The Mirror of Maybe

I had woken up screaming—my throat raw, my lungs searching desperately for breath. My tears soaked the sides of my face, but I couldn't even remember when they had started falling. My entire body trembled violently, as though I had just been ripped from a nightmare far too real to forget.

At first, I thought it was all just another bluff. Death, that wicked thing cloaked in silence and shadow, always lurking, always toying with words—never striking when expected. But now… now I'm starting to realize that every word she ever said was not only true, but preordained. This was all part of her sick plan.

"Let them live in a body that is not theirs," she had whispered once, "then let them suffer a death worse than the one they never imagined."

I had mocked her once for those words. I had laughed in defiance.

But now, I understand. And I was not laughing anymore.

"Is it over already? Do I go to hell now?!" I gasped between sobs, panting so heavily that the edges of my vision blurred.

"You are yet to experience the worst of them," she replied, her voice like a sharp wind cutting across a frozen wasteland—cold, vast, and unfeeling.

She was seated calmly at the center of the room, her presence dominating even the thick darkness that swallowed everything. It was the kind of dark that could blind a star. Behind her stood a massive gate, ancient and unyielding. A thin sliver of light escaped through its cracked hinges. And from beyond that gate came the sounds—screams… so many screams.

They weren't just loud. They were desperate, agonizing and endless.

The light through the crack seemed to pull the screams along, dragging them into this reality. Every breath I took felt heavier than the last. My knees threatened to give way, but I couldn't fall. Something in me refused to fall—not in front of her.

"What is this place?" I asked, my voice cracking.

But she didn't answer.

Instead, she looked straight at me and asked, "How did you feel to die again?"

Her voice was quiet, but her words tore into my soul like claws.

I wanted to frustrate her. I wanted to turn her game against her, as pointless as it seemed. I wanted her to feel even a fragment of what I'd felt—the terror, the confusion, the pain.

"Bearable, I guess," I said sarcastically, though my voice trembled, betraying me.

Her lips curled into a sinister smile.

On the table in front of her was a row of bullets—dozens, perhaps hundreds. But they weren't like any bullets I'd ever seen in the mortal world. They were long, obsidian black, with twisted spiral grooves carved into their surface. They pulsed with an ominous energy, like they were alive and hungry.

Each one radiated dread.

"What are those for?" I asked, my stomach twisting with fear.

"They represent the number of deaths left for you," she said, her eyes gleaming. "And as you can see, they are many. Each time I shoot one of these into your head, your life will start again… in another body. Another fate. Another death."

I took a step back without realizing it.

"I-Isn't a bullet to the head… fatal?" I asked, my curiosity pushing through the fear.

She chuckled.

"To me, death is just the beginning."

Those words echoed in my skull. Each syllable pressed down on my chest like a boulder.

"So, this is my punishment?" I asked. "Is this… eternal?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she gestured toward the bullets.

"Each one is a memory, a mistake, a borrowed fate," she said. "Every death you endure is tied to someone else's unfinished path. Until your soul is either redeemed… or damned."

I tried to remember what I had done to deserve this. I had lived an ordinary life—or at least I thought I had. I wasn't perfect, but I wasn't evil either.

"What about that orb I saw before the crash?" I asked suddenly, recalling the final seconds before my last death.

She narrowed her eyes.

"That orb was a transfer," she said. "It carries the memory and abilities of the body's original owner. Just like… a save point."

I looked at her sharply.

"So it is like a video game," I said.

Her eye twitched in irritation. She hated when I said that. Which made me say it more often.

"You think this is a game?" she snapped. "Fine. I'll explain it in those terms."

She leaned forward, her voice sharp and mocking.

"The original owner played the game from beginning to end. No saves. No retries. Just a clean run. But you—you started from the final checkpoint. Their last save file. And now, depending on your actions, you may reach a different ending."

My blood ran cold.

"Is it… possible to reach an ending where I survive?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"That," she said with a cruel smile, "is for you to discover."

I tried to piece together what she meant. Was I being punished for dying too soon? Was I being given a chance… or condemned to an endless cycle of death?

"And what happens if I fail again?" I asked.

She didn't hesitate.

"Then you go to hell."

My heart stopped.

Hell!...

After all I had endured on Earth… after the suffering, the loneliness, the emptiness—I was to go to hell?

I had always believed hell was reserved for the disobedient, the wicked. But I had lived a chaste life. I had avoided wrong and I had tried to do good. So, Why me?

As if reading my thoughts, she snapped her fingers.

And just like that—I was there.

Hell.

Not a metaphor. Not a dream. Hell itselfl.

It was fire. Everywhere. It was heat—not of warmth, but of decay. The kind that burns through bone and memory. Screams came from all directions. Some were hoarse. Some fresh. But all were hopeless.

The sky was aflame. The ground, if it could be called that, was molten—cracked and hissing. The air was sulfur. The food, ash. The water, poison.

And the smell—God, the smell—like rotting flesh and despair.

This wasn't punishment. It was annihilation.

"What did I do?!" I screamed into the chaos. "Why do I have to go there when I haven't done anything wrong?!"

"You're guilty…" she said, appearing beside me again, "You are gulty of finding me before I found you."

That sentence made no sense at first. But then it clicked.

Suicide.

In one life or another… I had found her before she came for me.

I fell to my knees, the realization crushing me more than the flames ever could.

Each death… was part of a sentence. Every life I borrowed was a chance to redeem what I had done. But if I failed—if I kept failing—then the gate would close. And hell would be my final home.

"You have to survive now," she said, her voice almost like a whisper against the roaring flames. "Who knows… maybe, just maybe, you'll find your ending."

And suddenly—

Darkness.

Silence.

Nothingness.

Then… a gasp.

My next life had begun.