Chapter Text
As much as he hates to admit it, heaven has grown on Pentious. Does he still miss his friends? Of course he does. But it’s not like he doesn’t have plenty of distractions.
Cherri’s little “letters” served as one of said distractions.
But the main thing occupying his mind right now is something far more important. Someone far more important.
His mother.
She has to be here. She had never harmed a soul.
He is sure, so sure that even when he was in hell, he hadn’t looked for her.
She is here.
But where?
He had Emily spread the word. Anyone whose son went to hell was to pay him a visit, just in case. With the population of hell as high as it is, you would think there would currently be angels lining up outside his door.
But none came.
The more he thought about it, the more he realised.
An angel, raising a demon?
What kind of mother would ever want the confirmation that she had failed her own son? That she had made it to heaven while he had suffered in hell?
Could his own mother bear to see him again? Would she-
A soft knock at the door.
He slithers to the door as fast as he can manage. It swings open violently to reveal a shorter woman, dressed in a modestly long skirt and cardigan.
A pair of glasses reminds him of the pair he himself once wore, but his mother never wore glasses.
And more importantly, his mother wasn’t black.
“Apologies, sweetheart, but I heard you were the soul redeemed from hell?”
“Yes, that is me.”
He rubs an awkward hand to the back of his neck.
“Though, I do apologise, I don’t believe you aren’t quite the woman I was looking for…”
The woman smiled, letting out a soft laugh.
“No, I don’t suppose I am.”
Something about her did feel familiar though…
“You’re… welcome to stay if you like. You’re- uh… actually the first one to come around.”
“Oh, of course! It’s a pleasure to meet you, mr…”
“Sir Pentious.”
She shakes his hand.
“Beatrix.”
Beatrix shuts the door behind her and sits at the table. He follows after, sitting across from her.
“So… uh… you have a son in hell?”
“Yes. I had hoped you would be him, but I’m afraid your accent says otherwise.”
“Ah. Well, what did your son sound like?”
“He had the voice of an angel. I would give anything just to hear it again. I haven’t heard it since he was just a child.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did he…”
The death of a child is always tragic. Her poor son-
“No, no, nothing like that! He moved away, to the city. He never visited, never called. It was like I never knew him. Then, one day, I got a visit. From the police. They told me his body had been found in the woods, with the gun still in his hand. Shot straight through his head- they were sure it was suicide.”
Oh dear. He remembers growing distant from his own mother. He too had moved to the city, in search of a new life. He too had neglected to write, or visit home.
Had his mother not seen him since he was a child either?
“But I knew- I knew something wasn’t right. My boy was happy! Always smiling. But they shut the case. Told me I was mad.”
She clenches her fist in front of her, squeezing her face in frustration.
“The gun was in his right hand.“
She bangs her fist on the table loudly.
“My boy was left handed!”
No… could it be?
“It was murder!”
He recalls witnessing many murders. So many innocent men and women brought to their untimely deaths.
And he had done nothing.
That was how he had ended up in hell in the first place. Negligence.
Most of them had been in the city, right on his doorstep.
But there was one, one he had seen when out walking in the woods.
One he could never forget. One that made him sure of one horrifying detail.
He knew who her son was.
And he knew she was right.
It was murder.