Hadesfic!
I-- well, there are really no words, except maybe
I'm sorry and I don't know what possessed me to write this.
Title: The Will of Mary Hades
Word Count: 604
Rating: PG-13
To My Dearest Offspring on the Occasion of My Burial
Dear children,
Even the least observant among you has realized at this point that I am dead (glaringly obvious, as, if my instructions have been properly followed, you are all neatly lined up in mourner’s weeds next to my open grave in St. Vladimir’s Graveyard shortly after noon on 4 November). Against the nature of this place we’ve all congregated, I have decided upon my death not to return to life in any way, shape, or form. This letter, prior to my impending burial very much unopened, is being read to you by my youngest son, Lethe, who no doubt breathed a sigh of relief upon reading the previous sentence.
Yes, that’s right. My children and husband, the finest conglomeration of criminals in man’s recent history, have all or nearly all failed me by casting off from this mortal vale of tears at least once and often twice, thrice, or a dozen times. While your determination to wreak havoc even to the point of clawing your ways out of Hell’s fiery belly would normally be applauded, more often than not it is something far more petty that lured each of you back. Love. Society. Luxury. Physical pleasure. To some of you, our family’s namesake was literally too hot to handle. You are a disgrace to the name and do not deserve to bear it.
When each of you eventually dies or re-dies your natural death, I will be waiting Below, expecting full accounts of your lives and activities from this point forward. (Last-minute conversions and imploring for divine mercy and forgiveness will not be tolerated under any circumstances; take note, Phlegethon.) I expect each and every one of you to work to the end of your considerable abilities to ensure the corruption of the world; intense personal suffering to all those you or I called enemies, fools, or even vague idiots; and exhaustion of your resources for personal gain. You all should be willing to strangle your own firstborn children before admitting defeat.
A good way to begin the process is this: kill Lethe. He is standing next to my grave, a spot I hand-picked because there is no shelter for scores of yards in any direction save a few larger tombstones. Shoot to debilitate: stomach or shoulders are preferable, but should he be wearing a bullet-proof vest, simply go for the legs. The less there is of them, the better. Once he is bleeding sufficiently and cannot escape, please open my coffin (which you will find empty for your own convenience), lower him into it, and latch it shut. Next, lower it quickly into the empty grave (kick it in; handle it as roughly as you wish). Have the gravediggers fill it immediately. No one will notice that there is one less mourner as you exit. Get to work, children.
(Lethe: Should you have chosen to ignore that last paragraph and refrain from finishing this letter, I will know. I am nearby, and you are squarely within the center of my viewfinder. It is more comfortable to bleed and suffocate to death than to ooze to death from burns, but I will leave it up to you whether you prefer to be shot or subjected to my flamethrower. The same goes for any of my darling children who may at any point during this operation have called me a “terrible psychotic old hag” or any variation thereof.)
Get to work, children. Make your mother proud.
With the best of motherly wishes for all of you,
Mary Hades
I'm sorry and I don't know what possessed me to write this.
Title: The Will of Mary Hades
Word Count: 604
Rating: PG-13
To My Dearest Offspring on the Occasion of My Burial
Dear children,
Even the least observant among you has realized at this point that I am dead (glaringly obvious, as, if my instructions have been properly followed, you are all neatly lined up in mourner’s weeds next to my open grave in St. Vladimir’s Graveyard shortly after noon on 4 November). Against the nature of this place we’ve all congregated, I have decided upon my death not to return to life in any way, shape, or form. This letter, prior to my impending burial very much unopened, is being read to you by my youngest son, Lethe, who no doubt breathed a sigh of relief upon reading the previous sentence.
Yes, that’s right. My children and husband, the finest conglomeration of criminals in man’s recent history, have all or nearly all failed me by casting off from this mortal vale of tears at least once and often twice, thrice, or a dozen times. While your determination to wreak havoc even to the point of clawing your ways out of Hell’s fiery belly would normally be applauded, more often than not it is something far more petty that lured each of you back. Love. Society. Luxury. Physical pleasure. To some of you, our family’s namesake was literally too hot to handle. You are a disgrace to the name and do not deserve to bear it.
When each of you eventually dies or re-dies your natural death, I will be waiting Below, expecting full accounts of your lives and activities from this point forward. (Last-minute conversions and imploring for divine mercy and forgiveness will not be tolerated under any circumstances; take note, Phlegethon.) I expect each and every one of you to work to the end of your considerable abilities to ensure the corruption of the world; intense personal suffering to all those you or I called enemies, fools, or even vague idiots; and exhaustion of your resources for personal gain. You all should be willing to strangle your own firstborn children before admitting defeat.
A good way to begin the process is this: kill Lethe. He is standing next to my grave, a spot I hand-picked because there is no shelter for scores of yards in any direction save a few larger tombstones. Shoot to debilitate: stomach or shoulders are preferable, but should he be wearing a bullet-proof vest, simply go for the legs. The less there is of them, the better. Once he is bleeding sufficiently and cannot escape, please open my coffin (which you will find empty for your own convenience), lower him into it, and latch it shut. Next, lower it quickly into the empty grave (kick it in; handle it as roughly as you wish). Have the gravediggers fill it immediately. No one will notice that there is one less mourner as you exit. Get to work, children.
(Lethe: Should you have chosen to ignore that last paragraph and refrain from finishing this letter, I will know. I am nearby, and you are squarely within the center of my viewfinder. It is more comfortable to bleed and suffocate to death than to ooze to death from burns, but I will leave it up to you whether you prefer to be shot or subjected to my flamethrower. The same goes for any of my darling children who may at any point during this operation have called me a “terrible psychotic old hag” or any variation thereof.)
Get to work, children. Make your mother proud.
With the best of motherly wishes for all of you,
Mary Hades