He had never thought he would want to kill someone.
He was a doctor, or would be one day if he survived all of this, he was sworn to do no harm, but it was all he could think of now. The images of the lifeless bodies of his wife and children haunted his waking and sleeping hours.
He had thought he might be able to hide from them in the hospital's traumas, but the more hours he had worked the more often the faces of his patients became those of his own family.
No, the only time he seemed to find relief was in those wee hours of the night when he stood in the darkness and watched the snipers exchanging fire.
If he concentrated hard enough he could feel the rifle in his hand, he could imagine the jerk as he fired, follow the path of the bullet as it rocketed across the street before striking the target on the receiving end.
In his mind he could imagine the bullet as it sliced first through clothing, then skin, muscle, organ or bone, killing them as they had killed his family.
But only in his mind, and only for those few seconds, because the truth was, it wouldn't matter how many of them he killed, it wouldn't bring back his wife or his children.
So, instead he would continue to heal and hope no other father would find himself wishing he could kill to escape the images of those that might have been saved.