My little sister Kathy is the writer in the family. She is involved in a on-line site that prompts it's members to write short stories using a provided sentence as the first line of their story. Recently the prompt was "hell found me." She wrote a really cool short story that you can find on her blog at dearlucylue.blogspot.com.

The following is a short story that reflected my mood on Sunday morning;

Hell Found Me

I'm sad to report that hell found me today. I'm sad because it confirms that I am a failure once again. You see, I try to avoid it at all costs, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. I hide from it in my every waking moment. I hide from it while playing silly computer games, or reading endless books with meaningless titles. I'm especially good at hiding from it when I ride my bike for miles on end. I have even been known to drive hundreds of miles in my car in an attempt to hide from it.

But it always manages to find me. Not every day. Not even every week. But it finds me.

The funny thing is that I sought it out to begin with. I spent years of my life in a profession that depended on hell in the lives of others. And like the physician who catches the plague trying to save the life of others, I caught it too. Back then I thought I could handle it. And I did. Sorta. I was in the company of others who were trying to help perfect strangers with their hell. We were the knights in shining armor! We were the heroes! We were invincible!

Oh the arrogance of the young.

I don't call it hell though. Oh no. I have a better name for it. I call it the bunny hole and I'm the mad hatter. The bunny hole is much more descriptive for me. It's a dark and lonely place down "there". I can feel myself descending into it as it happens. It's not a quick fall into darkness though. Oh no, that would be too kind. It's a slow spiral into the depths of of the abyss. And the darkness envelopes you like the feeling of being under water, or like wearing a big heavy coat pulled up over your head. It's heavy too. It sits on my chest, the pressure pushing against my rib cage. Sometimes I don't know if I can move. Sometimes its hard to breath.

So I assume the proverbial fetal position and ride it out. I don't speak or move much. I'm like the boxer who covers up as best he can while he takes a beating from his opponent. He knows it will eventually end but what will his injuries be. Will he be able to put the gloves on again and get back into the ring? Will the next beating be his last?

People close to me seem to sense it, but are afraid to confront it. Perhaps it's out of fear for their own hell: "There but for the grace of God go I." Or self preservation: "He's contagious. Don't get near him!!" More so though, I think its a feeling of uncertainty. What do I do? How can I help? If asked, I can't even offer tips for my own assistance. I told you its lonely in here.

In time, I am able to summon the strength to reach up and grab the rim of the bunny hole and pull myself out. I shed the heavy coat, wade onto the shore of the deep dark lake. It will take some time but my recovery is certain. After all, it wants to play again another day.