High listeners, this is Jake Weber and I have a story I want to tell you.

A story about a family farm and its lingering lineage.

So gather round and listen close.

I, Keenan, Deodoro Sullivan V, am writing this to shed light on why I'm about to do what I'm about to do.

By the time you find this, it will be too late for spoken words.

Unfortunately, these written words will have to suffice and I need you to pass my reasons on to my parents.

I wish I could say I'm sorry for doing this.

I know it will only cause more pain for some, but I am not.

No one deserves my fate more than I do.

And I doubt there are many people out there who will disagree with me on that.

I have been sitting in this jail cell for three months now.

And in that time, my head is cleared enough for me to realize just exactly what it is that I have done.

I know I'm taking an easy way out and that I deserve to rot in a cell for the rest of what no doubt would be a long and miserable life.

But the truth is, I just can't live with myself anymore.

If I could live with what I've done, then I would be a true psychopath and I am not. I'm just not.

You could probably care less about my background, but for the purpose of prolonging the inevitable, I'm going to tell you.

I was born and raised on a fairly successful wheat farm, and when I say successful, I mean we were able to sustain the living and support ourselves entirely on the profits from the farm.

We could also afford some of the finer things in life. I never really knew what it was like to be truly miserable.

That is, until now.

Our farmhouse was a seven bedroom Victorian that my great-great-grandfather built in 1891 in the Valley County of Cops Hill.

I was immensely proud of that house, but at the same time I was deathly afraid of it.

The portraits of our long deceased ancestors dating all the way back to those who lived on the shores of Ireland, peppered the walls of most of the rooms in our house.

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