I stared at the man who stood before me.

He was slightly crazed, slightly deranged. Stress was getting to him and I understood why.

I was like him, just the other day. Full of fear, anger, and stress. I wonder if I am experiencing the same thing he did as well, that day. This odd feeling of detachment to life and consequences.

Schools, movies, and people all say the same thing. Life is sacred, crimes are bad. Yet they still occur. Justice does not always win.

A hard truth.

He stared at me. Sweat was streaming down his face. He knew his fate. Knew his crimes.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

I do not pretend I am some righteous man. I am weak and petty. I am a sad example of what sin does to a man. I am going to become a killer in the next minute or so.

"Please," he whispers out again. How sad is voice is? Perhaps he has learned his lesson and will never hurt others again. Perhaps he will turn over a new leaf and become a man of morals.

Then again, he might just shoot me the moment my back is turned.

"Okay," I respond with a forgiving smile and he lets out a small choke of relief. I lower my gun a fraction as he begins to laugh and cry.

I tilted my arms up and pulled the trigger.

Ooops. I missed.

I re-aim and see the shock and betrayal in his eyes. I am no longer smiling.

I stare at him as I clench my jaw in rage. His life is the price of my mercy.

I aim with deliberate slowness. I savor this moment as I readjust my stance. He starts to come out of shock and tries to cry out.

There is no passion as I squeeze the trigger once more. No sense of justice. I have sinned but I do not regret it.

He had hurt my child. My precious, precious child. Hurt her in the worst of ways and so I shot him.