A/N: Ok this is my first TKAM fic so please be gentle. This is a one shot by the way, and also a project I did for English. Read and review and I hope you likey! )

'Dear Journal,

I know I haven't written in you since I was thirteen, but I feel as though what I'm about to say must be said, right here, right now.'

I sigh, looking up from the journal. The memories that I have kept in the back of my mind for so long come flooding back in a giant wave. I stare into the mirror, mesmerized about how much has changed about me physically, since the day of my father's trial. I can just barely remember my face. It was a nice dark chocolate with paler cheeks. I would always wear my hair the same way every day, in two nice ponytails. Now my hair is short and is always down. I have wrinkles on my forehead and a few pimples lining my cheeks, and my youth is gone. I shake my head, I've gone off track. I pick of the pen and continue to write.

'Ten years ago, when I was thirteen years old, my father was prosecuted unjustly for raping a white girl. It all started when he didn't come home one night. The next morning my mother called the police and they said he'd been arrested and was in jail. She immediately grabbed my hand and took my siblings and me to the jail. My mother left my siblings and me on a bench. She said to us "stay there, and don't you dare move." She then went into another room with Sheriff Heck Tate. My brothers just sat there, twiddling their thumbs. After a few minutes had gone by they started to fidget. I tried to be as ladylike as I could and stay still. However the urge to swing my right leg was intolerable and I found myself saying "screw ladies." I began to swing, letting my leg be free.

It was then that my brothers and I heard my mother shouting at the sheriff in the other room. "IS THIS ONE OF YOUR EVILS AGAINST NEGROES, MR. TATE?" The Sheriff probably said something to calm my mother but it was inaudible to me. "Finally my mother stormed from the room and grabbed my siblings and me. We made our way back home. I of course, realized the significance of what just happened. "Mommy," I said. "What's going to happen to daddy?'

I shake out my hand, I've written a lot in the last few minutes. I reread my work and find myself thinking 'I don't have to continue. It's as though anybody's going to read this anyways.' I trash the thought. I can't afford to second guess myself. It has to be said. However, I find myself taking a break and getting coffee. I sip it, making my headache of ten years go away. I walk back to the desk and put down the coffee. I pick up the pen.

'My mother left my question unanswered until that night, when she was on the phone with grandma. I remember her saying something along the lines of not being able to afford a lawyer, but we did get the best lawyer we could, Mr. Atticus Finch. He was real good to my daddy. In fact he got the jury thinking for a long time. However I'm getting ahead of myself.

The first day of court wasn't very exciting; all that happened was the choosing of the jury. My father had such confidence in Mr. Finch. I could see it in his eyes, and I wanted to be just like him. I wanted to be able to believe in Mr. Finch just as much as my father. I couldn't do it. I couldn't believe in a man I didn't know.

The next day my father was examined my Mr. Finch and Mr. Gilmer. This was by far the scariest part of the whole trial. The witnesses who had testified against my father had completely different stories than my father. They said that he had been chopping up a chiffarobe for Miss Mayella, the girl he supposedly raped. She was supposedly going to give my father a nickel for busting the chiffarobe, but as she was reaching for the nickel my father came around and grabbed her. In Miss Mayella's and her father's story, my father choked her, beat her, and then took advantage of her. As Miss Mayella and her father told the story I found myself on the verge of tears. There was no way my father, my hero, could ever do something to such a nice white girl.'

Then my father was called to the stand.'

I hear crying from the next room over. It must be my daughter, Cameron. She's about ten months old and it's probably about time for a diaper change. I temporarily abandon my work to visit her. I walk into the room, and there she is lying in her crib, bawling her little eyes out. I attempt to feel sympathetic but I feel like laughing outright at her cuteness. I take her out of the crib and lay her on the changing table. I quickly change her diaper and she smiles at me. I wish that the simple things in life like that could make me smile. I lay her back in her crib and go back into the other room. I sit down at the desk and continue to write.

'My father looked so nervous on the stand. His eyes were telling us all, that he was innocent. But the white people down below thought otherwise. My father began his story. He had been walking by Ewell's place, as usual, when Miss Mayella gave him a job to do. Apparently she had asked my father into their yard quite often to do odd jobs for her. That day she wanted my father to fix a hinge one of the doors inside. My father went inside the house and discovered that there wasn't anything wrong with the door. Miss Mayella then asked my father to instead get a chiffarobe down from a tall shelf, or something like that. My father stood up on a chair and then Miss Mayella was on top of him. She had raped him.

At this point I wasn't sure who I believed. Granted, I truly thought my father was always right, but it was his word against two white people. My father was taken off the stand and the jury went out to make a decision. I was so scared for my father. If he lost this and the appeal he would die. I loved my father too much, there was no way I was willing to watch my father's death sentence. However, I found myself staying with my mother. She held me close, just like she did when I was little.

After many hours the jury came out. I looked up and rubbed my weary eyes. Those last few minutes seemed like two hours. Finally I heard the words come from Judge Taylor's mouth. Guilty.'

I put down the notebook, to depressed to go on. I walked out of the room and didn't come back for a solid few hours. Regaining courage I opened the notebook and finished the entry.

'They declared my father guilty and there was nothing I could do about it. I know that no one will ever see this, but the story must be told, somehow. Whether or not anybody finds this journal is not what I care about. I just want myself to know that I cared about my father, that I still have some memories of his life left."

I check my watch, it's late. I shut the notebook and turn out the light.

A/N: I know, sucky ending, but ya know owell.