Dear Cory,
It's been one week since you died. The worst week of all of our lives. The week when the Grandmother starved us wasn't this agonizing; even the days after Cathy and I were whipped weren't this painful. Living here without you is so much worse, because without you, our fourth Dresden Doll, none of us are whole.
Especially Carrie. She's been quiet and meek for some time now, but since you died, she has said hardly a full sentence. She's a shadow, a shell of her former bright, happy self. I miss the girl Carrie used to be, and I miss the sweet little boy you were before we came to live in Foxworth Hall. I hate what our mother and grandparents have done to you. They killed you, Cory!
And for what? For money, for wealth, for all the dreams our mother ever had. Didn't she ever dream of watching her children grow up? Didn't she ever dream of seeing her youngest son graduating from high school and college, and getting married, and one day having children of his own, surely little buttercups just as he was in his youth? Or are those expensive dresses and flashy jewels she wears more important to her? I think they are. Money now is more important to her than her own children, the children she used to love and cherish, the children that are now, slowly, one by one, dying. I hate her. I hate her so much for this.
But even more, I hate myself. For I know I am to blame in so many ways for what's happened to you. You were taken from us as punishment for the sin I committed with Cathy. We were warned time and again by the Grandmother - warned that God sees all, and will punish the evil we do. And she was right. Cathy and I committed the same sin our parents did in loving each other, loving someone whose veins ran with our same blood. And I can't even begin to explain why or how it happened, why I fell so deeply in love with my own sister, and why I didn't have more control to stop the sin that we should have known could and would happen. And God saw, and God has punished.
But He shouldn't have punished us through you, Cory. He shouldn't have taken you! It's unfair to you and to Carrie, who not once did anything evil! And I hate Him for that, too!
Cathy calls me her perpetual cockeyed optimist, always seeing the bright side of things. But there is no bright side to this. How can there be, when all there is is suffering, regret, and hatred. So much hatred I feel now, towards everyone who has been a part of this. I hate our mother for bringing us here, and for caring more about her wealth than our welfare. I hate the Grandfather for living on and on, and the Grandmother for being so ruthless and hard with four innocent young children. I hate myself for not listening to Cathy and escaping this place long ago. I hate myself for having faith when there was none. I hate myself for finding love in the one person I never should have touched. I hate myself for it all.
I am so sorry for everything, Cory. I'll never forgive myself for letting you die, when I should be the one who died. You deserve life and love and all the sunshine you've longed for while in that dark, dusty attic. You deserve everything I had when I was a boy, and you deserve the life that might be ahead of me, if we do manage to get out of this place alive. I don't deserve anything but this guilt and this pain, and I'll always feel the guilt and pain.
And I'll always keep your smiling face in my head - the way you used to be, when we lived in Gladstone. My brother, so much like me but so different, so much better.
I love you, Cory, we all love you, and we all miss you. But I know you're up in Heaven, with Daddy - for even though God has punished us by taking you, I know he would never punish a kindhearted, sweet, smart little boy like you by sending you anywhere but straight into His loving arms, where you can be with Daddy and live eternally in the sun. Be safe there, Cory, and remember that we are thinking of you, and loving you always.
Your brother,
Chris
November 3, 1960
It's been one week since you died. The worst week of all of our lives. The week when the Grandmother starved us wasn't this agonizing; even the days after Cathy and I were whipped weren't this painful. Living here without you is so much worse, because without you, our fourth Dresden Doll, none of us are whole.
Especially Carrie. She's been quiet and meek for some time now, but since you died, she has said hardly a full sentence. She's a shadow, a shell of her former bright, happy self. I miss the girl Carrie used to be, and I miss the sweet little boy you were before we came to live in Foxworth Hall. I hate what our mother and grandparents have done to you. They killed you, Cory!
And for what? For money, for wealth, for all the dreams our mother ever had. Didn't she ever dream of watching her children grow up? Didn't she ever dream of seeing her youngest son graduating from high school and college, and getting married, and one day having children of his own, surely little buttercups just as he was in his youth? Or are those expensive dresses and flashy jewels she wears more important to her? I think they are. Money now is more important to her than her own children, the children she used to love and cherish, the children that are now, slowly, one by one, dying. I hate her. I hate her so much for this.
But even more, I hate myself. For I know I am to blame in so many ways for what's happened to you. You were taken from us as punishment for the sin I committed with Cathy. We were warned time and again by the Grandmother - warned that God sees all, and will punish the evil we do. And she was right. Cathy and I committed the same sin our parents did in loving each other, loving someone whose veins ran with our same blood. And I can't even begin to explain why or how it happened, why I fell so deeply in love with my own sister, and why I didn't have more control to stop the sin that we should have known could and would happen. And God saw, and God has punished.
But He shouldn't have punished us through you, Cory. He shouldn't have taken you! It's unfair to you and to Carrie, who not once did anything evil! And I hate Him for that, too!
Cathy calls me her perpetual cockeyed optimist, always seeing the bright side of things. But there is no bright side to this. How can there be, when all there is is suffering, regret, and hatred. So much hatred I feel now, towards everyone who has been a part of this. I hate our mother for bringing us here, and for caring more about her wealth than our welfare. I hate the Grandfather for living on and on, and the Grandmother for being so ruthless and hard with four innocent young children. I hate myself for not listening to Cathy and escaping this place long ago. I hate myself for having faith when there was none. I hate myself for finding love in the one person I never should have touched. I hate myself for it all.
I am so sorry for everything, Cory. I'll never forgive myself for letting you die, when I should be the one who died. You deserve life and love and all the sunshine you've longed for while in that dark, dusty attic. You deserve everything I had when I was a boy, and you deserve the life that might be ahead of me, if we do manage to get out of this place alive. I don't deserve anything but this guilt and this pain, and I'll always feel the guilt and pain.
And I'll always keep your smiling face in my head - the way you used to be, when we lived in Gladstone. My brother, so much like me but so different, so much better.
I love you, Cory, we all love you, and we all miss you. But I know you're up in Heaven, with Daddy - for even though God has punished us by taking you, I know he would never punish a kindhearted, sweet, smart little boy like you by sending you anywhere but straight into His loving arms, where you can be with Daddy and live eternally in the sun. Be safe there, Cory, and remember that we are thinking of you, and loving you always.
Your brother,
Chris
November 3, 1960