This is the story of a short letter.
I found this message from my grandmother’s at the bottom of the Box of Memories; although this is a commonplace name, the collection of memories in that insignificant tin box goes back exactly four years ago. The letter was addressed to no one in particular; in fact it was not a letter. It was a piece of journal where in her last hours she asked not to be judged too harshly for a burden that weighed on her shoulders for a lifetime and conditioned her existence. We we’ve been a damned family since last century because of the sense of guilt that grandmother decided to take responsibility for; we are still condemned by the society machine, and we seem to have no deviate from the path we were born on. We are genetically defeated. I’m nervous, my mother have been fighting against my destructive impulses, my older sister works too much and my other sister is just a hopeless reckless. We were made so by fate; we will not improve. But in our whole life we were happy for a day or two. And maybe we have known true love.
Prompt by The Writing Challenge 101