Mama, we all go to hell.

Mama, we all go to hell.

I’m writing this letter

And wishing you well.

Mama, we all go to hell.

:Mama-My Chemical Romance:

The war was killing him. Literally. He didn’t know how long he could make it, blood was flowing quickly right out of him, and his body jolted with spasms of pain uncontrollably.

But he still managed to write to her. His Mama, the only woman who he knows he’d love forever. He wrote to her about everything, the hardships of war, and how he wished he could just go back home. He never sent his letters, as he couldn’t and he knew he couldn’t remember his home address. He had been that far from home for that long. He hardly remembered his Mama’s face.

The war grew on, until the enemy side finally gave up, and the winners were over doused with happiness. Three years of war. Three years away from home. The soldiers needed to see their families again, or they’d go crazy.

He had gotten better during those three years, but not by much. All those wounds were patched up, but his body still shook with those same spasms. The doctor said those would never go away. But he was happy; for today was the day he would see his Mama again, and he could finally give her the letters he wrote.

The time arrived, the time in which he’d see his Mama’s face again. He had taken a special airplane, so he could reach her faster, and he was giddy the whole ride home. When they reached the ground, he was the first one out of the plane.

He waited, and waited, and waited. Until the day turned into night, and his hope was burning out quickly, he gave up.

His Mama never came.

He decided he’d surprise her then, but he didn’t know how, since he’d long forgotten his home address. He asked around, but no one knew of his Mama or where he had once lived. Finally, after he was about to give up once more, he found it. The bright painted blue house with the creaky gate that he had lived in for his entire life. How could he have forgotten such a beautiful house? He asked himself as he walked up pathway, and knocked on the door.

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time.

Still no answer.

He rattled the door knob, and was surprised that it was open. He stepped inside, slowly and quietly, like a scared mouse. He scanned the area, the years of war coming back to haunt him.

He found his answer soon after.

His Mama was shot dead in her rocking chair, clutching a picture of him tightly to her chest, tear stains still upon her face.

He broke apart, like a frail wooden boy.

And was never put back together again.