A Choice

Duty, honour, family.
She'd look up at him as a child,
and ask what the words meant.
He taught her these words,
her father,
and soon these words became more than mere linguistic forms to her.

"Duty comes first", he'd say.
She closed her eyes,
and felt the words engulf her.
A hand of hers closed in on the badge on her chest,
gleaming gold in the sunlight;
while the other closed in around the trigger.

She drew a deep breath,
taking in the cold crisp air of t

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he winter morning,
her finger pulling back the trigger,
twitching.
Duty, honour, family,
she repeated,
her heart hammering against her ribs,
as it had hammered on the day she took the oath.

A cold breath escaped her parched lips,
and she released the trigger.
She opened her eyes and there he lay,
hand clutched over his chest
where the bullet had entered;
still,
unmoving.
Her father,
Her beloved father.