Dear Ma,
It hurts, Ma, to hope. To dream. No matter how beautiful the picture, it is always edged in darkness. I wish I could stop it, stop all this pain which burns my very soul. The candle is fading each day, and the gloom in this basement will soon swallow me whole.
Why does this have to be us? Remeber that day when I came home from school, bloodied after picking a fight. You sat me down in our living room, and scolded me to tears for half an hour before finally drawing me into a hug. I'll never forget what you said to me that day. "Ben, if you do good things, then life will give you presents of happiness and sweet candies of joy. But if you are bad, then instead you will get nothing but sorrow and bitter apples."
If I've been good, Ma, then why do I have a basket full of bitter apples when I should instead be chewing on sweet candies of joy? Maybe I was born evil, like the rest of Germany seems to think, and life is punishing me for breathing that first breath.
Would it be better if I gave up hope? Would the emptiness, the sickening pain in my gut, subside?
Goodnight, Ma.
Your son,
Benjamin L.
