3/31/25 Somewhere in the midwest
That writer was always scribbling. Always watching and scribbling. I liked her ok. I like the idea of recording the present. Mal laughs about it, I’m not known for my words. He can feast on Behemoth’s rump, something is compelling me to record our mission. So record it I will.
The writer, though, I assume she’s in the future like I am. Doesn’t matter at all to me. Time doesn’t mean much when you’re immortal. For her it might be more complicated. I’m back with the Circus. The Circus is back in their proper timeline. Past or future, we have an undying mission all the same. The writer? Her fate has been fulfilled, whether she knows it or not.
No one wants to speak of the horrors of Heaven. Better left forgotten, Mal says. When we reunited he wrapped me in a hug, grabbed my horns. We saw an earthquake. The tall spires of Deadwater Cathedral crumbling.
We saw our return.
Heaven
Oh how I smashed the competition at croquet yesterday afternoon! Such merriment was had. This is truly a place of peace and delight. How have I earned it? Well, clearly from putting up with those two harpies life threw my way. I was murdered by them both after all. I’m convinced of that now, for I met a man, a higher up in the administration here, who assured me that Evelyn did indeed push me off that cliff. He’s seen my records, he says.
“What you must have suffered being trapped in limbo, old chap, I can only imagine.”
“Indeed it was quite trying. I’ve come to accept that my time there was a trial from God. Something I needed to go through, something that made me stronger, holier, if you will.”
“Oh quite, quite. The Big Man does love a trial!” He laughed in very a jolly manner. He’s a portly man, must have been in life for food and drink here seem to be merely illusions. Scrumptious, but nonetheless unreal. I for one have been restored to my handsome, pre-drowned state. Although I try to remain humble, it is clear that I’ve caused a stir among the damsels of this domain.
Ah! I’d almost forgotten, the new arrivals from yesterday were shuttled straight into processing and no one has seen them yet. We are all anxious to pluck any of our ilk from the group, as I have learned that Heaven is quite… diverse. Unfortunate, but at least we civilized people are allowed our own grounds. My friend, The Administrator, says that’s what Heaven is all about. Segregation!
The writer would have hated it here. I’m certainly glad she’s in Hell.
Deadwater 3/31/2025
I’ve found journals that I’ve apparently been keeping for the past eighteen years. Yes, my daughter with Mal is eighteen. No, that does not make any sense. I joined the circus in 2018 and it is now 2025. Seven years not eighteen. I don’t know how to reconcile that. I’ve lost eighteen years in seven.
How?
I have a son, too. He’s sixteen. He’s a beast and so is his father. I drink, here. Substantially more than I ever have in my life. My family thinks this leads to what the girl, Miriam, calls dissociative episodes. Although apparently I’ve been unwilling to see a therapist.
Well no shit.
I’d be committed in a heartbeat.
The girl thinks my current husband is her father, I’ve kept the truth from her, it seems. It’s reasonable, I suppose, to not tell a child their father is a demon. She looks nothing like me or my husband, yet everyone swallows the lie. She looks like Mal. A softer, sweeter version, though her temperament is anything but. She’s brilliant, for one, quick witted and acerbic for another. She has none of Mal’s charm and all of his cunning. Still, she seems morally aligned with him, although she doesn’t know he or The Circus even exist.
For now I’m reading my own words, trying to find out who I’ve been the last eighteen years. I still write novels. The one I’m currently working on is good, so at least I haven’t completely lost my mind.
My husband owns a restaurant. He’s… handsome, the opposite of Mal in every way. Blond, stocky, friendly, but in a loud and abrasive way. A man’s man, he and the boy are into football, obsessively into football. Matthew, is the boy’s name. He calls me Mama, he’s aggressive and loud. This entire home is filled with brash, noisy, people… they are people though.
Not ghosts.
I feel like the only ghost here.
