The Glass Box

I thought I knew what hell was, but I was wrong. Hell is this place I find myself in now. You see, I’m trapped in this small, glass cube. I have just enough room to stretch out my legs and hardly enough room to stand. How do I breathe? Not sure that’s much of a problem here. I’m fairly certain I’m already dead.

When I said this place was hell, I was being literal. I think I died and went to hell. From all the stories, I really thought hell would be a dark and scary place filled with demons and fire. It seems the opposite. All around me, people are happy. The sky is bright and blue. It’s a cheery and wonderful place. Except for this damn glass box. But I suppose that’s the true hell, isn’t it?

I’m forced to sit here and watch the life I wish I could be living. Everyone else is happy around me. I want out of here so bad. I kick and I push but nothing ever budges. What's worse, there’s a hammer just outside the box. I could smash this glass to pieces if I could somehow reach the hammer. But to smash it, I need to be out there. Effectively, I’m trapped.

Oh, I haven’t told you the best part. There’s a man whom I’m certain is Satan. He walks by with a smile on his face and a skip in his step. Every day, he asks me how I’m doing. My answer is always the same. I tell him I want out of this dreadful place. I want to be free. He smiles at me and says, “I know you can get out of there someday.” These simple words of encouragement do nothing but bury me deeper into this metaphorical pit I find myself in.

Why couldn’t I have been buried in a coffin beneath the ground? Why not trap me in a small cage far from the light of day? Why must I endure the torture of seeing the world around me, one I desperately want to be a part of, and unable to ever live it? What kind of sick hell is this? When a man would rather endure physical torture than the mental one constructed by this glass box, you know it’s a living hell.

The people here, if they really are people at all, are awful. They smile and wave at me as if nothing is the matter. Several ask how I am but never wait around to hear the answer. No one truly cares how I’m doing in here. They’re all just glad they’re not in the box. And the hammer is right there. Any one of them could set me free but they choose not to. And I’ve begged. I’ve cried for someone to smash the glass with the hammer and set me free. But the answer is always the same. “I wish there was something I could do to help.” With that, they keep walking.

I want to die in here. I want this glass prison to be my coffin. But if I’m already dead, this will never happen. Instead, I’ll be doing this for all eternity. That I simply can’t take. There’s no way to know how long I’ve endured this torture already, but I can’t take it for another moment. And yet, there’s no way out. I’ll spend the rest of eternity slamming my hands against the glass and begging those who walk by for help while they smile and wave. Maybe if I slam my hands long enough, I finally see a crack.