Betrayed And Rejected

There was a saying in Logris that Hell was the pinnacle of pain.

Whoever penned that phrase was full of bullshit. Sure, Hell was bad. It was loud and hot and filled with endless torment, and I wasn’t talking about the demons who supervised the Punishment Pits. The most torturous part of being in Hell was watching painful memories on an endless cycle of repeat.

I sat in my three-foot-wide cell within Tower Thirteen- Thirteen, one of the many mega-stalagmites that made up Pit 666. The rough stone wall raked across my back, even though I was no longer in possession of a body. There was just about enough standing room in my cell to straighten my spine and stretch my legs, but that would mean bending my neck at an uncomfortable angle.

When the imps weren’t taking us out for torture, this shit hole was a constant barrage of petty discomfort. Floors that grated against the skin like steel wool, a ceiling of sharp stalactites that crumbled dust in the eyes. The sticky kind that took an eternity to leave. The gritty specks that stuck to

the fingers, so rubbing the eyes made the  situation  a thousand times worse.

But none of that compared to the worst part of Hell.

I stared out through the  entrance-hole.  Out  into  the ghetto of tall structures that stretched up  into  an  endless void of black. Whoever had designed this place made it so one could just about see the other condemned souls staring out, trying to distract themselves from the torment.

It wouldn’t be Hell if they allowed us the comfort of seeing them. They taunted us with the knowledge that they were there, but we were condemned to endure our eternal punishments alone… always alone.

One of the rock spikes on the wall dug into my spine. That was another annoying thing about this cell. It never remained the same shape. That’s because it had an intelligence of its own and pushed me toward the confined space’s only smooth surface:

The memory wall.

The memory wall played out the exact reason a person was condemned to the Punishment  Pits.  From  the bittersweet beginning to the excruciating end. Another sharp stone lodged in my right ass cheek, making me shift to the left. Then rock dust streamed down in  a  convenient  draft that forced me to turn my head in the same direction.

I clenched my teeth. The only way to get some physical comfort was by facing my mistakes. Maybe they wanted me to admit that I was wrong, to repent, to cry, to wail for forgiveness, but I’d be buggered if I excused the actions of that mangy wolf.

The floor shifted, and a tiny stalagmite rose from beneath me and pushed against my asshole.

“Shit.” I shifted in my cell, faced the wall, and watched my most painful sequence of memories.

Franklin Gri ths, the most beautiful wolf-shifter  who ever lived.

He was more handsome than Burt Reynolds, cooler than the Fonz, and danced better than John Travolta. He was my mate. Yet he had deceived me and broken my heart.

The screen played the day we’d met.

Griff’s long, black hair swept  backward  as  though caressed by the wind. Streams of sunlight  hit  its  ends, turning them a vibrant mahogany. On other men, the style might look like the less glamorous one in Charlie’s Angels, but on Griff, the style was a perfect frame for his  masculine beauty. Perhaps it was the sideburns that ended at his high cheekbones that made him look so manly. They  drew  the gaze to a pair of kissable, plump lips. The bastard even had a sexy chin dimple.