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Dear Mama

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Dear Mama,

I always liked the song “Bohemian Rhapsody,” didn’t I? Well, I guess now I’m living it. Hahaha. Sorry, I shouldn’t joke; jokes aren’t funny when they’re true. Then, they’re just cruel. I guess I could apologize, but somehow, asking you to forgive me seems cruel too.

12 bodies. That’s what I gave you on the first day of Christmas, isn’t it Mama? 6 men. 5 women. 1 child. I remember that my fingers had just started to pull the bow off of the biggest present. I’d saved it for last because you were so sure that I was going to love it the most. Then, they burst in; kicked open the door and flooded our little home, clad in bullet proof armour. You automatically jumped in front of me, shivering.

Two of the intruders aimed their guns at us; “don’t move!” they shouted.

Most of the others stood in a semi circle around one who had hooked an unfriendly-looking metal cane onto one of our floor boards and was trying to pry it open. The board rose higher and higher, creaking as it went, and then fell flat on its back. One of them, a tall muscular man, peered into the gap that had just been created. I saw his eyes widen, and then slowly narrow. He reached in, and pulled out a little pile of bones; the entire room groaned.

The man stared straight at me; hatred flickering in his eyes, but his voice as composed as it could have been; “Is this your doing?” he asked simply.

You stopped shivering Mama. I saw you turn stiff. You still stood in front of me, but you didn’t turn around. I sighed and looked down at my present, still unopened; I knew that I would never get to find out what it was.

You may be wondering why I’m telling you this, Mama. You were there, you saw what happened. Thing is Mama, if I can’t make jokes and I can’t ask for forgiveness about what happened and what I did; the only thing I can do is remember, and remind you that I still do. So now that that’s out of the way, I’m sure you’re at least a little bit curious about how I am. I may be a monster, Mama, but I’m still yours.


There’s not much I can do here. I just sit and scratch my arms all day; scraping away the dirt and grime. It’s as if I’m searching for some beautiful, lost city hidden beneath ruins. Usually though, I only find rivers of red that slide down my arms and pool at my feet.

There’s a single window that only lets in a single beam of light. The light hits me right in my left ear and if I try hard enough, I can hear it whispering stories of the outside world; stories of birds, trees, people, and bugs. Sometimes I talk back, Mama. I ask it to tell me about you. Nothing ever happens. At the end of the day, it just disappears in place.

But it’s not all bad, Mama; I get a 1 hour rec period. I always spend it writing this letter. I’ve written this same letter 1434 times, you know that Mama? Since around the 10th time, nothing at all has changed about it; not the words, not the punctuations, just that number. After I’m done, I slip it out through a little crack in the rec room wall; hoping that the wind will carry it to you, that you’ll find it like you always seemed to find everything.

Time doesn’t exist here, Mama. Just like these letters, nothing here ever changes. For all I know, I could be living the same day over and over again. It’s only writing down that number (1434, today), that reminds me that there’s an “out there,” where things are moving and happening. But in here, I feel like a penny forgotten in an old tin can. I feel like a VCR stashed up in the attic. I feel like the Titanic melting away at the bottom of the ocean. I feel like it’s a wonder that I can still feel anything at all.

Yours Still,

Me



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BohemianRhapsody96 said...
Oct. 6, 2013 at 10:03 am:
This was great. Thank you for writing this!
 
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