A Parent's Plea

by Prometheus Rex

This is a letter that reached me two days ago.

"I am writing this as all things of this nature must be written. In the dark of night by no more light than that of a slowly brightening solitary candle. I have known evil in my short life. I have seen with my own eyes the depths of depravity to which man can sink. Though before this day, I had not known that it was all of us.

We, as a collective people, have not only sold our souls and given away our rights to those who would abuse them. But we have given them our children as well.

A solitary flame in the darkness is my only comfort here. My thoughts and machinations bring me no solace. Nor, do I think, that they ever will.

Due to our choices, our stupidity, our children are no longer our own. We gave them away, for the sake of convenience. We demanded that the government protect them, and now they have. First from television, our allpurpose electronic babysitter. Then from strangers, child molesters, the environment, dirty pictures, dirty words and even themselves. With each demand came a price, and due to convenience and our total lack of responsibility, we paid it. Each time only slightly more terrible than the last, we paid it. All for the simple fact that we couldn't be bothered. We couldn't take the time to turn off the damn telly and take care of them ourselves. We were too busy. We couldn't chase away the bogeyman or shine a light into the damn closet or even just walk them to school. No, we had to give our 'problems' to the government. We each became our own Judas and sold our children to a monster more insidious than all of them put together. With the stink of children on it's breath.

One which we created, especially for them. One which could protect them from everything, especially us. We can no longer teach our children right from wrong. Reward them when they are good, or discipline them when they are bad. That is all up to the state now. We must have permission to do so. And we didn't even get our thirty pieces of silver. We truly are bastards.

Next time you meet a social worker, thank them for taking away all those troublesome responsibilities. For relieving your burden. But don't forget to ask where your thirty pieces of silver are. Also, if yours have not been taken yet, tell your children how sorry you are (that is if you even care) but you couldn't be bothered and pray that they may one day be able to forgive us all.

In closing, please remember that I am not speaking to you from your television set, nor am I preaching from a pulpit, not even from a soapbox. I am writing this, in the dead of night, beside an empty crib, by the light of a single solitary candle.

Crying.

May god and the children forgive us all."

JOURNALIST'S NOTE:

This letter reached me through a rather circuitous route. It was found in the pocket of a man who had been shot while trying to take his son from a Santa Clara mental facility in which he had been forcibly interred. His son was in his arms when the bullet hit. Killing him instantly. His son wasn't nearly as lucky, he survived. The child was two and a half years old. The letter reached me two days ago. It was not signed. It still has blood on it. Why don't all of you just kill yourselves now and save God the trouble.

My name is Prometheus Rex. I am the outlaw journalist. And I am NOT going away.

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