#3

Dear Frances,
Still not brave enough to ask mom about this horrifying ordeal, although I did manage to limp down the stairs on shaky legs and hunch over my own bowl of cereal next to mom. It was a silent meal, but for the crunching of our Frosted Flakes that seemed to count down every precious second I had left.
Maybe I'm just going insane. Maybe this whole thing didn't actually happen? Yes, that's it, I'm just going a little bit wonky in my old age. I ate some fromage bleu or something before I went to bed and had this outrageous, life-like but nonsensical dream about being the son of Satan and having five days to pack my bags and then rule over Hell forever. Or at least until my sinfully-made baby of the future replaces me. Yes, that is definitely it.
He said I only had five days! Ha! Well it's the third day, and I don't feel any different. Besides, there is no "he" anyway, because this is all some whacked-out dream I will most certainly enjoy telling Angela and Barry.
Ha ha! Oh Frances, what in the world was I thinking? Maniacal thoughts, that's what. Absolute rubbish thoughts. Very soon I shall wake, and I will be warm in my bed with my duvet wrapped tightly around me, just like always, and my cat will be sleeping by my feet, just like always, and my alarm clock will be buzzing because I have to go to school and learn about things that will help me with my future career on Earth that has nothing to do with Hell at all, just like always. Everything will be the norm. My life will go on as planned, filled with normal people and normal places and normal occupational obligations. I will still like to laugh. I will still like to do math. I will still like to do physics. I will still hang out with Barry and Angela and I will be normal. No Satan, no Hell, no father. No nothing. There will be nothing and no one. Normal.
Just like I always was.