Pity For A Murderer

Have you ever felt pity for a murderer? I have.

That night, he walked into the bar and shot a man sitting in the corner. Everyone ran out of the bar, everyone but me. I was imprisoned in my wheelchair, listening to the loud thumping of my frightened heart.

He turned to me, finger on the trigger and death in his eyes. I swallowed. How many minutes before the police arrive? Ten, twenty? This is Nigeria. Police don’t arrive until long after. I closed my eyes and breathed my last.

“You probably think I’m a heartless murderer right? Well, the police will be here soon. I can’t stand the press but I would really like the public to hear the true story.”

I slowly opened my eyes and he was already sitting in front of me.

“I left my kids with this man, a man I call brother. He raped my daughter while she was bathing and dashed her head on the railing, claiming she slipped. He thought my son was sleeping.”

He began to cry. “My daughter was only eight years old.”

I heard another shot.