Victor was a boy who liked to write stories. He wrote everywhere he went. He wrote at school, during his lessons. He wrote in the bus. He wrote when he visited his parents.
Victor lived with his grandparents. He liked to show them his stories, and every once in a while they would read one of them. ‘That’s not much of a happy ending, is it?’is all his grandmother ever said. Grandfather corrected his spelling and grammar.
When Victor got older, he asked his parents to read his stories. They explained that they couldn’t digest words, only images. He asked his grandfather if his parents were illiterate. Grandfather said ‘no, they just don’t like to read’.
Victor never gave up. He wrote and wrote. His spelling and grammar became impeccable. Still his grandfather would only comment on alleged mistakes. Victor once asked him what difference grammar and spelling made to the quality of a story. Grandfather refused to look at him and yelled ‘you should know that by now’. Victor just wrote another story.
Grandmother kept wishing for happier endings. He once asked what that meant, a happy ending. She couldn’t explain it, she had only been taught how to complain.
Victor turned into a man who liked to write stories. He wrote poetry, he wrote prose. He even wrote television scripts for a while. His parents always admired the director.
Victor never got angry. He just wrote. His last story was about a young woman who murdered both her parents and her grand parents. ‘That’s not much of a happy ending, is it?’ his grandmother said. She never read his last words. He had chiselled them into the spotted marble himself.