Letter from a Daughter

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''I am worthy of living. I deserve to enjoy my life. I will live the way I want to.
It's six in the morning here in Indiana. I have nothing better to do than to write my story on paper. I am not planning to show it to anyone, except for you. By you, I mean the paper. Can I call you ''paper''? I hope so. Paper, the story that I am about to tell you is two weeks old only, so I might feel emotional while I say it. Please bear with me throughout my misery.
Two weeks ago, I woke up to the inhuman sound of my stomach gurgling at midnight. While I laid down, I felt the strength of the stomach ache catching up and moving like the fast-paced subways of America towards my throat. I screamed but I could swear that my stomach was shouting. I thanked God that my husband ate a heavy dinner plate filled with eggs and beans the night before. He didn’t hear me. I left bed, ran downstairs and opened the refrigerator to grab me one of those leftover cheese-sticks my children had left. As I reached out for it, I saw my arms, my poor arms, full of discoloration and shivering nerves. I was shocked after seeing my arms that even if an outsider sees me during this time would feel that I am admiring my arms like Picasso admires his works. I don't know what had happened to me that night. I was afraid but as the usual, I did not seek the assistance of anyone but myself. I closed the refrigerator door without taking anything, approached the hangers on the door, and took my car keys. I rushed to the closest clinic.
The receptionist glanced at my arms and couldn’t help but to ask me to go the emergency room. I did not know what was going on, I felt no pain in my arms and my stomach ache had started to suppress itself. I entered the ER room and the doctor ca...

... middle of paper ...

...ly, took my children and ran away from home. Now, I'm in a rented flat three kilometers away from the house. I need to go now paper, I need to go enjoy my life with my mother. Paper, I tell you that I am worthy of living, I deserve to enjoy my life, and I will live the way I want to.''
One week after this letter was written, Naomi, the wife of Robert Delone and the daughter of Mrs. E. Curren, was taken to a bedlam for the things she had mentioned to the police. No evidence of a man coming from South Africa was found, no letter from her mother was found, and no records for a murder were found. Ironically speaking, she said: ''the angel of death did come and deliver my mother's soul, you people need to open your eyes to see the truth''. Her attitude did not aid her case at all, since it only dragged her to Room 210 in The American Institution for Mentally Ill People.

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