Friday, August 5, 2011

"We can stay here, or we can go save our friends."

"What're waiting for, then?" she said, and grabbed her car keys and the gun safe.

The first time I killed someone was in a friend's galley kitchen. We arrived to open doors, and car alarms and street fires. I circled around the house, and came silently up the kitchen stairs behind him, he: tall, short hair, and a baseball bat, in the middle of an argument with our friend.

"I want your water, and your bread." He said. "Or I'll kill you."

My friend shook his head, wordless, a limp arm between him and the invader, who took a swing (clatter of pots and plates, breaking) and charged in behind it. I flung open the kitchen door. He turned around and I shot him in the face. His head and brains coated everything in that small space.

First words I said were, "I'll clean that up, just give me a second."

"You shot a man, man."

"It was him or you." I replied, "And it's a judgment call, and you're more important to me than him." We stared silently at each other for a minute or so, before I added, "And now I need a hug, and I will talk about this moment once more, then never again."