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COLD METAL filled the palm of my hand as if the Glock had been designed with this moment in mind. Time stood still as a midnight thunderstorm surged outside the thin double-wide trailer’s walls. Hail pounded the roof, and with a flash, the power went out.

My brain didn’t register that I had fired the shot until after he slumped to the floor and the life drained from his eyes. Blood trickled down his forehead, between his eyes, and pooled on his chest. I stared at his lifeless body until the lit cigarette between his fingers burned out.

I couldn’t find any sympathy for the way this man lived his life. Dirty dishes covered the counter and garbage overflowed in the container beside the refrigerator. A metal rod with an “M”—the same shape as the imprint on her neck—sat on the stove. Such a poor excuse for a human being.

This piece of shit didn’t try to explain why he left his woman to walk home in the middle of a thunderstorm. He didn’t ask why I was there, just reached for his weapon. It was almost as if he knew. And why wouldn’t he expect someone to rescue her at some point?

Confused, I wondered why he didn’t even bother to beg for his life. Maybe that’s normal; my dad didn’t, either.

In that split second, I was back in Moose Pass; it all came back to me.

I was a scared fourteen-year-old boy praying to a God that may or may not exist. That time was different, though.

I wasn’t able to save the woman and the man I shot was my dad.

I really didn’t have a choice nine years ago, not like I did tonight.

My dad beat my mom bloody so many times I lost count. He finally took it too far that night and put a bullet in my only protector. When she stopped breathing, my world officially came to an end. He killed my mom and when he came for me, I had no choice but to end his life.

Every night, my reality turned upside down in the same nightmare: the barn doors swung open with a strong gust of wind. One glance at my mom’s body lying in the hay, then the sight of my dad crumpled, a pile of skin and clothes, and I knew what I had done.

I don’t remember pulling the trigger after my dad killed my mom, but I sure as hell did the night I picked up a scared, defeated girl. None of us men were much worth saving, but at least I had never hit a lady.

This loser didn’t deserve her. I didn’t try to hide the gun or the crime I had committed. I understood exactly what I was doing and exactly what it meant for my future. I also understood exactly what it meant for her future. Even though I may never be free again, she finally would be.

The storm ended for the small town of Talkeetna, Alaska, at the same time as it did for the girl in my truck. Both of our lives would never be the same. Somehow, I knew in my heart I had made the right choice, even if it was the worst thing I’d ever done.

There was no point in trying to run. I placed my pistol on the hood of my truck, then sat on the porch smoking one of his cigarettes and waited for the cops to come.

Neighbors must have called the police because they arrived a few minutes after I walked out the door. She didn’t get out of the truck, just stared at me through the windshield as cold metal cuffs enclosed my wrists. I swear she mouthed, “Thank you.”

If I could have talked to her, I would have told her there was no need to thank me. When I saw the look on her face and the bruises on her neck, I knew I had to do something.