I've been thinking a lot about what mercy means. From compassion.com, "'mercy' derives from the medieval Latin merced or mercers, which means 'price paid'. It has the connotation of forgiveness, benevolence, and kindness...mercy often refers to compassionate behavior from a person in power". On google, there's a graph showing usage of the word over time, and it's steadily declined since the 1800s. It's often used in religious contexts, which I assume alludes to God, who's often referred to as "merciful". It makes sense then that the use has declined in a society becoming steadily less religious.
I can see now that I've thought a lot about the concept without relating concept to the word. I was in a relationship earlier this year and he couldn't decide whether or not he wanted to keep dating. At a certain point I started telling him he needed to "shoot the dog," in reference to Old Yeller and I guess, myself. Instead of having conversations about it (with the subject in question, no less), I wanted him to just end it. I wanted him to be merciful. I didn't get what I wanted. I ended things of my own accord after repeated poor treatment that finally drove me to my wit's end. I had to be merciful toward myself, even though I didn't feel like I had power in the situation. A friend of mine had a mouse in their apartment recently. I was visiting when the trap popped, signaling its success. We checked it to see the mouse hadn't died but had broken its leg. The mouse was twitching and disfigured with its leg unnaturally bent. I told my friend he needed to kill it. I knew he needed to kill it because my mom told me as a child that my dad killed a dying animal with his boot once. The memory had stuck with her and her retelling with me. It says a lot about the kind of person my dad is - straight to the point, lacking emotion, merciful. My friend was debating what to do as I grabbed a plastic baggie, reached under the bed, and grabbed the mouse. I twisted the bag and took it to the linoleum kitchen floor. I stepped on the mouse until it died. I did all of this in a few minutes, more acting than thinking. I don't have a relationship with my dad. There's a good chance we are too alike. I am also straight to the point, lacking emotion, and merciful. History repeated itself in a strange way that night, and I don't know if it's because I know my dad did that and agree or because I share his genetic code and act the same without free will. The mouse was my first thought the next morning; I've thought about my actions every day since. I don't like what I did, but I know it was right except for maybe in its execution: if there is a faster or more efficient way to end a dying animal's life, that's better. I'd shoot the dog because I'd want the dog to shoot me.
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