A/N: So, I've been watching SPN, and I gotta say, Purgatory is 'underutilized', to quote Crowley. Of course he was lying about his intentions, but it's true. It also seems there is nothing but vampires, and finding people you knew is easy, despite the millions of souls there (again, Crowely is not the most reliable source.) so I've decided to write this piece, a companion to my other story, Nothing More, and see what happens. So without further ado, chapter 1

From what I've read and seen, the biggest contributing factor to most mental illness and the loss of sanity is not having anyone to talk too. So, I'm starting a journal. I guess I'm a little too old to have a diary. So hear goes.

Dear Journal,

Hopefully you'll forgive the lack of writing utensils and paper; I haven't any. Besides the clothes on my back, I have nothing, so the random thoughts in my head will have to suffice. I'm not sure where to begin. Every day is the same- seemingly unending, until it does, and night, well night is like night in the desert- somehow more vibrant, with everything coming out to play; that is, to feed. It's just that… it seems most of the individuals, I suppose that's what you'd call them- human is inappropriate and monster seems self hating- were people, once, and act very human: angry, self righteous.

Sadistic.

My point, if this is hell, it's rather…. Nice. I feel guilty just thinking that, but I was expecting far worse. Can't complain then I guess. Oh, wait.

I'm separated from my son, who I can't be sure is even alive, and I'm in hell, even if it is nice this time of the season. Sent here by a dick with a complex, a dick which probably had no idea this is what would happen to me for all his self aware bullshit.

Amy Pond took a deep breath. She let her face relax from the glare it had developed into. And exhaled.

But my son is most important. I miss him, Journal. And I need to get back to him, before….

Amy glanced down from the tree she was in. Altitude meant safety, so long as there was nothing up higher than you, which was occasionally the case. She felt a tear slide down her cheek and disappear against the forest floor. Of course eventually something would come along and try to attack, but until then she was going to enjoy the view. Of off color trees and strangely threatening underbrush, but still Amy had to make do with less.

Before he forgets me. That's what really hurts. I can almost feel the world go by without me, stuck here with these,,,, the point is I don't belong. I shouldn't be judged for my actions because people want to avoid inconvenient truths.

I'm not a radical, or anything. I don't think the human race is corrupt or some whole anarchist rising up deal. I really just want to be left alone. I stuck to people who likely would have died, who would have killed and only because I had to. They were there and not on any terms innocent, by far. The fact is I want to judge. Judge others for what they do- those drug pushers, thugs, Dean Winchester, the same as any other mother, private individual….. person does and make my choices without them being reduced to what I am.

Amy shook her self slightly. She was getting carried away, and she didn't like it.

What I need, Journal, is a goal. Something to focus on. There's nothing here, and no way to get back to my baby. Every day is the same and sometimes I wonder, what would happen, if I just let myself get killed, ripped apart. Hasn't anyone ever asked themselves, what's the point of killing what's already dead? Where would you go? This place is like Central Park in the eighties (never been, but I've seen pictures. They weren't of criminals, but I've seen the park) calm and peaceful, but broken constantly by horrifying reminders of what really going on. It just keeps going and going and going…

I'm tired and I don't care. Maybe that's the point.

This truly is hell.