The Impossible Request

My father pressed the steely cold butt of the gun into my hand and whispered,
“Kill me, please.”
I couldn’t help but stare at his calm facial expression. I didn’t understand his request. Before my mind returned to the problem at hand, I tried to think back to recent events. I searched for any signs of depression, or sadness of any sort, in my father. My mind searched through memory files and short clips of dialog we shared but nothing resembled such despair I was witnessing now. I finally broke free from the thoughts, caused by his horrifying request. I sobbed, for I could talk no longer. I pleaded,
“Why, Dad? Why? Did I do something? Is it my fault? I’m sorry.”
Half smiling, he reassured,
“No sweet girl. It’s not your fault. You have nothing to be sorry about.”
Studying his stone cold face through shushed eyes, I noticed he was very tranquil for someone asking their only daughter to kill them. I couldn’t just let him die. I had to do something to change his mind. Between tear avalanches, I wobbly raised the gun to my own head and whispered,
“If you don’t want to be here, then neither do I.”
As the gun cradled my temple, he watched but didn’t react. He stood as still as before, even as his own child threatened to kill herself. Mortified, I screamed at him, in attempt to wake him from his petrified slumber. At his lack of concern, anger rushed and I pulled the trigger. The cap gun made a small pop and smoke brushed my face. The audition was a success and we both got parts in the new community play.