Or this:

You think I care that he did it? You think I care that he's gone? I'm the "10-year old child from a previous marriage" -- the newspapers won't even say I'm a boy. I'm the precocious 10-year old child. That's what my mother calls me to her friends like it's some badge or something that I'm supposed to wear on my white school shirt so everyone will know how to treat me. I know exactly what it means. It means I talk a lot when my mother and my teachers and friends wish I'd shut up. Shut up, Raymond, can't you just shut up. Close that big mouth of yours. Not my therapist though, she's happy if I talk a lot. She says it means we're "making progress." That's a joke, and I know what all those big words mean, like "divorce" and "sole-custody" and "supervised visitation" and "restraining order." I know all those words and I know who he is, or now, who he was. He said he was my daddy but you'd never know it from the time he didn't spend with me after they took him away.

Some reporter woman came over to the house right after it happened, right after I saw him do it, and she stuck a big smelly microphone in my face (don't they wash those things) and said, Your father just killed himself, how do you feel?

I said, I'm going to Disneyland.

She sucked her breath in all fast like I'd just hit her good in the stomach. Imagine, little me hitting someone her size. She said, What do you mean, Disneyland?

What are you stupid? I'm going to play with Mickey Mouse and ride the Mattehorn. What else do you do at Disneyland?

That stopped her. She stood there with the microphone and there was some big guy behind her holding this camera at me like it was a rifle. He started laughing, so hard he had to put the camera down. He got you, he said. Adults are so stupid sometimes. You say something they weren't expecting and it throws them. They can't think fast enough. You can almost see their minds clicking. His father shot himself. He's going to Disneyland. What?

So I thought I would help her out. Is that camera going?

Yeah, I saw him kill himself, I said. I saw everything. Everybody did. All my friends. We were at my friend Ahsi's house after school and we had the TV on. That's A-h-s-i. He's Indian. From India, you know? They cut away from our favorite episode of Power Rangers and put on the news show. And there he was, on the steps of the courthouse, holding his policeman gun.

How do you think I feel? How would you feel? He shot himself in front of all these people. He shot himself in front of my friends. My father did that. And they showed everything in red, white and blue, didn't even turn away when he was lying there twitching with a big red stain going down the steps. Did you buy that ugly dress? Get out of my house, get off of my stoop, get out of here or I call Harry and he'll bite your big old ugly leg.  

I don't care. That's how I feel.

They took him away. When I had to visit him he dumped me off with those babies and the Watcher. They're your half-brothers, you need to learn to love them. Then he'd stand on the other side of the room and expect me to play. What a great visit, and all the time the Watcher is sitting there like a big monster not saying anything, holding a pad of paper and writing something down every once and a while. What do you think she wrote? I don't need to learn to love anybody, not those twerps. It was so easy to get them to cry. Na-na-na, daddy's going to leave you -- just like he left me; it scared them so they cried. Well the littlest one didn't know what I meant but when his big brother started crying he got right in too so he wouldn't feel left out.

My father got so mad when I did that. I saw him digging his fingers into the wood, the skin going all white and his face turning red starting from his neck; even his ears got bright pink. His jaw was going like he was biting down on something bad. Ha-ha. I knew he wanted to cross the room and hit me like when he lived with us. That's how it used to be, but he couldn't do it. The Watcher was there. The Watcher sat there in her old grey sweater with that pad of paper taking notes. She didn't say anything. She never said anything. Wouldn't even answer a question if you asked her one. My father knew that if he did anything wrong he'd never see me again and they might take these kids away from him and they might even make him lose his job. He's a cop and he has to be careful. He couldn't do anything but stand there with his little babies crying and me egging them on. I'm bad.  

I'm very bad you see, I make my little half-brothers cry and I don't care that my father shot his new wife and then himself. It all looks the same on TV. One minute Power Rangers spinning wheel-kick away, and the next, people everywhere running and shouting and jumping. The camera couldn't keep still like it was excited too. Or else the man holding it did a bad job of trying to keep things okay.

I'm not going to tell you that it was my fault or I could of done something or I was a bad son or any of that stupid stuff. I didn't need any doctor telling me it's okay to feel and that I didn't do anything wrong and I shouldn't blame myself. Sheesh, they must think I'm stupid. I know all that. I figured it out on my own. My mother's been letting me watch Oprah since I was 3 so I know about that stuff. Touch somebody. Let your feelings out. Boo-hoo-hoo.

That stupid priest wanted to come over to see if he could help. Father McLee. Yech. He's the creepiest thing I ever saw. He has hair growing out of his ears. Doesn't anyone tell him? That's what you get when they don't let you sleep with girls. Hair grows out of your ears and your dick shrivels up.

Father McLee thinks he can help in our time of trouble. Let us pray, he says, because if we pray it'll help us get in touch with God. If I want get in touch with God I'll do it myself. I don't any help from a priest with hairy ears.  

My mother didn't cry or anything. I was surprised. She usually cries at everything. I brought her a Valentine I made a school, a few months after Daddy left, and she cried. When our dog got hit by a car she cried (I didn't) and she said I shouldn't have let it play in the street. (I didn't let anything. I brought it out there to see what would happen.) She cried everytime I left for one of the supervised visits with my father. But she's not crying now and neither am I.

Look I'm tired of talking to you, okay. I have to go to school tomorrow. I know my mother said I didn't but I'm going. I don't feel like staying home when everyone comes over and tells me how sorry they are. We have gym class tomorrow and we're going to kick the ball. I always kick it the farthest and tomorrow's going to be no different.  

So what if my father killed himself. I don't care.

An instance of the unreliable, 1st person narrator at work. I don't care, he says. This case is the most apparent of all. Father dies, violently at his own hand, son, to stem the pain of the desertion, to sully the memory of the policeman father in revenge, takes up a life of crime. I like it!