The American Narrative

"Have a nice trip to hell." Smirking, the American agent looked through the sight of his pistol, staring straight into the recently captured Russian spy's eyes. Fun as this may be, he still had to line up the shot properly so that there was no chance of the spy's survival. Grasping the trigger now, the American slowly exhaled, so as to remain absolutely still. He aimed the gun at the left side of the Russian's chest and pulled the trigger.
As the bullet hit him, the spy recoiled, let out his final gasp of air, and collapsed.
The American, with a grin on his face, turned the spy over to make sure he was dead. Proceeding with his inspection, he lifted the shirt off the Russian to check his shot. A photo flew out of the shirt. As the American looked at the photo, the whole world slowed down, almost to a standstill. He stared at the faces in the photo.
The photo, a portrait, had four people in it: a girl, a boy, a woman, and there, with one arm around the woman and one arm on the boy's head and the girl on his lap, was the Russian spy he had just shot point blank. He felt a wave of emotion wash over him. God, is this who I have just destroyed? Not only a man, but a family; not only a family, but two young children. The American had lost his father at a young age, and he had never …show more content…
Looking at the clock on his bedside table, he saw the photo of his own family: his wife and his two daughters. The man couldn't put it out of his mind. Oh god, he thought, is this what we are? Is this what I am? Are we on this Earth to slaughter each other, to slaughter families; to destroy all that makes us human? And with that, he buried his head in his pillow and sobbed. He sobbed the way he had at his father's funeral—from his chest, from his heart. I did this. I did to two children and a woman what was done to me and my mother. No, no. Please, God, no. Please, no, no, no. . .