Twas the night of may 4th 1965 and the lights in my room were dim. There wasn’t a sound in the house as I lay in my bed. The door to my room swung open with a bing against my wall. It was him, the man that I had always feared. It was my father that I had seen seldom at the bar drunk getting beat up. He had a revolver in his hand. He told me to follow him into the other room. I knew he had a gun and I could obviously see that he was drunk. So I followed him thinking it was the best thing to do. He brought me into the living room were there lay a small child. The boy was covered in what looked like blood and sheets from the bed in my parents room. His head was sitting next to his shoulders as it had been cut off. His blood covered the floor surrounding him. My father took the revolver and shot himself. I felt fear and pain in my heart for the man who was my father but he was a man I did not love.