"A rich and mighty Persian once walked in his garden with one of his servants. The servant cried that he had just encountered Death, who had threatened him. He begged his master to give him his fastest horse so that he could make haste and flee to Teheran, which he could reach that same evening. The master consented and the servant galloped off on the horse. On returning to his house the master himself met Death, and questioned him, “Why did you terrify and threaten my servant?” “I did not threaten him; I only showed surprise in still finding him here. I originally planned to meet him tonight in Teheran,” said Death."

Taken from Viktor E. Frankl's book, Man's Search for Meaning. We are our worst enemies without knowing it. No matter how you interpret the story, it is the servant's fear of Death that brought him to his demise.

It would be interesting to wonder if Death did inform the servant that he was supposed to meet him in Tehran that evening, or did Death merely expressed his surprise (as he claims to have done) but did not disclose any other information. But either way, knowing the truth does not change the fact that he was going to die.

Your feet grow heavier with each subsequent step, your body writhing with contrite disgust. As you painfully climb the cold concrete staircase that runs like a crooked spine up the pale building, a horrid feeling creeps down yours. The deadened corridoors echo with ghastly noises - muffled screams, crepitus, grinding metal, and loud, petrifying growls that make satanic death metal bands sound like kittens.

Upon reaching the Fifth level, you heave a trembling sigh which barely escapes your tight, panting chest. Raising an arm to swipe the salty mix of perspiration and tears off your face, you cannot help but to notice how mottled and brittle your skin has become, like dried leaves in melted snow. You catch a curious glimpse of your very own visage on a broken window only to withdraw violently in fear.

Fear, of both the horrors that may surface behind the cracked glass, and what is left of your flesh

A few more steps, and a terribly putrid handrwiting greets you: [[Bunk of H and H. Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.]]

"Shot a-gain! What a merciful death-th. It sssure beats learning about the horrors that lie behind these wallsh," you mumble to yourself in a ghoulish voice.

Alas, you have reached the bunk, and with what's left of your feeble limbs, push and nudge open the jammed door. Putrid fumes leap at you like wraiths feasting on innocent souls; a smell so vile that it drives the last vestige of sanity out of your body. You turn back, but instead collapse to the ground, wriggling and choking. A khaki green garment shoots out of nowhere and wraps around your neck and dragging you towards a festering rad pile of dismembered limbs and human innards.

Struggling, you curse this foul place and its inhabitants. You curse the unspeakable evils that will occur to these fiends, the very same atrocities they invented. You curse them over and over again,  without realising that you have become one of them.