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. Veruca 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. Whereever your soul may rest, I damn thee.

Farewell,
Charlie