Well yes sir, yes sir, yes it was me.

I know what I've done, 'cause I know what I've seen.

I went out back and I got my gun,

I said "You haven't met me, I am the only son".

~ Dust Bowl Dance by Mumford and Sons


He was often by himself.


No one ever bugged him with things he didn't care about.


There were never any loud noises or people who would disturb him.


There was no one, period.

Years ago, he thought having alone time would be nice. Thought not having to ask permission to do things would be wonderful. That was then. That was before. Now? All he longed for was for someone to call him a boy who still had a lot to learn about life and how the world worked. Now, he was nothing but a scared little boy in the body of a man. Not that he'd ever say that out loud.

Dark eyes peered out from underneath the brim of a black hat, and settled on three grave markers.


John Marston.

Abigail Marston.

The only family he'd ever known, all in the ground. One fell right after the other. Uncle was first. That drunken old bastard was just about as useful as a horse with a broken leg. But he was as loyal as anyone could ever ask a drunk to be. Jack could very clearly remember how valiantly he'd fought to protect the family. His dedication had cost him his life. The only remaining Marston barely had time to grieve for the old man before his father fell as well.

John Marston's death was one that many would say was long overdue. He was a merciless killer, wasn't he? He deserved death and nothing less. At least, that's what he heard people say when he was in a town. Still, three years later, he heard remarks about his father's past activities whilst he was with Dutch. Perhaps the old man had been right after all. People don't forget, and nothing gets forgiven. Shaking his head, Jack turned to his mother's grave. If people claimed that Uncle and John deserved death because of their actions, past or present, then what were Abigail Marston's offences? What could she have done?

Jack could vaguely remember Dutch, Bill, and Javier always teasing John about how they'd all had Abigail, but John was the one who married her. At that time, Jack hadn't known what they'd meant, but now he knew. He knew his mother was a former prostitute, but did that lifestyle really warrant death? If that were the case, hundreds of women should be dead by now. Jack supposed there was a double standard, due to her last name being Marston. The Marstons were evil people, they were killers. They all deserved to die. Right?


His family was not evil, nor did any of them deserve to die. Their deaths weren't a gift from God to the human race, no matter what folks said. Jack knew his family. Uncle may have been a drunk, but he was a damned good man. He stood his ground whereas others would've taken the cowardly way out and ran. He stayed and protected those he loved. Abigail may have been an illiterate former prostitute, but she was a strong, independent woman who wasn't afraid to mouth off. If John would've let her, Jack was certain she would have fought right alongside him. Hell, Jack would have too. But John wouldn't let them. He would rather die than to put his family in anymore danger.

John Marston was not an evil man, this Jack believed in more than anything. How could a man who went through all he did to save his family be considered evil? He knew his father made mistakes in the past, but Jack figured his good deeds would have been a redemption. Apparently, that wasn't the way the things worked. Those who worked to fix their mistakes were never rewarded, only punished further. John Marston would never be remembered as the man who laid his life on the line for his family, but rather as the man who robbed banks with Dutch Van Der Linde. John was evil in the eyes of the public. Jack's hands tightened into fists.

But Edgar Ross was the hero.

Edgar Ross had promised forgiveness of John's mistakes, should he "disband" his former gang. Jack knew from overhearing his parents' talking, that he had done just that. Edgar had taken Jack and Abigail as leverage even, to a place Jack still didn't know the name of. How a man who kidnaps another man's family be classified as a hero, Jack would never know. What he did know, was that Edgar Ross wasn't no hero. He was just as evil as he claimed John was. He gave the Marston family hope that they could finally begin their lives again, only to dash those hopes a short while later.

Jack could very clearly recall the attack. All of the gunshots, blood, and dead bodies. He couldn't remember feeling anything other than fear during those horrific moments, nor could he remember the faces of those he killed along his father. What he did remember, and he was certain he'd never forget it, was the image of his father laying in a pool of blood, bullet holes littering his body. He remembered seeing a newspaper article about the attack some time after, praising Edgar Ross for his courage.

They praised him for being the very thing they claimed John was. A murderer. They called him a hero. Jack didn't know of any true heroes who shot people down like dogs. Edgar Ross wasn't a hero. Edgar Ross didn't deserve to be walking, while the majority of the Marston family was not. He didn't deserve to live.

Jack's right hand reached down, grabbing the Cattleman Revolver that had once belonged to his father. He held the weapon tightly, gathering some reassurance from the firearm. Jack knew that his mother would disapprove of his comfort around weapons, but he couldn't release the gun. His finger itched to pull the trigger at something.

Or someone.

'You're angry. Do something about it.' A voice stated in the back of his head. Jack was tempted to listen to the voice. So tempted. He glanced back at the grave markers and stared at them for a moment. Nodding to himself, he stood. He would do something about it. No longer would he sit and think about what he wanted to do. He would act. Jack holstered the Revolver and began walking towards his horse, away from the graves.

"Nothing gets forgiven. I'm comin' for you, Ross."

So, this is a thing I've wanted to do for quite some time. Jack Marston one shot. I know it jumps around and changes focus a lot, but that's the point. In my head, after Abigail died, Jack became extremely unstable and depressed and that's what I was trying to show here. I probably failed, but I tried. Anyhow. I hope you enjoyed, if you did leave a review or a favorite. Whatever you like. Or if you hated it, go ahead and tell me. Whatever works! If you did like it however, I've got another Red Dead fic ongoing. *hint hint* ;) Thanks for reading!