"Ouch! Stop it! Grandpa, Jimmy's hurting me!" a voice screamed from another room. These old bones never slept well, let alone when a child is calling for help.
Child? My child? No, that voice is far too young. Grandchild? That must be it. Of course. My grandson needs help!
If an intruder was harming my grandson I couldn't possibly fight them off. Not at my old age of 74, even if I am a veteran.
Suddenly I remembered. The night stand. It safely carried my faithful revolver. Quietly sliding the drawer open, I retrieved the gun and ammo, loading it as I crept toward my grandson's room.
To my horror, as I slid the door open, there wasn't one Jimmy, but two of them. They looked exactly alike, fighting on the bedroom floor.
How was this possible? Was this some some sort of demon pretending to be my grandson? Trying to take his place?
"Grandpa," the impostor child screamed. "Jimmy's hurting me!"
"No i'm not," the real Jimmy yelled back.
"Let him go, Jimmy. I'll take care of that fiend." I said, steadily raising my revolver toward the impostor.
"Grandpa, stop!" Both children screamed.
I pulled the trigger, the revolver performing it's duty once more with an impressive bang, followed by dead silence.
The impostor lay on the ground, dead.
"Jimmy, are you okay?" I asked.
"Grandpa," Jimmy whimpered. His voice trembled, barely able to speak, "What... what d-did you do? You sh-shot my brother."
A moment of clairvoyance filled my mind. Old memories began flooding back to me. Two Jimmy's... Identical twins? Jimmy... and Jason? Medication and a diagnosis... dementia... Alzheimers?
The revolver slipped out of my hands, falling quietly on the floor.
"What have I done?"