September 13, 2013
He’s good son until bipolar disorder attacks in high school and makes crazy, and Dad and I are relieved he marries bipolar woman and moves away so we rarely see. Years later he calls and says she divorced him, and I overrule Dad and say, we’ve got to make room.
In few days he’s scarier than ever, and threats upset Dad who’s got Parkinson’s bad.
Son, you’ve got to behave, I tell him.
You’re not treating like adult.
You’re not acting like adult.
You two are out of line and here are rules, he says, shaking paper he nails to bedroom door.
We get restraining order and turn on video recorder in living room and Dad sticks pistol in pocket.
Take me to store, Son orders.
No, I say.
I oughta stomp you, he says, and waves long lighter at me and hits legs.
Dad jumps up and draws pistol from pocket.
Sick old man you’ve always made me sick now you treat like crap that’s what you are.
Dad shoots Son in chest but like bull he charges and throws Dad down and beats till quits moving and then shoots in head. Dad dies right away. Son’s still alive in jail. I wish Dad had shot in head. Maybe that’s where he aimed.