His glare narrowed as he stared at me—waiting for me to drink the poison he bestowed upon me. This was his mercy. No matter how I pleaded, or how much I cried, I knew it was pointless. He was set on killing me. So, with shaky hands I raised the bowl to my lips and stared back at him—at my King, my father, and drank the poison. This was my mercy to myself. As I choked on the blood that the poison induced; I reached for him one last time. I was not sure what I excepted from him. From a man who could easily watch his child die. That was my last memory of the wretch life I had lived. Because at 18 years old, I was sentenced to death. So, why was I back?