Sometimes hell isn’t hot.
The cold gnawing to his bones, a ginger fresh out of cryostasis was beginning to see the full circle of what hell could be. Sometimes hell is burning in the desert while you wonder if the radiation or the roaches would eat your body away first.
Other times, it’s perpetual winter weather on an otherwise perfectly fine day.
Sometimes still it’s waking up in cold sweat in the middle of the night, next to his new lover, mind raking through old memories mixed with new to keep him wondering where he went wrong, how much he loathes his new life and loathes his old one more, how maybe he’s being selfish but he still doesn’t understand why this had to happen to him of all people.
One day he’d describe the feeling to an old detective over a beer, eyes flickering between the bottle and the bar as he wonders how a machine could possibly sympathize with his plight.
Sometimes hell is hot, but when one wants nothing more than a sunny day; hell becomes the chill of nuclear winter.
