On the table, in my room, there is a skull. Everybody keeps telling me it is ugly, and that I should get rid of it, and that it is not proper for a nine year old to have a skull on his desk. They are telling it to me almost as often as they are telling me that I am a good-for-nothing, who does nothing right.
They think I stumbled upon the skull, but I knew exactly where it was when I dug it out, for it is the skull of my father. Nobody knows of this, not even my mother...poor thing, still thinks father left us. But that is not the way it was, no!
No, I was not there when my father died, nor when he was buried. How then did I know where to find his skull? One day a drunk man I've never seen before came up to me on the street and told me: "I knows who ya are. Ya don't knows me, bo' I knows ya. I knows ya well, ya lil' bastard, 'cause I killed ya pop. Aye! An' ya look just like'em! Killed'em and burried'im in the garden of the o' mill, unda' the oak tree."
So I went straight to the old mill, and dug out my poor father's remains, and took his skull. Took it home and put it on my desk.
From now on I won't be a good-for-nothing any more, from now on I'll do things right, because from now on I'll be under the vigilent eyes of my father.