Chapter 1: A Cynical Life

Jack Dawson sat at his desk, staring blankly at the computer screen in front of him. The fluorescent lights hummed and his colleagues chattered now and then, buried in their routine chores. Jack's cubicle—with grey walls and artificial light, duly represented a prison, much like his life. He let out a sigh and clicked aimlessly through his e-mails, deleting another spam message about some exciting new seminar on being more productive.

"Hey, Jack," a voice cut through the drudgery. It was Gary, from the next cubicle over, peering over the partition. "You coming to happy hour tonight? A bunch of us are heading to O'Malley's after work.".

Jack plastered on a false smile. "Thanks, Gary, but I got some stuff to take care of at home. Maybe next time."

Gary shrugged. "Suit yourself. You know, you should get out more. Live a little.

"Yeah, I know," Jack said, but he wasn't budging for anybody. Jack resumed his facing of the screen and wondered how he had ended up here—in this soul-sucking job, in this life squeezing him, ever so slowly, to death.

At 35, Jack had nothing to show for his years except a small apartment, a stack of unpaid bills, and a heart full of regret. He had dreamed of being a writer, writing stories that transported people into worlds they'd never known existed, to make them believe in the magic of life. But practicality and the steamroller of years conspired to crush that dream. The reality was he was just one more cog within the corporate machine, working time down to the weekend but not really turning out much joy even there.

That day was a long one, with minutes which seemed so eternal until five o'clock finally appeared. Jack shut down his computer and put on his coat to head home. He walked home, much like his day had gone-by—the city around him living, rushing, but he like a ghost, moving through it all; unnoticed, unremarkable.

He stopped at the supermarket to pick up a few items, but his mind was not really on the job as he wandered around the store. His reach couldn't extend far enough for a carton of milk that sat beyond his grasp on the top shelf. He heaved a sigh and did a stretch as far as he could, at the edge of his balance.

"Need some help with that?" chirped a singsong female voice.

Jack turned to face a young woman, probably in her twenties, smiling at him. She was holding a basket full of fresh vegetables with a bottle of wine.

"No, I got it," Jack replied, managing to snag the carton just before it toppled over. "Thanks, though."

"No problem," she said, but lingered in the smile for a moment before moving on.

Jack watched her go, feeling a pang of loneliness. He couldn't remember the last time that someone smiled at him like that, with such genuine kindness. Shaking his head, he began to shop again, filling his basket with basics only.

Jack went home, stored away his groceries, and microwaved a frozen dinner. He sat down on the couch and was eating in the genuine silence while the television keeps on buzzing in the background. The news was full of chaos and despair, just the right kind of soundtrack for his life.

After dinner, Jack flopped into his rickety recliner, where he began to read a book he had been working on for months. He read the same paragraph three times and retained none of the meaning of the words. His mind kept drifting, caught in self-pity and despair.

Hours passed, and Jack finally felt it best to turn in. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and lay down on his bed. The ceiling above him was right in his line of vision: cracked and water-stained, a nagging reminder of the leaks he couldn't afford to fix. He shut his eyes and hoped that sleep would come fast and bring him brief relief from thoughts.

As he dozed off to sleep, Jack couldn't shake the feeling that he was wasting his life. He had always felt he was meant for something more, but somewhere along the way, he had lost sight of that. Now, he was just another faceless drone, marching toward an unremarkable end.

The next morning, Jack woke to the nagging alarm. He groaned and slapped at the snooze button to buy a few more precious minutes of sleep. He then got upAINS, moving reluctantly to start his everyday ritual: under the shower, get dressed, drink coffee, and out of the door. Everything seemed alike every day—like a cycle from which there was no way out.

As Jack walked to work, he saw an almost new banana peel on the sidewalk. He stepped over it, shaking his head. "Who even eats bananas on the street?" he muttered to himself.

Work was a blur of meetings and emails, all the trappings of a day that seemed void of meaning. Jack's mind flooded with thoughts of the woman from the grocery store, making him zone out. Her small smile seemed so minute against a world that had darkened for him. He found himself wondering what her life was like: if she was happy, did she have big dreams?.

"Jack, you with us?" his boss, Mr. Thompson, cracked sharply, startling Jack out of his reverie.

"Yeah, sorry," Jack replied, trying to listen to the meeting. It was something to do with a new project that no doubt would mean late nights and weekends. Jack just couldn't muster an interest.

The day dragged on until finally, each hour into what seemed to be an eternity, it was time to go home. Jack began to put things into his bag. Taking a different way home, he wanted to keep moving around, sweat out some of his gloom. Walking, he found himself caught up in thoughts about the path of life, reflecting on choices made and dreams abandoned.

He didn't notice the patch of ice on the sidewalk as he was lost in thought. His foot slipped, and he went down hard, striking the back of his head on the pavement with a sickening thud. He lay there for a moment, dazed and in pain. He tried sitting up, but the world spun off its axis for him, and he fell back again onto the cold pavement.

It was like Jack floated outside his body, looking in at the man he had become. He collapsed to the ground, his vision blurring, his thoughts going hazy, but suddenly the veil over the eyes seemed to lift. He could see clearer in his mind than he ever had. Suddenly, all he had given in to—those fears, insecurities—hit him like a ton of bricks. He had become a captive, and he never even realized it. The cycle of self-doubt and regret was closing in.

And everything went black.

Jack came to with the impression of blistering heat. His eyes flickered open, and he found himself stretched out in some kind of vast, barren wilderness. Above him, the sky was like blood; the land intermittently cracked and scorched at his feet. He sat up, groaning with pain, and looked around in disorientation.

"Welcome to Hell," a wry voice said from somewhere.

Jack turned to face a demon standing in front of him. He was tall and very grotesque, with leathery wings and horns sticking out of his head. His eyes burned with an evil glow, peering at him from the darkness, and he grinned back with sharp, serrated teeth.

"Wait, what?" stuttered Jack, trying to make sense of all he was seeing.

"You heard me," said the demon. "This is Hell. And you, my friend, are dead."

Jack stared hard at the demon. Dead? Hell? This was some kind of farce, some wild hallucination.

"I don't get it," Jack said, his voice shaking. "How did I end up here?"

The demon laughed, a low, husky sound that reverberated across the abandoned landscape. "You slipped on a banana peel and cracked your skull open. Quite the exit, if you ask me.

Jack felt a surge of anger and humiliation. "You got to be kidding me? I died because of a banana peel?"

The demon shrugged. "Life's a bitch, and then you die. Or in your case, slip and die."

Jack buried his face in his hands. It was all just too absurd. All his life, he had envisioned his death as something important, meaningful. But a banana peel? It was almost too ridiculous to believe.

"What happens now?" Jack asked, looking up at the demon.

"Well," replied the demon, its grin broadening, "now you get to spend eternity here, suffering and being in torment. Welcome home, Jack.

Knowing what was happening, Jack felt a spike of fear mixed with defiance. He had been helpless all his life, but now, staring eternal damnation in the face, something shifted inside him. He just wasn't going to go along with the program.

"Is there any way out of here?" Jack asked, his voice steady.

The demon's had shrunk in on themselves further. "Out of Hell? No. But there are ways to… make things better in your current situation. If you're willing to do whatever it takes."

Jack nodded and the blaze of determination burned bright in his chest. "I'll do whatever it takes. I'm not going to spend eternity as a victim."

The demon laughed. "We shall see about that, Jack. We shall see.

Jack stood upright, his skin burning from the fierce heat of Hell's infernal landscape, but he did know one thing for sure: his life might have been a series of failures, but his death would be different. He would find a way to rise above this, to carve a place for himself in this new, terrifying world. And maybe, just maybe, he would find a purpose that had eluded him in life.

With another look at the demon, Jack set off into the fiery unknown to roll with the punches.