Hell is largely what you expected, Mr. Smotes. Horned devils wielding pitchforks, tossing stacks of bodies into moats of char and lava. Whirlwinds of disease scour the faces of sinners. Rivers of ground glass and rains of needles rush to refresh and ravage. And you get so hungry. So very hungry. If you brave the weather and the demonic rapists, the only food you’ll find is so fetid it leaves you hungrier and weaker and smaller and ultimately less - until you question what’s left of yourself. Hell is almost exactly what television led you to expect, Mr. Smotes.
Except it’s your daughter who serves your sentence.