DISCLAIMER: This might not make sense if you haven’t read Polly and the Demon Pts 3-5 from the previous Halloween and April Fools issues.
Hell’s sweet depths, it was hard trying to figure out how your stupid human post thing worked. You better appreciate this. I slipped it into one of those blue metal things myself, had to glamor and everything, and you know I’m no good at disguisement magic or anything sneaky at all. I went and begged a favor off my sister—you remember her, the one that tried to pluck one of your nostril hairs off in your sleep for a potion. Anyways, I struggled, I humaned, you get the point.
Actually I heard someone at the blue box say that no one sent mail anymore. Is that true? I swear the last time I was in your world they still sent mail. I mean, you used to get mail at our apartment. You always had it piled up on the coffee table, and you’d go through it every Sunday grumbling under your breath and get mad at me when I snatched one away. The bills made you mad though, so why shouldn’t I burn them? I could burn the bill person for you, they’re going to Hell anyways. Or the president. Or the post dude—do you seriously call him the Postmaster General? What, does he command the stamp armies? Strategize for skirmishes against the enemy forces of gmail?—but I admit that would be more for my own benefit.
Do you still do that by the way, the mail thing on Sundays? You always liked your rituals, but I guess I wouldn’t know now.
I had to write the date on the mail envelope. Wow, I can’t believe it’s been four years. I really meant to do this all sooner, but you know how time gets down there, endless punishment and eternal sadism blah blah blah. Well, I guess you don’t know how it gets. That was the problem.
I had to write your new address too. Before you kill him, no, I didn’t get it from Mo, I got it from your mother. She’s always liked me… maybe that was a problem too, what with you and your mommy issues.
And you know, good for you, I never really liked that old place anyways. Way too small, and the bathroom door would stay closed even with all the magic we used on it. But you wouldn’t live in Hell with me, even though the commute would’ve been quicker with a portal than with your city buses, so I put up with it, damnit.
Yeah, I put up with it. I put up with a lot of things, and Hell, I didn’t even complain. I mean I did complain, but not really, not seriously. I put up with it and shut up about it, and screw you if you couldn’t appreciate that. You were always hounding on me to talk to you about my feelings, my life, be serious for once Alex, stop making everything into a joke Alex, but I was doing you a favor.
What did you want to hear? That I hate the sounds of the damned souls screaming me awake every morning? Well, I don’t. We don’t even have mornings down there, and I don’t need to sleep, and the screams of the damned are like music to my ears. Or what, that good ol’ Dad Satan never has time for me because of his many many paramours and the many many children he had with them? Wrong there too. We still have family wargame nights, it’s honestly sickening. Dad’s not even a sore loser, he’s quite graceful about it actually.
Or did you want to hear that time never meant anything to me before I met you, and then suddenly there were days and nights, and afternoons stretched into small forevers, and weeks passed too quickly for me to remember to remember them, and I would wake while the moon was still high and watch you sleeping and think about how you are decaying already, your weak little brief mortal body, but you got so mad when I told you I could make you a demon and we could live together forever—
[A few inches of paper covered with scorch marks, the scribbling beneath unintelligible.]
I thought about transforming myself into a human form and coming up here to meet you again as a stranger. We’d do all the things we could never do as me and you, like get married or grow old—
[More scorch marks.]
I’m sorry. But—four years, Polly, when there’s already so little time left.
Polly. Polly, Polly, Polly. I want to say your name out loud again, and hear you say mine back. And I really did mean to contact you sooner, or at least not hole up in Hell for so long where you couldn’t reach me, but you know how time gets when you’re stuck in your head like that. Reliving memories, going over where it went wrong.
Satan, I sound like one of those sappy breakup songs you always hated.
Whatever. It’s useless to pretend I have any dignity left now, but are you really going to make me say it? You’re really going to make me beg?
P.S: By the way, there’s a charm on this that tells me when you’ve read to the end, so I’m in front of your door right now about to ring the bell. I bought you sushi!
Let me in?
Author’s Note: The April Fools part of this is the angst. You wanted crack? You wanted fluff? Too bad.