by Wendy Shywalker

"No!" I heard you call.
Too late Pop, the bullet had left my gun;
I can't put it back.
As you picked me up, pulling me from the floor,
your disappointment covered me in a shroud of shame.
I couldn't look into your eyes, our combining guilt staring back at me.
Mine, it was my bullet, yours, I'm your son.
I looked down at the man who's life I had just taken only seconds before.
He had made the decision, Pop, not me.
I was just the weapon he chose to continue his journey.
I wasn't the one here to murder. I wasn't the one, who
promised to protect and serve but chose instead to kill.
He came tonight with evil intent even to the child at our feet.
My body still sweats and shakes with the drugs this man
and others used to try and take my life.
Do you remember where you found me Pop?
Do you remember if you hadn't, that I'd be dead?.
That was his choice. I had no say, to die unknown and alone,
that was his choice for me.
So here I am tonight, with a gift, a bargin, a blackmail in my hand.
A memory saved from our past, the ceremonial dagger from our home.
You smile, I have done well, with this at least.
Can you now, in the passage of time, understand?
"I had no Choice, Pop." Your smile fades and death again visits, and
with it my heart falls.
"There is always another choice," you say.
You still don't understand, he made the choice, not me.
Dammit Pop,
why is his choice more understandable,
more forgivable than mine?