To Whom It May Concern:

 

If you are reading this, I am already dead. Ever since Mr.
Wonka left me the chocolate factory, my life has been a living
hell. I had woken on several occasions to what I am sure were
the Oompa Loompas stroking my young body. Within two
weeks of taking control of the factory, my grandfather became
addicted to Fizzy Lifting drinks, culminating in a tragic fan
accident. I am sure the Oompa Loompas ate the remains.

 

The ghosts of the dead children haunt my every waking
moment, and pursue me through these twisted halls in my
nightmares. Verruca screams, burning from the harsh flames
of the furnace. Augustus Gloop gurgles chocolate from his
bloated features as he struggles to call my name. The gum-
chewing girl bursts on a regular basis, showering me with
blueberry-scented entrails. I think Mike TV still lives in the
walls like a mouse, stealing my things and keeping me
awake with his tiny footsteps.

 

My other grandparents died long ago, and I shudder to think
of their final fate at the hands of those tiny orange-skinned
monsters. My mother long ago went insane, teeth rotting from
candy. She is locked in the cellar, though I feel her fetid
breath washing over me from time to time and hear her
shrieking laughter... "golden ticket... golden ticket."

 

The pressures of all this have broken me, compounded with
the trials of a 10-year-old trying to run a factory populated with
imps, with ledgers all cut in half and unreadable. As I take my
life, leaping from the Wonkavator (freedom, sweet freedom), I
damn thee Wonka. Where ever your soul may rest, I damn
thee.

 

Farewell,

 

Charlie.