Spoiler Alert: They Ain't Gonna Make It

(Intro. 2) But He Had To

The boy looked to his friends, the gears in his head pumping a million times faster than a striking lightning bolt. Nothing made sense, each thought of his was discombobulated and wild. The barrage of them ate his problem-solving portion of his brain. The one he needed most right then.

By that point in his horrible day, his face was dragging him down, weary and tired of being pulled into confused knot, his lovable smile long gone. His eyes that usually sparkled with joy now sat dully, nearly lifeless as they looked upon the hostages. His hands were shaking on the small, black gun he carried, neither of them excited to use the tool on the people he loved.

But, he had to.

Sweat lined every crease on his forehead, going all the way down to his little toes on his big feet. The room itself wasn't hot, but he believed the perspiration was normal for a situation like this.

But what was normal? This predicament certainly wasn't. Not at all.

Breathing was a struggle. Every breath he sucked took all his concentration, each dry and unoxygened as they scratched down his throat. It felt like he was breathing in sandpaper rather than clean air, the way it clawed at his throat instead of blanketing it. Even with all the trouble to get them, the breaths could never fill his tight lungs. They could never relieve the boat sized hole in his chest or the hundred tons of dread pushing him deeper and deeper into the ground. They could never do anything more than keep him alive, which wasn't something he particularly enjoyed at that moment.

The familiar faces tied to the chairs, his friends, all watched him with wide, scared eyes. They were innocents. Bystanders. They were in his boss' way without doing anything wrong. They weren't the problem, not really. They were witnesses, unwanted witnesses. They didn't understand this had to be done.

They would never.

They were in a state of pure shock, none knowing what was happening. They didn't know that he was the bad guy. There was no way they really could of. He was a good liar. A really good liar.

He had to avert their angelic, afraid gazes, knowing that if he paid any more mind to them, he could never use the weapon in his hands against them. He wasn't quite sure he could even do it then.

His boss stood next to him, a cold, yet curious stare set upon him. The man was serious about killing these people, the boy knew that just by the small taps of the brown, leather shoe on the tiled floor. The man was waiting for him to shoot his friends.

But he didn't know if he could do it. He didn't believe he could point the murdering machine at the people he had known since kindergarden. The people he trusted with his whole being and loved even more. He didn't believe he could just shoot them down at point blank, just like that. It seemed impossible to do.

But, he had to.

His boss was impatient now, his death stare on him colder and harder than ever. There was doubt written in the man, the way he rubbed his thumb against his own gun, caressing the cool metal in his own hand. It was obvious he was ready to finish the job, whether it involved killing his own worker or not. He didn't care, as long as he got the money.

The boy was shaking now, his destiny finally bestowing him with the choice that would change his life. Was he selfish? Selfless? Would he choose his friends over the money? It was a lot of money...

He raised his gun, aimed, squeezed his eyes shut, and fired.