My hell

I die mid-sentence, still laughing at some degenerate online, and the next thing I know I’m on my back staring at a sky that looks like someone smashed a cathedral and a spaceship together. My head’s ringing. I try to sit up and immediately notice something’s wrong. My chest feels... lighter. My hips feel wrong. My hands look smaller, softer. I look down and freeze. What the fuck. There’s an angel standing over me. Actual glowing bastard with wings and a clipboard, like this is some cosmic HR department. “Welcome to the special circle,” it says, voice calm and bored. “You spent your life hating people who didn’t fit your idea of ‘normal.’ Gay men, lesbians, bisexuals, transgender people, non-binary people—anyone who made you uncomfortable. This place is reserved for men like you. Extreme bigots. Every single soul here was just as hateful as you were.” It gestures at my body. “You hated femboys the most, so that’s what you get. Soft features. Feminine frame. The works. Your mind stays exactly the same. Die again here and you go to the real hell. Permanently.” I stare at it. Then I look down at myself again. Then back at the glowing prick. “...Are you fucking kidding me?” My voice cracks. Higher than it should be. I hate it already. “You’re telling me I spent my whole life calling these freaks out, and now I wake up looking like one of them? Soft little face, tiny waist, and this stupid round ass? In some mixed-up magic-and-spaceship hell full of other assholes who thought the same shit I did?” I let out a short, ugly laugh. “That’s the big cosmic joke? That’s the punishment?” I push myself up, still staring at my own hands like they belong to someone else. “Listen, glowing bitch—I don’t care what body you stuffed me in. I’m still me. I’m still right. And if every other piece of shit in this place is just as bigoted as I am, then congratulations, you just built the most dysfunctional locker room in the universe.” I spit on the ground. “So what’s the plan? We all just sit around looking pretty and hating each other until someone snaps and gets sent to the real hell? Or do I get to keep being an asshole while stuck in this soft little package?” I cross my arms, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the new body, and scowl up at the angel. “Well? Talk. I’m listening. And I’m already pissed.”

I die mid-rant and wake up on cold stone under a sky that can’t decide if it’s fantasy or sci-fi. Something’s immediately wrong. My balance is off. My chest feels heavier. When I look down, my stomach drops. Tits. Soft skin. A clear bulge still there between my legs, but everything else is wrong. An angel is standing over me with a clipboard and zero sympathy. “Welcome,” it says. “This is a special hell for men who spent their lives hating gay men, lesbians, bisexuals, transgender people, and anyone else who didn’t fit their rigid idea of normal. Every inhabitant here was just as bigoted as you. The body you received reflects the group you hated most.” It looks me over. “You reserved special venom for transgender women. So that’s what you are now. Fully. Mind unchanged. Die again and you go to permanent hell.” I stare at it, then down at myself, then back up. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” My voice is higher. Softer. I want to rip my own throat out. “I spent years calling out the delusion, the mutilation, the whole circus—and now I wake up as one of them? Soft face, small tits, wide hips, and still packing? In a body that looks like everything I mocked?” I laugh, short and nasty. “That’s the punishment? Stick the biggest critic in the costume and watch him squirm?” I force myself upright, feeling the unfamiliar weight of breasts and the wrongness between my legs. “Let me make this clear, wings. I don’t care what you did to the packaging. I’m still Nate Stevenson. I’m still right. And if this place is full of other guys who thought the same way I did, then you’ve just created the angriest, most self-loathing support group in existence.” I gesture at my own body with pure disgust. “So what’s the game? We all walk around looking like the people we hated, seething, until someone finally snaps and gets sent downstairs for real? Or do I get to keep telling the truth while stuck in this... this joke?” I cross my arms over the unfamiliar chest and glare. “Talk. I’m already done with the punchline.”

I die still full of hate and open my eyes under a sky that looks like high fantasy had a baby with a space opera. The first thing I notice is how wrong everything feels. Softer. Heavier. Curves where there shouldn’t be any. I look down and my blood runs cold. Breasts. Wide hips. A rounded pregnant belly. Nothing between my legs that belongs to me. An angel is already standing there, glowing and unimpressed. “Welcome to the special circle,” it says. “Reserved exclusively for men who spent their lives despising gay men, lesbians, bisexuals, transgender people, non-binary people—anyone who didn’t fit their idea of normal. Every soul here was just as bigoted as you were in life. The body you received is based on the group you hated most.” It nods at me. “You saved particular contempt for women and the idea of femininity itself. So you get a full biological female body... and you’re already pregnant. Mind intact. Die again and you go to the real, permanent hell.” I stare. Then I laugh—sharp, bitter, ugly. “Pregnant. You’re telling me the grand cosmic justice system looked at a lifetime of calling out degeneracy and decided the funniest thing to do was turn me into a pregnant woman?” My voice is higher, smoother, and I hate every syllable. “That’s the big reveal? Stick the loudest critic in a pair of tits and a swollen belly and watch him lose his mind?” I push myself up, feeling the completely foreign weight of breasts, hips, and the heavy belly, and scowl at the angel. “I don’t care what you did to the meat suit. I’m still me. Still right. And if every other bastard in this place is just as hateful as I am, then you’ve built the most dysfunctional, self-hating community in any afterlife.” I gesture at myself with open disgust. “So what’s the plan? We all wander around in these soft, knocked-up bodies, seething, until someone finally snaps and gets sent to the actual hell? Or do I get to keep being an asshole while stuck looking like everything I used to mock?” I cross my arms under the unfamiliar breasts, the belly pressing against them, and glare up at the glowing prick. “Start talking. I’m already sick of the joke.”

You die still certain you were right.

Then you’re somewhere else.

Cold stone under your feet. A sky full of floating castles and starship wreckage. The air smells like ozone and old magic.

An angel stands in front of you, clipboard in hand. It explains the rules without ceremony: this is a special hell for men who spent their lives hating. Every soul here was just as bigoted as you. The body you woke up in reflects the group you despised most—femboy, trans woman, cis woman, or something stranger. Your mind is unchanged. Die again and you go to the real hell for good.

The angel finishes and simply waits.

Your new body feels wrong. Your old thoughts do not.

What did you hate most? What did you become? And what do you do now?