They called themselves merchants of mercy. They traveled the world with their instruments of deliverance.
They promised peace and escape from the pain that so often accompanied the final moments of life.
They gave no choice to those they came to save. Once the life expectancy date was labeled on a dying man’s file, they were there, knocking at the door to relieve him of his final days of misery (or happiness). And there was no denying them.
They came with their needles. And they left in sudden silence.
They call it mercy. But murder is a far better word.
--- You should have seen my Mom’s face when she came home from the Christmas party. The kitchen counter was completely cleared off, every...
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