I had to kill someone today.

No, not that one driver who drove in the multi-occupancy lane when he was the only one in the car.  Not the jackass at Revenue Canada who decided I owed more tax.  Not even the guy who made the movie Battleship.

Oh, their time will come. I have a list.

But no, the person I had to kill today was a friend.  I’d known him for a good year or so.  His name was Jackson Pollock Henderson.  Aka “two-shot”.   He was one of the characters I created in my latest novel.

I was there when he was born and when he died.   I had a hand in both.  I was there for his pain and his happiness.  I knew what he liked, I knew what he hated, I knew what he ate and what he was allergic to.  I knew how he had gotten into a wheelchair.   I knew what he feared most.   I knew the future that he hoped for.

He made me laugh.  He made me cry.  I loved spending time with him.

But such is the nature of writing that I could not save him.  I tried killing off another character, one I didn’t love so much.  I tried inventing a character and inserting him into the story so I could save “Two-shot.”  But, in the end, poor Two had to die and die badly.

Sadly, the story is better for his departure.

RIP buddy.

You died for a good cause.