His pistol-
at the sky-
too late-
the bullet-
~o~
And so I live on.
I regret what I've done. I survived, and I killed a good friend.
Yet I'm still not the villain.
Because of my past and future good deeds, history books will never write me in as the villain.
I wish they would. I feel like one so very much right now.
Had I known anything that was going through his mind, perhaps he would have lived. But I didn't. And he didn't.
The story is written, history has happened. There is nothing I can do to change it. It's life, after all.
But I often wonder... what would've happened had he shot me instead? I almost wish he had. This pain I feel is so great I can hardly write. He may have been the first to die, but I'm the one who paid for it. And his daughter...
I wish I were dead. Then I could at least apologize to him.
But it's left up to me. To tell his story. He likely wouldn't want me to tell of him, but, after all, you have no control, who lives, who dies, who tells your story.
~o~
I first met Burr in my early twenties. I walked up to him in a bar, asking, "Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, sir?" …