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.
You died for a good cause.