To God From John

I had never gotten along with my father. Nor had anyone for that
matter. I often felt him to be a mean man, and so did others, including
my mother. He would become irritated easily, and often yell obscenities
at whoever displeased him. It was somewhat odd for a man of 45 to be so
violent to all. It was odd only because the town we lived in was
regularly a quiet one. Except for Bill, my father. Bill was a big man,
quite large in the stomach, but also had muscles that could beat
anyone's. I guess he was strong from all his work on the farm, and he
was the only one to ever work on his few acres of land. He stayed in
the fields all day, only to return to our small, wooden building we
called home. He criticized it almost every night and said he wished he
lived anywhere but there. Nights were terrible at our place, as mother
was fragile from all the yelling coming from Bill. She would do as he
said, no questions asked. He would sit and rest until he could think of
something that would insult me. He tried everything to make me sad, but
I always tried to keep a good head. I knew I was more intelligent then
Bill's 45 years of life's hardships.

His attitude continued to be violent until one night it was too much
for my mother to handle. I was 13 at the time, and she sat me down
during the afternoon of one scorching Friday. I was reading when mother
came over to my chair quickly and uneasily. She looked very pale and
quite troubled. My mother pulled a stool up beside me and took the book
from my hands. Placing it on the table, she glanced out the window to
make sure Bill was far off into the fields. She took my hand and placed
it into hers, only to take her hand back moments later. Having the face
of confusion, she whispered to me,

"John, I love you and always will. You're my only son and my heart is
now only for you. I loved Bill when we had you. But I find my love has
lost its will for Bill. Your father isn't the sweet gentleman I once
knew him as&;#8230;look at me John. I am in such poor health. And I
believe it to be Bill's fault. I am telling you this because I am going
to leave your father and you here. I believe he can look after you
better then I, for he has a steady income and I am sure he loves you
dearly, although sometimes that love is not easily found. When your
father comes back in I am going to tell him I need to go to the market
to pick up some things. But when I leave and walk down that long dirt
road, I will not be returning. I wish the best for you in life. This
may be hard for you to understand, and I only hope you will not hate
me. John, I love you. Please, if you learn nothing in life, learn now
that you had a mother that loved you so much, but couldn't handle the
pressures of your father."

She took my hand once more, then leaned over and placed a kiss upon my
check. She handed me back the book, and cooked up some dinner before
she got her things ready to leave. She had a basket that looked empty.
I suppose she was using it as something to carry goods purchased at the
store in. But underneath the blanket, placed in it, rested a large
metal object. I knew nothing more of it.

Bill entered not to long after our conversation. Disgusted with his
life as usual, he sat waiting for dinner. She placed the plate in front
of him. He looked at the one slice of bread, rotting apple, and corn on
his plate in discontent. She gently told him that she was walking to
the store for some kitchen utensils and would be back in short time. He
paid little attention to her and continued to eat. My mother then
walked to the door and looked back at me sitting at the table eating
something similar to my father. I could see tears swelling in her eyes,
yet I knew little of what she was really doing.

I didn't understand what was happening. I was trying to think of why
she would leave us, but my mind was drawing blanks. She was such a
caring, loving person. Why would someone who cared so much want to
leave us here? I started to think back on what I could remember about
our family and realised it was very unpleasant.

Beatings are what my mother was used to. He would hit her for little
reasons that certainly did not matter in life. He was an angry man for
having and unfortunate life.

She had bruises on her face and I know why. My mother was quietly
crying when she walked out that door. I watched her walk down the road
and saw her look back once, only to raise her hand slightly to wave. My
father ate all his dinner, and then rested in his bed for almost an
hour. He got up to ask me where my mother was. I told him that she went
to the store. He went to sleep.

The next day Bill woke to work on the farm once more. I was still
asleep and am now guessing he knew she hadn't returned. I woke to hear
him yelling at himself. He was angry with my mother for not coming back
home. I knew this from what he was telling himself. He walked into my
room and started to yell my name. When he noticed I was awake, he asked
if I knew where my mother was. I repeated to him that she went to the
store the previous evening and never returned. Bill then ordered me to
get up and walk into town to see where she could be.

I didn't know what to expect when walking into town. The day was
another sunny, hot and humid Saturday like the rest. Bill went into the
fields and I could be seen walking along the dirt road that lead to
Louisville. I walked and walked for what seemed like forever. I could
see an unusual object lying at the side of the road up ahead. At first
sight I believed it to be a large animal of some kind. But as I got
closer, I noticed the basket my mother had taken with her.

As I walked up beside Mary's body, I felt tears swelling in my eyes. I
now knew the object she had taken with her was a large, butcher knife.
I could see that it had been applied to her neck. A puddle of blood
surrounded her corpse. With the knife still in her hand, I kneeled down
and touched her blood stained face. She was cold, and this made me jump
up from my place on the ground. It was an odd kind of cold, due to the
fact she had been burning in the sun for a few hours. But I believe the
cold I felt wasn't from her body, but from her soul that now was no
longer inhibiting her body. It left coldness in her, which made me sob
even more. She was gone, and I could have done something to prevent
this. Or could I.

I ran back home to tell Bill of what happened. I stomped through the
field to his place, only to see his face glaring at me when I
arrived.

"John, what the hell is the matter with you? I was just working on that
part of the field. You're such a fool; do you not care about eating? Do
you not want to live in that building of ours? Think about it, you
little rat. What's so important you couldn't wait?" At this point I
wasn't sure whether to be angry or saddened. I tried explaining what I
saw but I found myself crying in place of words. I made him follow me
to the place on the road, after convincing him it was more important
then his field. He found my mother and stared at her with open
eyes.

He wasn't crying nor did he seem unchanged from his previous
personality. He looked back at me and asked if this is what I found
while walking down the road. I told him that I had kneeled down to
touch her, but that was all.

"Well that was a dumb thing, the police might have found something. You
can be a real idiot sometimes." That was all he said to me. We walked
into town and got the police to come out to her body. He did the
explaining for me on what happened, mostly to cover up that fact he
ignored her the night before and how this could have been avoided if he
had stopped to love her for a change.

I didn't learn too much of what was going to happen next. We went back
home, and he threw me an apple to eat for dinner. He went to bed early
and I sat on a chair in the main room trying to comprehend what had
occurred over the past few days. I could see why she did what she did.
Bill didn't care about her or me. He cared about his farm and making
sure his was the best and most looked after of all in the county. He
didn't love her; he used her to make sure his home was appropriate. He
was going to use me next.

The next day he kept me home and made sure I followed his orders. I was
making plans of my own to confront him during dinner. I didn't care
what he was going to say; I was going to speak my mind.

I prepared a large meal, as requested. Two apples, an orange, three
slices of buttered bread, and a cool glass of milk were what he got
that day. He sat eating, as I bit at my decaying apple. I said to
him,

"Why is my mother gone?" And he continued to eat until he was finished
chewing one of the slices of bread.

"Shut up and eat&;#8230;she's gone now and we can't do anything
about it." This statement appeared to surprise me more then expected. I
threw my plate from the table and started to yell,

"She did everything for you, and you didn't even look at her. She was
your slave, and you didn't even have the courtesy to give her a glance!
She kept this place looking half decent, and you just hit her when she
made a mistake. I hate you! You don't love me! You have never loved
anyone! I wish you would have killed yourself instead of Mary!" I ran
off sobbing to my room and slammed the door.

A caring person would have been sympathetic, but not Bill. He ran in my
room only to yell at me about how I ruined my dinner and was being
inappropriate to him. I knew what was coming from this. The only thing
I didn't know was what I was going to do.

He walked out of my room, and reappeared moments later with a leather
whip and some rope. He grabbed my hands and tied them to the headboard
on my bed. With one knee, he pushed my legs down and then placed his
weight down on that one knee. I was paralysed in this position. With
his other hand, he ripped my shirt off and threw it aside.

"Your gonna pay for my pain boy. You've cause enough pain this week.
Time for you to feel some pain of your own." Bill said this in a stern
yet pleased voice, which gave me the impression he enjoyed what was
about to happen. He used one hand now to grab the headboard, which was
keeping him from falling over. He had the whip in his other hand, ready
to start the events that were imminent.

He started off with a punishing thrash to my back. He did it again, and
again. It hurt so much yet I did my best to keep a dry face. He could
see me flinch in pain, but he also knew I wasn't crying. And that was
the opposite of what he wanted.

"C'mon boy, you know it hurts. It hurts your back really bad. I can see
the cut marks and blood forming already. I know you want to cry, you
little bastard. Cry, cry, cry like you've never cried before." Bill
said this in the most pleased and happy tone I have ever heard him say
anything.

This taunting, the loss of my mother, and the pain all together in one
made me cry out in utter humiliation. I know Bill loved this. It may
have been the one thing he ever loved in life. He loved my pain. And I
knew it. But I couldn't help but cry and sob, for the pain I have
suffered then and now. It wasn't only the whips on my back, yet that
did contribute. The fact my own father was in love with hurting me was
also enough to make me cry.

He kept on whipping, even after my back looked raw. Blood was stained
into my bed sheets now, and my pillow was also soaked with tears from
my eyes. He kept on hitting, and as I opened my eyes to look at what
was in front of me, I could barely see a object which was behind my
bed, laying on the ground. After staring at it, I could see it was a
brick. This was fortunate for me, but I still had no way of reaching
for it.

Bill continued to pound on my back. After a while my left hand was
wearing out the rope that had kept it tied to the bar on my headboard.
After several more whips to my back, it just slip out of the ropes
grasp. Bill didn't notice, taking to much pleasure from the cuts on my
back. I was able to reach under my bed and grab at the brick. With the
little strength I had left, I threw the brick behind me, and hearing my
father yell out in surprise. The brick hit Bill square in the head, and
left a large gash on his forehead. His body feel to the ground, and lay
there in an unconscious state. I untied my other hand, and slowly moved
from that position to one of an upright status. I stood before him, my
back still bleeding from the cut's, in amazement that his beatings were
finally over.

Without thinking, I immediately walked outside to the barn, where a
large axe was inside with my name on it. I took the heavy item, which
seemed light in this fit of rage, and walked back inside. I am not sure
why I chose an axe, why not a knife from the kitchen? I did not know
this, and frankly could care less. I walked back inside to my room, and
without thinking raised it, ready to insert it's shiny, sharp blade
into my fathers neck.

I now had no more love for this beast I call my father. Not that I
ever loved him much, but feelings were present due to the fact he was
my father. But after what he had done to me, I knew I could no longer
live with this creature. I stood there, staring at his helpless body,
knowing what was about to happen and how it was unavoidable. Full of
rage, I swung the axe down into his neck. I then pulled it from his
wound, which was discharging blood. I then continued to hit him with
the axe several more times, until all I could see was blood. There was
blood on my hands, clothes, floors, walls, and all over his body.

I guess I didn't know how badly I looked, for the people in town were
gazing at me in horror. I walked the path with an empty head, excluding
the hate that was still present from my prior whipping. I got into town
and a large man led me to the police station. I described to the
officer what had happened, and we drove out to our home.

The room must have been a disturbing sight, as two of the officers ran
out only to vomit on the wooden floors in the main room. I stayed there
while they went into my bedroom to investigate. Some time later an
officer of higher status appeared to tell me everything would be all
right, and to just wait there for a few moments.

Back at the police station, a small woman told me that I was going to
be sent to an orphanage and put up for adoption in New York. She said I
wasn't in trouble from the police because of what was happening to me
in the first place. They were calling it "self defence" and that I
would be free.

That started me thinking on what an odd place we live. In a sense, my
father killed my mother, and nothing happened. I killed my father, and
nothing happened. It left me with one more thing to do: kill myself.
And nothing would happen.

And so while waiting at the orphanage for a new family, I found the
stairs to the rooftop of the building. I stood at the edge, somewhat
scared of jumping. I found the nerve to jump, and it didn't take that
long. All I had to do was to think back to my mother. I knew if I
jumped I would be reunited with her. And even Bill couldn't stop us
from being together again. So I jumped down and hit the road with one
last punch of pain. I had been used to pain of all kinds, and this was
finally the last time I would ever have to feel it ever again. I was
tired of that same sensation, and happy to rid my body, and mind, of
it.

That's why I am pleading my case to you today God. You now know the
story of my short life. All I ask is that you allow my mother and I to
continue our lives together within the compounds of heaven.

Do I deserve it? Did I not kill another human being? Yes. But did I
have reason to? That's your decision.