By Craig Peterson
My father died when I was fifteen.
Not died, killed.
Not killed, murdered.
Murdered for reasons a boy my age couldn’t comprehend.
Murdered just the same.
Murdered by me.
The dagger I used is a family heirloom.
Deep down I knew the family bloodline had to be stopped. As I got older I saw that to be the truth. But at fifteen that knowing is distant. Did it still exist?
My son is now fifteen and we have never spoken of his grandfather. Evil that atrocious should remain quiet.
I wonder if my son will tell his son about me?