Dear Planet Earth,
That’s how he greeted me the last time he came to my cell. He was all smiles as he sauntered in, sat at the table and crossed his legs.
“My name is Perry. I guess you could call me that if ‘Dad’ or ‘Father’ feels too weird. It would feel weird to me.”
I laid on my cot, doing my best to hide the old book he gave me, A History of the Inheritors, behind my head. I didn’t want him to know I was reading it, that I’ve been reading it nonstop since I got it in the vain hope of finding some worthwhile reason to abandon family, friends, and species.
I’m tempted to not write anything. He’s watching. He’s reading this blog right now and there’s nothing I can do to stop him from learning about me besides staring at a blank wall all day.
There’s no use in trying to hide anything now. So, if you are reading this, Perry — and I know you are — screw you. Screw you for walking out on your wife and child. Screw you for kidnapping me multiple times. Screw you for selling out humanity to the mole people.
“Is there something you wanna say, little guy?” he asked me last time. His smile was stone, unperturbed by even my most fiery glares.
“I’d hate to have been you in middle school, Perry Panus.”
He laughed — more than I’d like for him to have laughed. He stood up to go with a painful grunt and said, “Well, I guess things don’t get more real than that.”