The Pit and The Pendulum Ending
The Inquisitorial vengeance had been hurried by my two-fold escape, and there was to be no more dallying with the King of Terrors. As the logenze came together more and more, I could feel the heat jumping off the walls. I stood there, not knowing of my death: restraint or into the pit of endless panic-stricken stories humans could die at the discern of. The devil eyes that have stared at me with phlogiston before, had a look of trepidation struck once again in the devilish depths of their pupils. Sparks had seeped over the walls of hell. An inferno had oozed over and into my dungeon, my dungeon surrounded by a sea of flames in an abyss of Hades. A combust had percolated up my props, letting the sultriness corrode my skin as the linen of my garments had cauterized into the film of my own - scraps intertwined with my the skin of mine, sinking into the fast flowing red sea of my own, the pang had writhed itself around my soul, allowing the pain of being speared slowly, pacing itself into my heart, as a blood curdling scream waved out of my lungs, creating a oxidizing hell of a throe, soring itself around the insides. Sparks had got their fingers onto the follicles of the diminutive devils -- these devils had their torches stripped from their grasp: furiated. I was being enclosed by the rats, bringing pressure to my bag of bones unable to bear upon into, into, into -- into the The Pit. Slowly, I traipsed toward the rear, surely, descending into The Pit. My soul slowly submerged into what surpasses the cold sweat of hell. I sundered, bit by bit into my bereavement. Ground fine bridgework had sunk into myself bounded with linens of cloth, still becoming what was my skin. Time had not been what it was, I slowly felt the bitter bites masticating at the blood-soaked aliment, every minim, every crook, every flaw in the fang of the devils, I had unwillingly savored. I had felt the every meander of the last fang entering the rickety vein of my dextral wrist,