July 11, 1804. Weehawken, New Jersey.
I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory. Is this where it gets me, on my feet, several feet ahead of me? I see it coming, do I run or fire my gun or let it be? There is no beat, no melody. Burr, my first friend, my enemy. Maybe the last face I ever see. If I throw away my shot, is this how you’ll remember me? What if this bullet is my legacy?
It was a warm and windy dawn. It was just another day in New Jersey, except there was a terrible chill that went down my spine. Our backs were turned as we walked ten steps away from each other. Those were probably the slowest and most heart-pumping steps I've ever walked in my life. My hands were shaking. palms were sweating. My heart was pumping out of my chest. My mind was flooded with so many thoughts of who was once my first friend and was now my enemy standing away from me.
A single tear streamed down as I looked up at the sky and I caught a glimpse of the