Forgiveness

Martin slammed his fist on the table, hoping the physical pain would distract him from the emotional anguish. It was a daily struggle to find a reason to go on living. A year ago, he had so much to live for, so much future ahead. One bullet changed all that. One bullet that tore a hole in his heart. A hole so wide and deep that he ached with the emptiness it created within him.

He pummeled the table again and again until his knuckles were battered and bloody. A drop of blood landed on the white envelope that sparked his fury.

“You can’t fix this! Leave me alone!” Martin cried as he crumpled the envelope and threw it to the floor. He knew what the letter inside would say. He knew what the sender wanted and he could not consider it. A boy was dead. There was no forgiveness.

Daniel was bright and handsome, a pretty good student, even if he did spend a little too much time playing video games. He was big for twelve and sometimes his size fooled people into thinking he was older. It didn’t help that he had a playful nature and goofed around a lot. He was just twelve. He thought it was all a game. He didn’t understand that it could turn deadly.

Daniel didn’t realize that the bright orange tip on the end of his gun was there to indicate that it was just a toy, so when it broke off, he didn’t worry about it. And when the police officer yelled at him to get down on the ground, Daniel had no clue that the officer didn’t realize it was not a real weapon in his hands. He was just twelve. Daniel turned to tell the officer that he was just playing a game with his friends and held the gun out in front of him, pointing at the police officer.

They say that forgiveness is a release from the pain, that it frees the heart and soul from the great burden that weighs on them.

“I don’t want you to forgive me!” Martin sobbed as he held the tear-stained letter from Daniel's mother. Martin didn’t want a release, he wanted the pain. She might forgive him, but he could never forgive himself. He deserved the pain.


Word count - 387