The Happiness Equation

Now, some of you reading this may may find this next bit of information hard to believe but in September I am going to begin studying English at university. I know some of you think I would be much better suited to 'Royal Studies' but English is my real passion. I have decided to share with you a couple of pieces I have written. The first few will be from a few years ago so please pardon their naivety! The first piece of writing is something I had to write for my AS English course in year 12. We had finished reading and studying 'In Cold Blood' by Truman Capote. This was the first book, we studied in class, that I really connected with and I believe this connection influenced the following piece of writing that I must admit I am pretty proud of! The book 'In Cold Blood' is created around the real life events of the murder of the Clutter family in the deep South of America and primarily the two murderers Dick and Perry. At one point the two murderers, keen to find information of the police case in to the murders, whilst on the run, read an article about a 17 year old boy who murdered his family. You never find out the details of this strange case in the book, so, when asked to write a transformation piece I chose this small nugget from the book to expand on. I hope you enjoy reading.

The Happiness Equation

It was only a baseball but it meant so much more to me. It was always looked at, never played with. A lifetime on a shelf, neglected, always wishing to connect with a bat. The baseball was my father’s and something he had promised to me since the day I had first seen it. The ball however never belonged to me. It had been cast away to my sister the moment she had asked for it. Whatever she wanted, she got. It was felt like I had been shoved on a shelf. The only inkling that I was my parents son was a photo. I was neglected, always wishing to connect with my parents. Just like my baseball.

My unhappiness had begun the moment my sister was born. My parents cooed when she made the slightest noise. This always made me feel sick. Some people called it jealousy. I called it cruelty. As she grew older I expected the attention would become more evenly spread, but nothing happened.

By the time my sister was a toddler the situation had grown worse. Even at this tender age her hate campaign had begun. Don’t be fooled by clouds of ringlets. These curls had ensnared my parents, wrapping them up, focusing their attention on ‘their Angel.’

I even began to start playing up at school. I wanted my parents to notice me. The poison injected at school was however neutralised by the antidote that was my good reputation. My teachers saw me as the ‘perfect pupil’ and any wrongdoings were put down to ‘a phase’ or ignored completely. I was always an ‘exceptional pupil’ the teachers therefore allowed ‘momentary lapses’ to go unpunished. My parents and I grew more distant still until one night when I knew something had to be done. I had been waiting for them at college for a meeting with my teachers to discuss my ‘sociability issues.’ My parents never turned up. I was left standing outside in the dark on an October night. When I had walked the 3 miles back to my ‘home’, despite the fact that home is where the heart is, my parents were dismissive. Reassuring me that they never knew anything of a meeting, and that ‘the angel’ was ill so they couldn’t have made it anyway. The calendar however told a different story.

I came upon my plan whilst trying to get at my baseball. It was on a shelf so high that I had to stand on my Father’s desk to get at it. Whilst clambering up on to his desk however I knocked some papers, they fell to the floor scattering everywhere. I hopped off the desk, realising that if my Father found anything out of place there would be hell to pay. I picked up the papers, intending to put them back on his desk. Something caught my eye, however. ‘Scott and Simon Solicitors.’ The letter was headed, it looked official. I began reading the first page. It was a renewal of insurance form. My Father had just updated the life insurance. This is when my plan began to bubble in my soul, bursting upwards, hurtling towards my brain. Thousands of schemes entered my head. I was dizzy. One question still rang true. How much was my happiness worth?

Over the following nights I calculated my plan. Working out, as I had dubbed it, ‘The Happiness Equation.’ I knew I could play innocent. I had done it many times before and besides, no-one ever suspected poor innocent Lowell. I had to wait for the right time. I had everything I needed. I had organised an alibi, all was set. ‘The 28^th of November’ The day my family finally noticed me. I picked up the shotgun I had concealed under the floorboards and went downstairs.

I looked right into their eyes. In that last glance into my family’s soul I saw only fear, no love or compassion, just a fear of a son who had become more distant as their love had transferred. My parents pleaded with me to spare my sister in exchange for their lives. I could not help wondering if they would do the same if the roles were reversed, if my sister was holding the gun.

I shot all three. I topped my father off in spectacular style the blood spreading, forming intricate patterns on his shirt. It has only occurred to me now that I finally got the recognition I craved. It came in the form of one word, a word I hadn’t heard my father say in a very long time. With his last gasp I heard the faint sound of ‘Son?’ I shot him for a final time. His acknowledgement had come too late. His last word would forever belong to me. I strolled out of the house, stopping only to pick up my baseball.