Portrait of a Living Hell
When the circumstantial connection is a monstrous blight wearing a human-skinned mask.
The truth is that he was a person of warmth when they first met.
But all hell broke loose the moment she gave him the keys to her heart; he unlocked the door from the inside, inadvertently letting the brood of malice pour in.
A pawn, manipulated by those horrid beings who used his vulnerabilities to tumble the dominoes of her life and orchestrate her destruction — all in the name of control.
They suppressed her spirit with their poisoned touch and twisted her perception with malicious lies — year after year, pulling every diabolical trick from their arsenal.
They made her back a target, tying her up and throwing knives at her. As soon as the wounds on her back began to heal, they would begin their assault anew, a never-ending campaign of slander and discredit.
Together with their bare hands, the insidious brood strangled the life out of her.
Shackled and dragged downward, where they’d even kept a placard waiting with her name on it — like a guest of honor, in hell.
They kept pushing her to the brink, poking and hooking the sky above her until it came crashing down upon her.
She was suspended in perpetual torment. It was a living hell where even death felt alive, and every single stab and cut was immensely painful. She wished that she had never existed.
Such was her brutal fate for falling for the illusion of who he was. What else could she expect from the blood and flesh of a wretched demoness?
She shouldn’t even dare to think she could eradicate that generational evil. She was just too naive.
Maybe she shouldn’t fight it.
Maybe she should settle for a reserve she never even deserved to have.
The demoness had her in her claws; she was utterly overpowered. But in her naive delusion she still clung to her faint hope oblivious to the hell that had already claimed her.
No holy book, across the entire existence of this world and all its religions, would have sufficient description for such a depravity unleashed by a single pack of evil beings determined to ruin a person’s life like that.
Know that everything mentioned was experienced but written in creative form.
Ordinary words failed to convey the truth: when told in a straightforward manner, they just didn’t hold the weight of it.
Only skepticism and cold, silent shunning would follow, with understanding nowhere to be seen.
The only thing that could truly paint that image and the truth of such experiences for the world to see is creative writing, an indirect publication of the truth without fear of further retribution.
I’ve chosen to write parts of Mio’s story out of chronological order because her experience is simply too overwhelming, too complicated, and too difficult to articulate linearly.
I have written some episodes of her story over the past couple of years, and since it’s a developing one, I’m unsure if I’ll be able to write it all completely.
These narratives will be compiled under my Cinderella Must Die collection.
The working title, though seemingly terrible: imagine all the antagonists from famous fairy tales ganging up on Cinderella. That’s how dire Mio’s situation is.
I cannot claim this is purely a work of fiction, as it contains elements of actual events. I also cannot label it as non-fiction, because it’s Mio’s truth. I can only change names and certain details to safeguard my protagonist. For now, let’s just label these as narratives.
Thank you for reading this.
As most know, my health has worsened. Managing my condition & constant hospital commutes are exhausting my daily spoons. Writing is my lifeline—the one thing I can still do while managing treatments or being bedbound by a flare-up.
If you find value in my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription or buying me a coffee. Your support is more vital & goes directly toward my medical expenses. Thank you.
Hello, I am the person behind the writings you’ll find here.
For me, writing isn’t just my craft; it’s my sole way of working. As someone navigating multiple chronic illnesses with frequent medical treatments at various hospitals and clinics, my routine often leaves me with little energy or capacity for much else.
As an autistic individual with a severe anxiety disorder, holding a conventional job is almost an impossible feat—a sad reality that is a stark contrast to how I used to be able to function. These days, even an unexpected phone call can throw me into disarray, let alone stepping out the door.
Despite these immense challenges, they have, unexpectedly, opened new doors. In a way, being chronically ill has been a blessing in disguise, granting me the space and courage to pursue writing.
You could say I’m an unknown and perpetually poor writer (not everyone can be J.K. Rowling!).
I juggle inconsistent odd remote jobs alongside the limited income my writing generates on different platforms.
Your support here helps me continue this work and truly makes all the difference as I explore new avenues.
Thank you for being here and for considering supporting my journey.
Your poem and video are really beautiful, in a heart-pounding way that makes us ache. The word "powerful" is over-used but it is inevitable. You probably know that there are whole cultures, like the people of Finland where my wife, Raili, is from, who have a seemingly melancholy and anguished personality. You see it in their traditional songs and carols, so sad, or so frought with angst and suffering, even at Christmas-time. It paradoxically draws many of us to them, maybe for their frankness and honesty and usually hidden vulnerability - the brave heart of the Vikings. Phrases like "true grit" and "still waters run deep" come to mind. Of course there are many exceptions; we are each unique, thank God. Most of the Finns would never show this cultural personality overtly, you have to get to know them (like for 40 years). I am saying a prayer for your health. I included "Portrait of a Living Hell" in Crown Valley Quarterly. I like to say, "When I tell them, 'You're on top this week in Crown Valley Quarterly!' it might not impress the older ones but the younger ones might be encouraged." I hope you are encouraged.
The line that stayed with me — "ordinary words failed to convey the truth." That's exactly it. There are experiences so layered and so brutal that only this kind of writing can hold them. Thank you for not flinching, for finding the form that could carry Mio's story when nothing else could. Rooting for you, and for her.