For those who think of suicide as a way out, or those in depression, do I pen this little tale of mine:

The fourteen-year old boy and sister standing by his side looked questioningly at their parents who were pulling the drapes across the windows. The father then pulled a gun and pointed it to his son’s head.

“What are you doing father?” asked the scared teenage boy.

“I am going to kill you my son, after which I will kill your sister then your mother, then take my own life!”

“No!” screamed the little girl as she clung to her brother.

“Father put down your gun,” said the fourteen- year old, suddenly very calm.

“I can’t my son, we all have to die together.”

“Why dad?”

“Because our money is over! My fault! I made some wrong decisions and we are heavily in debt. If only I die, then your mother and both of you will live worse than dogs the rest of your lives. If we go together, nobody can touch us!”

The young son looked at his weeping mother and his trembling sister, then walked to the window, pulled open the drapes and looked out. “Dad come over here! Do you see that handcart puller over there?”

His dad looked and said pityingly “He struggles my son. Poor man!”

“I heard that the handcart doesn’t belong to him dad. His whole aim is to make enough money to feed his hungry family and own the cart one day.”

“Poor man!”

“Brave man!” said his son. “Last week he was limping. Hurt, pulling his cart. But he got his wounds attended to, and next day dad he was back pulling his cart. Can you see his bandages dad?”

“Yes!” said the father, “but why are you wasting time son?”

“Because I cannot see any bandages on you father. I see no wounds, no scars of battle, no scratches, no tears, no gashes!”

“There will be a hole soon on the side of my head, once I pull the trigger!”

“Only the police will see it dad, and that too on a dead man!”

“You want to see me broken, bruised and battered?”

“Yes dad!” screamed the boy, “broken, bruised, battered and even beaten, but like that handcart puller, getting up, pulling on and finally winning!”

The fourteen-year old, felt a stillness in the room as his father put his gun down. He held his sister as her crying stopped. Outside a handcart puller smiled as he pulled his cart with bandaged leg.

“Son!” wept the father holding his wife and throwing his gun away, “I pray for scars, for wounds and courage before I ever give up the fight of life again!”

Do you pray for the same?

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