I wish I had never pulled that trigger. If I hadn’t, maybe things would be different. I would be snuggled on a couch at home, petting my dog, my wife beside me, my children playing on the rug.

But no. Here I am instead, in this dirty rotten jail cell. I sit on the cot, armed with a filthy sheet and a thin, moth eaten blanket. I curl up on it, tears streaming down my face as I think of what my life had become. I was here because I had killed a man. I was in a dark place, depressed and on drugs. I got myself ahold of a gun, and the first chance I had, I shot it.

My heart ached of what my life could be, and so I laid in the fetal position, crying my eyes out until they ran dry and the only sound yet was my dry, hacking sobs. I bit my hand, blood pooling at the edges of the mark. I spit as the salty tang filled my mouth.

And then, it was all different. I was standing there, in that moment again. My hand feeling the gun in my pocket. Why was I here again? To relive my worst memory? Or…did I have a chance at changing my life’s path? If I did, I wasn’t going to throw it away. I saw the man walking down the street, the one I had killed.

This time, I forced myself to keep my feet rooted the the ground, clamping my hands behind my back so I wouldn’t feel compelled to draw the gun. The man got into a taxi and drove away, and I let out a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding.

I ran to the police station. “Please, help me!” I shouted, leaning against the desk, panting.

“How can we help, sir?” A policeman walked in.

“I’ve got a gun,” I admitted. “I was going to do some bad things.”

The policeman’s hand went to his own firearm, hung at his waist. “I won’t shoot,” I pulled the gun slowly out of my pocket and set it on the desk before throwing my hands up and backing up a couple steps.

“Please, officer. I haven’t done anything yet. I’m clinically diagnosed with depression,” I pleaded, stumbling to a chair. I sank into it, heart pounding, chest heaving for breath.

I began to breakdown, sobbing. The officer took my gun and put it in his pocket, then came and knelt beside me. “Hold on a minute, sir. Just hold on,” the policeman took his walkie-talkie and radioed for help.

That was the best day of my life. I got a therapist, professional help, and secured a job. That same year, I married the love of my life, and adopted a formerly abused puppy. I wanted to help someone else feel safe just as others had done to me.

Within the next few years, my wife Eileen and I had a daughter, and then twin sons. I was finally living the life I had imagined in jail, all because I had been granted a second chance at life.