A long time ago, we had a small family. A prosperous, wealthy, and affluent family. I had a beautiful and gorgeous wife, a helpful son, and a huge corn farm. Rising in the dawn, preparing for breakfast, waiting for sunrise to come out. Milk and eggs with a teapot of tea, every time I swallow tea, something haunts my mind. These things play my mind, I didn't even imagine that it'll happen to our lives. The brightest life changed to the darkest life, ashes.
Someday, we will evolve into an enormous family. My son would have his own life, a wife, and a child. I should be worthy of his vitality. I want his life abundant decent than my esprit. But, the dreams led to my crime and damnation...was 100 acres of good land in Hemingford Home, Nebraska willed to my wife, Cristy Roms. Following the death of her father. It was much my intention to add her 100 to our 80-acre freehold farm, as it was to someday pass it all on to my boy Wilfred, and to his thereafter.
In 1901, a man's pride was a man's land. And so was his son. My wife, who never did take to the farming life, wished to cash in her new land. She wanted us to leave all this behind. As a husband, I thought of going to the law on the matter. And yet something held me back. It was not fear of neighbors chatter or country gossip. No, it was something else. I had come to hate her. That was what held me back. And I believe that there's another man inside of every man. A stranger. A conniving man. That spring Wilfred had grown sweet on Shane girl from next door. And the conniving man thought he might use this to his advantage.
Well, a murdered man or a woman does not on God's time but man's. And if she is cut short before atoning for sin, well, all errors must be forgiven. In 1901, I murdered my wife. My son aided me. This is a thing I regret, even more bitterly than the crime, for the reasons that this document will show. I discovered something that night that most people never have to learn. Murder is a sin. Murder is damnation. But murder also works.
In those days, all sorts of things happened on farms out in what we called the middle. Things that went I remarked, let alone reported. In those days, a man's wife was considered a mans business. And if she disappeared, well, there was an end to it. Taking them all would have been a mistake. She had left on foot and only taken what she could carry. If God rewards us on earth for good deeds, then maybe satan rewards us for evil ones. I can't say for sure, but that was a good summer. Plenty of heat and sun for the corn and just enough rain. Wilfred wasn't always uh u smiling that summer, and Shane was the reason why.
Wilfred returned from school later that day and brought with him some news. Shane's father prospered more than most farmers in the years 1896-1901. And her father had always been good to me. I'd always considered us not just neighbors, but good friends. Yet at that moment I hated him. Not because he'd come out to tax me about my son. No. It was that shiny blue Cadillac he had. It was the new barn painted bright red. It was indoor plumbing. But most of all, it was the plain-faced, biddable wife who's sweetly given a reply to any problem would be: "Whatever you think is best, dear."
Wilfred went off to school the next day without any argument. Probably because I let him take out the T. Once he was gone, I started searching. I wonder if she (my wife) had socked a little something away, just like the story I sold the sheriff. Each time I found nothing, I became convinced there was something. Waiting for a teenage boy to come to his senses is like waiting for a broomstick to sprout flowers. But what choice did I have? I had murdered by my wife to keep my home. The only way I was leaving it now would be in chains.
Sometimes work is the only thing to help drive out bad thoughts. Fixing a leak would only take a day or two. I needed work that would keep me through the winter. The next day I took out that mortgage for $800. In the end, we all get hooked up.
Until I discovered, my son Wilfred and his girl Shane found dead when they robbed. Wilfred's body arrived in Hemingford by train on the 20th of December. Rats bite on their faces. Got to both of them before they were found. No father should have to kiss his son for the last time, but if any father deserved such a fate. It was I. During the burial, the attendance was much smaller for Wilfred. That was the end of 1901. The darkest end of 1901.
I lost the farm, of course. I was forced to sell at an insanely low price. Shane's father hung on till about '25 or so. I went to Omaha, a city of fools. And I hauled pallets for 14 months. The only reason I stopped? Whenever I tried to busy myself with work, to keep out the thoughts, they'd find me. Took me two solid years to drink up Cristy's hundred acres. When I wasn't drinking. I visited the places that Wilfred had been during the last month of his life. Wilfred was right, there was another way. There always is. But in 1902, the conniving man inside farmer Fred had begged to differ. But I can't pray now or ever again. If I got down on my knees, I think God would strike me dead. I hope there is no God. I imagine all murderers hope there isn't. Because if there's no heaven, there's no hell. In the end, we all get hooked up.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness and shadows, only light can commit that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that. Because no matter how massive the sadness is, how much it affects us sightless and forfeited, even the slightest flicker substantiates powerful enough to replenish your illusion, your significance of principle. As long as you’re existing, there’s constantly that ember within you that rejects to perish. It shines and it scorches. And you reminisce that there’s always a direction out of the dark.
Just love, it will conquer everything 😊❤️