When I was seven years old my father was shot and killed by my best friend at the time, Richard Green. We were at my father’s new house on the corner of Spilter and Morningside, in Poland, Ohio. The previous night some vandals had attacked his house and he had taken out his gun in case they pressed the issue. Nothing happened during the night. That morning Richard and I stopped in to see him. While we were in the bedroom talking, Richard saw the gun on the floor, picked it up and was looking at it. I saw my father notice the gun in Richard’s hand and reach out to tell him to put it down. At that moment Richard pulled the trigger. I saw the startled look on my father’s face as realization of what had happened came to him. A small red spot had appeared on his chest very near his heart. He exclaimed in a voice mixed with fear and awe “My god, I’ve been shot” and ran to the phone. I stood there in shock not knowing what to do. Richard had dropped the gun and was apologizing over and over saying he did not know it was real. My father could not dial the phone successfully and ran downstairs. We followed. He ran outside and yelled at the top of his lungs that he had been shot and then fell to the ground or was helped to the ground, I can’t quite recall. Two men who were working construction on the house across the street came running to his aid. I remember vividly how long the strides were of the first man to reach my father as he ran across the street. One man kneeled over my father and said everything would be all right the other ran into the house to try to call for help. Since my father had tried to dial the number upstairs and failed and the phone was off the hook he quickly came back outside and ran across the street to use another phone. Still in shock and now starting to cry I climbed on my bike and rode home. That was the last time I ever saw my father. I entered my house in a daze not sure what was real and what was not, hoping it was all some sort of bad dream but knowing that it wasn’t. My cousin Amy, 5 years younger than me, greeted me at the door and asked me what was wrong. I mumbled something and went in search of anyone. I heard the sirens soon after and looked at Amy and told her I knew where the sirens were going. I sat around silently staring at the wall while my family wondered what was wrong. Then the phone call came. My family was informed of the shooting and asked my uncle to take Amy and me for a ride. On my way out the door I looked down the street and saw Richard running up and down the driveway with his mother running after him. I don’t know what they were doing and can only imagine her reaction upon finding out what had happened. That was the last time I ever saw him. They moved within a few weeks. My uncle took us for a ride around Poland, maybe we actually bought something maybe not, I don’t recall. He kept saying that everything would be all right and asking me what had happened. I was silent. When we got home my mother and grandmother and some other people, probably family but lost in the memory of the event, were standing and sitting around the living room. I could tell by the looks on their faces and the tension in the room that my father was dead and they didn’t know how to break it to me. I don’t remember who actually said the words or how as I was already heading up the stairs for my room. I buried my face in my pillow and cried long and loud. That day marked a turning point in my life. It affected me in many profound ways that I would not realize were related until much later.