It seems that you only notice certain things when you look back through your life with a magnifying glass. It seemed so small at the time, at least compared to the sensation of accomplishment in my revenge. After killing the man who murdered your father, who wouldn't let that feeling drown out all others? I let my joy wash away my regrets, and holstered my revolver with a grin larger than I knew I was capable of. I'm sure that was the last face the man saw as he was bleeding out in the sand, clutching at his neck as the blood poured and spurted. It slowly began to make a pool around his body, much to the dismay of the people who'd have to walk by to get home.
It had taken me a few years to track him down, over the course of those years i honed my skills with my gun. I could draw just about as quick as anyone, and I was in my physical prime. I found him in some random town, not sure if I even remember the name anymore. Needless to say, I was thrilled. I challenged him to a gunfight, right then and there. At the time, I mistook the look he gave me for arrogance or hatred, it fueled me with even more passion to make him pay. I stood and waited outside, people following me out of the bar, asking if I was crazy. Others began to take bets or simply watch from out of the window. I didn't care about a single one of them. My eyes were solely fixated on the bar doors. It only took him about a minute to come out. His old hat was beaten up and had holes around the rim. His clothing was ragged and torn, although his face was cleanly shaven and he did not look dirty.
The showdown itself I don't remember much. I remember turning my back to him, and focusing. Focusing on him, and my own body. I was younger than him, stronger and quicker. There'd be no way I could lose, and I'm sure that he knew that as well. By the time he had gotten his gun out, the bullet had already penetrated his skin. His tall figure stood for just a moment, the collapsed to the ground, writhing in the dirt. I looked down on him, walking over to tower over him. My shadow covered his body and my grin could probably have reflected the sun into his face. I waited for him to look at me, to look at my eyes and see they said 'I hate you'. Yet, he never did. His gaze was far-off. I looked back to see what he could possibly be looking at other than the man who had just put him in the grave. All I noticed then was a crowd of people. I gritted my teeth as I looked back to him, "Why are you looking at them? Look at me goddamn you!" I asked as I gripped him by his ragged clothes. He was already dead. 'Oh, well,' I thought to myself, 'I won't let it ruin this for me.' I never stopped to consider what he was looking at again.
Twenty something years fly by, and I ride off the high of taking revenge for about nine of them. I spend my time riding through the desert, travelling town to town to see what they have to offer. I meet a few people, make some good decisions and some bad ones. I meet a girl who I love. We settle down, and I start riding out less and less. I can feel the adventurous spirit of my youth begin to fade as I begin to recognize a different dream. One with my wife. However, not moving around so much gives you so much time to think. That feeling from taking revenge on someone you spite, it slowly began to leave me as well. As it receded, the repressed feelings of guilt and regret began to fill me. I think about the man I killed differently than I used to. It had taken years for me to find him, was he even still the same person I had originally hated all those years ago? Either way, he used to be that person. He had gone unpunished for that, so there was only so much he could have truly changed. That's what I told myself for the rest of my years. At least up until 5 years ago. That's when I had my first son. He was the most perfect thing. A beautiful, innocent child. I felt like I was tainting him when I touched him for the first time, yet I cried happy tears all the same.
Today, I find myself in a bar. My son and I went hunting just last week. For some reason, as I sip on my drink, I find myself wondering about my father. As I do, of course my thoughts drift to his murderer. The way I feel about him is still very complex. I despise him for what he put me through as a child, but I can't shake the feeling that there was something I might not have known. Why did he seem so lost in thought through the whole encounter? Where was that rage, that hatred he spouted about my father when I had first seen him. I didn't think about it at the time, only wanting to see him bite the dust, but he seemed different than how he was when I was a boy. As I find myself thinking about this, I hand grips my shoulder. It is soft at first, then tightens as I turn around. I look him in the eye, he looks familiar, but I do not recognize him. What I do recognize, is the burning hatred and loathing in his eyes. I would never forget what that looks like, seeing it in the mirror every morning for years tends to make something stick with you. He says something, but I don't hear him. I'm spacing out, simply staring at his face. He seems to be getting angrier by the second. I don't need to know what he said, because by now I've figured it out. What the man was looking at on that day, I'm sure that it was this man. His boy, come to watch his Pa deal with a bad man, only to watch his Pa fall victim. It's a story I knew very well, only this time I'm playing a different role.
I tell him I'll be out in a moment, he can't hold back his anticipation. I finish my drink, I see the eyes of people I know, wondering what happened. I didn't tell anyone what had happened when I first arrived. I would be more than happy to boast, but I didn't want anyone thinking I was psychotic. And so, it remained something that only I knew about. Not even my wife or son know about why I moved to this town truly. I'm sure it was some deep, locked away part of me that was trying to get away. Get away from the cycle that I knew I had gotten myself stuck in. Get away from the little boy I know I saw in that crowd of people, forcing myself not to see him so I could live my perfect revenge for just a few more years. I scratch my head and sigh.
I walk out from the bar, the young boy already standing away from me, waiting to start our paces. I line up with him, he counts us down and we start to take the steps. 1, 2, 3...I begin to rethink my life as I have many times in the past few years. 4, 5, 6...I begin to think about the future, my son and my wife, what will they do without me? 7, 8, 9...I begin to wonder if there could have been a different way. 10. I turn, gripping my worn revolver. I was older than him, weaker and slower. There'd be no way I could win, and I'm sure he knew that as well. By the time I got my gun in position to fire, he'd had already managed to shoot me in the chest. I took a step forward before falling to my knees, blood pooling around me. I look out to the small crowd of people, now seeing me covered in my own blood and saliva, and I manage to find my son's horrified face looking back at me. Only five years old, no age to be seeing his own father like this. The young man begins to rejoice and make his way over to me. He grips me by the sides of my head and demands that I look him in the eye. I think about playing it up, giving him more reason to hate me. I'd make myself into a person that he knows hasn't changed, that is still the same devil that killed his father. At least that way, I'd spare the poor boy from my own fate, living with the guilt and remorse. However, I can't tear my eyes from my own boy. I can only hope and pray that he doesn't end up falling into the same cycle we have. I feel the life spilling out of me and onto the ground, things start to get blurry as the young man yells in my face. I can't muster the strength to look at him, I'm not sure if it would change how things end up for him or not. My face goes pale. My vision goes dark. I let out another sigh, hopefully wherever I end up I'll feel at peace. My last thought is about me, my father and my son, and how nice our family could have ended up.
