Jeff Wysaski
Saw you in the newspaper today. I must say, time has ravaged your once youthful appearance. If it was not for that smug grin of yours, I would not have recognized you at all. Honestly, I wish I hadn’t. And though it has been years since you stabbed me in the back, my resentment and hatred for you still blazes as brightly as the day it consumed me.
With each passing day I pray that Satan will drag your putrid existence into the bowels of hell so you may rot there for all eternity.
Regards,
Chester
—–
Dear Grandpa,
Hooray! We won the baseball tournament! Mom clipped the newspaper photo and put it on the fridge! Wish you could have been there.
Love,
Edward
—–
Dear Edward,
Why would you want me there? No doubt so you could humiliate me again. I hoped perhaps these last years would temper your cruelty. Obviously I was wrong. To this day I cannot watch a baseball game without cursing your name.
Regards,
Chester
—–
Dear Grandpa,
Did you see the Mets game last night? It went into extra innings!
Love,
Edward
—–
Dear Edward,
So you want my agony to extend beyond the traditional 9 innings? How dare you torment me! This will be my last letter to you, but before I cut all ties to my only grandson, I implore you to answer one question:
Why?
Why did you betray me? That infamous day. The one where I sat in the bleachers bragging about you to old man Peters. You, the star shortstop. His grandson, stuck in right field.
There I was, going on about how much I loved my grandson. So athletic. So talented. A future Hall-of-Famer for sure!
I was a laughing stock! “Some grandson”, they said. To this day I still can’t show my face at the Kountry Fun Buffet. I’m sure you know how delicious their catfish platter is. And what a price!
You’ve ruined me. I hope you’re happy. Don’t ever write back.
To Hell with you,
Chester