CREATIVE NONFICTION
How I Almost Murdered My Son
The slowest seven seconds of my life
“Just shoot me,” he said.
My son stared down the barrel of the gun, his eyes crimson red like the envelopes we exchanged every new year. He clenched his hands into fists at his side, ready to defend, even though I had every advantage. Say what you will about him, but at least I hadn’t raised a coward.
No, he’s always been brave. Beat the shit out of him when he spoke back to grandma, something my old man never did with me. His movements were a blur, and his decisions were all his own.
Comics, not basketball.
Legos, not billiards.
Star Wars, AND Star Trek.
They’re opposites on the color wheel, he had told me. The five of us, drawn on construction paper, colors all blended together like broken shards of glass refracting in the light. Yet two hues stood out; I was orange, and he was blue.
You’re living the dream, my drinking buddies would say.
Every night was the same — I’d embrace my grandson and show him all the things I loved, on the opposite end of the spectrum — and in the morning, I’d wake to a persistent nightmare.
Nothing old, new, borrowed, or blue. A bleached world, robbed of the vibrant colors of a kaleidoscope. The painter’s palette, replaced with the darkest black and shades of gray.
A sinking feeling settled in my stomach as we stood, one against the other. Just like those action movies we used to watch together — the hero and the villain — right before the final showdown. Somewhere along the way, we grew apart, never two sides of the same coin. Anakin, not Luke. Who was who, I couldn’t say.
My finger hovered over the trigger. Maybe he prayed for me to do it. But that night, God disappointed both of us.
Author’s note: I hope you enjoyed this story about me, written from the POV of my father during a pivotal moment of our lives. The fiction lies not in the plot, but in my interpretation of what went through his mind.
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