There was an edge to what he said to me. Something sharp in his words.

I thought I was used to this by now. Years of work on the firing line had dulled my response to outbursts. Some prisoners screamed; most cried, or begged for mercy, as if I could give it to them. It bothered me at first. After some time, I had to swallow my senses. We had a job to do, after all.

But his words triggered something in me. Could he see it? That momentary flash in my eye. I wonder. It felt like he was looking into my soul. My finger quivered. It never quivers. Was it my fear? My guilt?

In the end, the result was the same. His body crumpled like the rest did. In a short time his corpse would be taken away. And so it went. I prayed I wouldn't remember him, but a sneaking suspicion told me his words would never leave me.

“Take your shot, stranger. You’ll only get one.”