I forgot I wrote that

In searching through some old stuff I came upon assignment I had written in high school. Figure I might as well post some of them. We had read a short story told in the perspective of a barber. A man whose job is killing sits in his chair. He debates killing the man and ultimately cannot do it. We were to write the story from the customer's perspective and then write a diary entry supposedly written by the barber after said encounter. Enjoy:

I walked into the barbershop. The man stood where he was, recognizing my face instantly. That was good, because I knew his too; the face of a revolutionary. This was the man who if given the chance would kill me. But one glance into his eyes and I knew he wouldn't be able to do it. I sat in the chair and asked for a shave. As he sharpened his blade I couldn't help but notice how the light played on the steel. How would that cold steel feel piercing my naked skin? I put those thoughts out of my head. I knew what I was here to do. As he began, I started relating my plans for the hanging of the revolutionaries that very afternoon. I noticed his hands began to tremble. Whether due to anxiety or fear I'll never know. He tried steadying his hand, and managed to. However, not before the blade nipped at my neck. A warm trickle of blood ran down my neck. Would seeing my blood prompt him to want to see all of it upon the floor? No, he wouldn't. I stood by my perception of the man. He tediously continued his work. At times I felt him stop, and wondered what he was pondering. Could it be possible that he was contemplating my death? However, before i could finish that thought, he was done. I looked myself over in the mirror. As I got up to pay him I noticed my knees were a little weak. Although I knew that man wasn't capable of murder, there was a second where the shadow of doubt had crept into my thoughts. I payed him his money and as I walked out I said "I knew you couldn't do it. Killing isn't a party. Believe me, I know."

Dear Diary,
How could he have known? There is no logical way. When he spoke those words, I remained frozen in my spot. I could do nothing but stare at his back as it grew smaller and smaller into the distance. I quickly threw his money on the floor. I felt so dirty. I had contemplated killing a man who took no pleasure in his job, yet had to do it. I couldn't handle the thought, so I quickly closed up my shop and went home. As I reached my door I felt the cold eyes of the others upon me. I knew they knew. I turned and was faced with a mob. They leered at me. One lady cried hysterically, "He killed my son, and you let him live. You're a coward." As she said this, she spat in my face. I related the story to them, pleading for them to understand the situation I had to endure. There were those who realized the severity of Torres' words. They said nothing, for fear of the others; but the look in their eyes said it all. However, the majority of them had no ears for my side. They could not see past the years of bloodshed. So here I sit, alone. Perhaps over time they will understand. I had no choice but to let him go. Oh God, if I would have killed him, I would be perceived as a hero. "You did it for the cause," they would all say. But, in turn the remorse would have killed me. He is not a bad man and he has done me no personal harm. I did the right thing, didn't I?