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Letter to CPS

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Child Protective Services,

The world, with all its hurt and heartache, is no place to raise a child. I am remorseful for not realizing this before we had Katie, before her mother died, but there is little I can do about it now.

It was the perfect temperature the day I found out my wife was pregnant. An impossible blue colored the sky. The grass was lush and dark green as it is in early summer. We had taken a walk, so it must have been a Saturday.

The baby’s room was completed long before visible signs of pregnancy appeared. We spent so many hours in there painting and talking. Dreaming. We cuddled on the floor, admiring our work. All I could think about was the smell of new carpet and Twilight Woods. I savored every moment. I’m rambling, it seems.

I didn’t plan on doing this to my own child. It just kind of happened. I know people won’t understand what the anxiety does to me, but the thought of my Katie walking out the front door is crippling. It’s like that feeling you get when you realize something awful is about to happen. Sickening. She could be raped, abducted, or drown. She could trip on the sidewalk and skin her knee. What if she stepped into the street and was crushed by a car? There is so much that could go wrong and I can’t let her take any chances. She is my perfect creation and the last breathing reminder of a woman that I loved too much.

I am writing this letter because in my attempt to save Katie from the world, I may have ruined her. I can’t live with that. What was once a bright baby’s room has become an embarrassing prison. Paint peeling from the walls and black mold are barely visible due to the darkness. When Katie was five I covered all her windows with trash bags. I feared the sun would give her skin cancer.

The thing that I hate most about where I keep Katie is the smell. As soon as I step into the room all the air in my lungs is replaced with stench. The smell can only be described as decay. Decaying walls and decaying flesh. I have taken to wearing a surgical mask when I enter. By her groans, I can tell Katie does not like this. It absolutely kills me.

The room in which she stays is far too damp. I shudder to think what kind of things grow in the filth. The air is heavy and sordid. When I leave the room I can feel a film cling to me. I honestly don't know if it’s something physical or just a manifestation of my disgust with her condition.

Katie is in poor shape. The places on her extremities where the ropes are in contact need to be addressed in a more sterile environment. Maybe with anesthesia. Her skin has slowly begun to grow around the ropes. After years of thrashing, deep crevices wore into her arms and legs. I tried to keep them clean the best I could. I would splash antiseptic in them nightly. Her screams were maddening, but they needed to be clean. Katie is too weak to fight now so the skin grows unabated.

I am not sure why I did not foresee this, but so many years bound to a chair have caused Katie to under-develop. Her bones and muscles seem so small compared to what I think fifteen year old girls’ should look like. I doubt her poor legs would even support her if she tried to walk. Her facial features are sunken in. Her skin, so thin and pale, shows no elasticity. Her backside is now form-fitted to the original hole I cut in the chair. A tight place and excrement have created an endless battle against infection. I clean her and change the pan under her chair daily, but I must be diligent so the skin rot does not return.

The condition of Katie’s mind may be more depressing. Her communication consists of coos and growls, but I hardly even hear that anymore. Her occasional mannerism is animalistic. She stares vacantly at the fading blue tarp under her chair, probably not capable of forming coherent thoughts. I did not intentionally raise her like this. I tried to talk and show affection to her. I just had to keep my visits brief. I didn’t want to give her the flu or something worse. She was just better off in isolation in those early years. Someone so feeble just needed the quiet.

I know I have a sad situation on my hands, so that is why I’m reaching out. I plead someone in your organization will act swiftly to get my Katie some attention. I have loved Katie with all that I am, but I have found this wasn’t enough. Her breaths are shallow and it seems some deeper issues exist that I can no longer address on my own. I’m afraid life will escape her altogether if this goes on much longer.

I leave my house and all my possessions in hopes they can bring some sort of retribution to whoever ends up taking care of my daughter. I have said my goodbyes to Katie. With difficulty I must leave the country, for the judicial system would not be kind to a loving father like me.

Again, I must beg for a quick response to the situation. Katie will be unattended and the makeshift feeding bag I have fit for her will undoubtedly not last. I have replaced the normal pan under her chair with a larger bucket, but this will not keep her clean.

Let her know I love her often and please treat her well. She may not look it, but Katie is a wonderful girl,


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