obviously) all people I love. My tormentors press in on all sides, and soon convert my skeleton into ice, and, as the heat boils my bones out my mouth, I taste my memories in agony, whilst new ice bones reform within. Gradually, the tormentors work out which memories hurt the most.
For instance, the snake leers at me, its tongue bifurcating, bifurcating, bifurcating again—and, each time that the tongue bifurcates, I remember my friend from high school. In each memory, he is silent, still and cold in the dunes in the night, but each time, he is holding a different hand-written note.
As my memories are unwound and wound again, I slowly acquire one ghastly new sense after another, learning far too much, and, with each sense acquired, I sink a little deeper. Eventually, I find myself become a dysregulated puppet, twitching in response to string-tugs from above, an emissary to the strange countries beyond Hell’s lower borders.