That Little Letter

Chapter Eighty Eight

"Poor pathetic boy,
Sitting on the spoiled ground.

Poor pathetic boy,
Hardly making a sound.

Poor pathetic boy,
Beaten up and bruised.

Poor pathetic boy,
So wrongly accused.

Things are rough for him,
The poor pathetic boy.

Every second day comes a man,
And he's just a toy,
The poor pathetic boy.

Poor pathetic boy,
Curled in a ball against the wall.

Poor pathetic boy,
Hearing the footsteps from down the hall.

Oh poor, poor, pathetic boy,
The door has now opened.

Let yourself go,
Oh poor pathetic boy."

Confusion boiled through Max's veins as he continued to read the letters in the folder. Nothing was making sense. It didn't even look like his father's writing. It was written in a dark black ink that seemed a little smeared, but that little detail didn't really matter. Max placed that letter to the side and continued to read through the others that were shoved into the little folder.

"Little beaten boy,
Staring up at the ceiling.

Little beaten boy, 
Stuck to just believing.

There must be a way out.

But that's where you are wrong,
Little beaten boy.

There is NO way out.

Oh you poor, poor little child,
Little beaten boy.

For the beatings have only started off mild,
Little beaten boy.

There has to be a way out.

But boy, I have already told you.

There is NO way out.

You pathetic, broken, little beaten up boy.

There has to be a way out.

Don't make me laugh.

There is NO way out.

Fallen tears had decorated the floor,
But they had stopped and grew into a chore,
For little beaten boy.

There has to be a way out!

Oh, kid, shut up while you still can.

There is NO way out!

Days upon days and still no freedom,
Little beaten boy, you're so dumb.

Out the window.

I snicker.

Oh, but it is locked!

Oh poor, pathetic, beaten boy.
It'd just be too easy if I were to end you.

The latch the latch! I can break the latch!

Don't make me go up in there, boy.

I got it!

And so, there it is.

Round thirty eight, pathetic little boy.

I'm coming for you."

Max felt something slowly shift in his mind, as if puzzle pieces were starting to line up in a row in his mind, but still, not everything fit together. He didn't understand what these little notes or letters were meaning. They were talking nonsense, and however way Max tried to read it, it wouldn't help. 

So, Max just continued.

"Despicable little toy,
Why isn't your body already lifeless?

Despicable little toy,
Do you know who I am?

Oh, my despicable little toy,
Do you know who you're messing with?

You may wish to know who I am,
And what role I play in your life,
But oh,
Despicable little toy,
You don't want to know.

I was there when you were born.

I was there when you fell.

I was there when your mother left.

I was there your entire life.

Which only leaves one thing,
Despicable little toy.

Did you ever know your father?

Or, could he have been his twin brother all along?

Enjoy the last moments of your life,
Despicable little toy.

Rest well."

And that was when everything slowly started to click together. He didn't need to continue reading the letters, not anymore. Everything slowly made sense and suddenly, memories came flooding back. Too much for him to bare.

Max fell onto his knees weakly and all of his muscles felt like they were nonexistent. The blood felt like it was flowing slower through his veins and his ears didn't hear everything they could have before he fell. The walls seemed to blur all together as he remembered what had happened in that attic, and immediately understood why there was odd memories in his childhood.

Soon everything made sense.

But reality wasn't what he wanted to be in anymore. He didn't want to be apart of anything. Nothing could take him in and comfort him. No one could show up and mend him back together. Nothing could help. Because reality was a bitch, and Max couldn't do a thing about it.

So, instead of staying sprawled on the floor like a baby who couldn't do anything, he stood and walked toward his bedroom. When he entered, it didn't feel like the same bedroom he had slept in for the years he had stayed in this house. It no longer felt like a sanctuary.

It now felt like a prison. Just like his life.

And he could no longer feel himself do what he did next.