The only reason I have never killed anyone is pure dumb luck.

When I was fourteen, my grandfather (drunk at the time) went after his rifle to shoot my grandmother.  I grabbed my baseball bat and positioned myself to beat his head in as he came out of his room.  I stood there for what seemed like forever, making my peace with having to kill someone I loved to save someone I loved more.  I have no idea how long I actually stood there waiting, but when he failed to come out, I went in.  He had passed out drunk with the rifle across his lap in the act of loading it.  I took the rifle out of his hands, carried it into the garage, put it in a big old vice and yanked the firing pin out.  then I put the gun back in his lap.  It wasn’t until deer season arrived that he saw what I had done. LOL.  and of course I never confessed to doing it.

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