Concrete Hell

“Abandon all hope, you who enter here.”
Canto III, Inferno – Dante Alighieri

He remembers his death, but also the exact moment when he woke again, with a body corroded by jobs that will never appear on a résumé, a broken smile, and a gaze that no longer seeks escape, but meaning. He was reborn in a Latin American city where hell has no flames: there is concrete, noise, and pollution breathed like punishment.

Each day, Dante crosses invisible circles with his wired headphones on, those that tangle like his thoughts, walking among graffiti-covered walls that do not decorate, but warn. One of them, the clearest and cruelest, whispers without voice: “Abandon all hope, you who enter here.”

He wakes before dawn, not by will, but by necessity. His body, still half-asleep, throws itself into the ritual of public transport—lines that do not move, buses that never arrive, drivers who do not look; each journey is a test of faith and each stop a penance. In this circle, time is not linear, it stretches, breaks, and mocks. He is not only pushed by the masses, but also by forces beyond his control, like traffic and indifference.

He enters the government office—does it matter which? Health, housing, education, or justice; all have the same wall color, the same tone of voice, and the same clock that marks nothing. He sits and waits, the system does not recognize him, he hands over papers, the process does not proceed, others are missing, the signature is invalid, the stamp is absent, he lines up again and the appointment is canceled. People around him dissolve, while he listens to the same song for the third time without realizing. Outside, the sun begins its course. It is the second circle.

He does not run, for he learned that running draws attention, but he walks with tense shoulders, lowered gaze, and alert ears. There are streets where he must turn off the music even with headphones on. In his neighborhood, fear is atmosphere, sirens announce nothing new, and fights are like background crickets; there are also the neighbors’ eyes that no longer greet and children who learn to sing narcocorridos before they learn to read. They sing in circles.

Dante has felt ill, and though the pain has lasted weeks, going to the health center is another form of wear. He already has an appointment, yet still waits among crying babies and elderly people asleep in broken plastic chairs. When finally called, the doctor does not look at him, asks quickly, writes without listening, and prescribes without explaining. He nods, takes the paper, and leaves. Outside, there is almost no sun, nor medicine in that old pharmacy. Inside, the illness persists in vicious circles. The fourth circle.

Dante works only because not working would be worse. That day he changed his shift to the afternoon to attend the health center. At his job there is no recognition, only tasks that repeat, bosses who do not look, and wages that do not suffice. Time is not measured in hours, but in deliveries; fatigue is not acknowledged, it is demanded. And though Dante cannot wear headphones, he hears the repetitive sound of machines, keys, voices that order without asking. Sometimes he wonders what this rhythm is called—the rhythm of the fifth circle.

He wants to learn, but each attempt returns him to the same place: overcrowded classrooms, tired teachers, and content that does not dialogue with his life. If he seeks alternatives, he finds prices: “finish high school in 3 months,” courses that promise a future but charge for the present, “looking for a well-paid job?”, private schools offering excellence and scholarships that do not apply to his age, “get your 80% scholarship.” Education has become merchandise. And Dante is not a client, only part of the circle.

He is always online, but his phone vibrates more than his body, receiving messages, notifications, alerts, but few words that name him. He posts on social media, comments, responds, but there is no love. His story is told by others; he checks his profiles like one checks a wound—not to heal it, but to confirm it is still there. It does not matter if it is three in the morning or if the circular dance of the sun is about to begin in the sky.

He wakes late on his day off, goes out for a walk. But he does so indebted, not only to banks, but to promises never fulfilled. He looks suspiciously behind shop windows, as if the displays knew his balance; the lights seduce him, but he no longer falls easily, he knows each offer has a trap and each discount is a disguised debt. Sometimes he enters, not to buy, but to remember what it feels like to desire without fear; even that has become expensive. He wanders through those endless malls.

Dante ends his day off in a cantina where he talks with strangers, not for conversation, but for necessity. There are experiences one must go through alone, and there are hells that are not literary, but made of concrete. There are also times when death is paradise. He laughs out loud, drunk, until he loses his phone and his headphones, as if the city stripped him of the last thread that kept him connected—and then, no messages, no music, no alerts. Only him.