I look back and see that maybe an academic setting is not the place to vent my spleen, so to say. I study hard the rest of the semester. I pass all my classes, except one. My Literature class has a big ugly D in the margin, and a zero where credits should be. Two weeks after the end of the semester, I receive a letter in the mail. It is a printout of my research paper, and my hand-written final essay. Attached to my essay is another paper, with red writing on it. I do not still have these documents, sent to me four years ago, but I can summarize what they say. My research paper had been done on Francis Scott Key. My paper had marks all throughout, although the only thing I could find wrong was the use of commas. It had a red D on it. The letter from my teacher to me, summarized, said that I had the talent to write of an elementary child, and should stick to manual labor for work. I was crushed. I have been writing stories to amuse myself since elementary school. To say that I had not. This morning Dad rode on the wagon seat with me instead of saddling his horse. We'd only been moving for about an hour when Dad pulled one of the pepperboxes out of his pocket, pusshed it into my ribs and pulled the trigger. I took my right hand pistol and shot him right between the eyes. I heard mother scrambling to get up and see what was going on, but I told her to just stay back there. I stopped the wagon, threw Dad's body over the side and then got down to retrieve anything of value from his body. After I had him cleaned out, with damned little to show for it, I removed his clothes and threw his body out into the woods.A couple of the men from on back came up then to see what was going on. I explained about unloading the pepperboxes and about what Tom tried. I even showed them the burn mark the cap made on my shirt and then told them what I did."It was the only thing you could do. When a man loses his mind like that and tries to kill his own child the whole world is better off.
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