As I sat in the near vacant shop with a sandwich squeezed into my small hand, I found myself wondering how we had failed such a simple task. There were seven of us in total. We were all armed with the necessary equipment. We had even been trained for the moment. He was hardly armed. There was no way he could’ve protected himself against us. He was foolish, cocky—an easy kill. But it hadn’t happened.

Nedjelko, an associate of mine and fellow member of the Black Hand, had been the closest to succeeding. We had all silently applauded him for his attempt at the assassination. Though he missed his target and was captured, he managed to strike fear into the heart of Franz Ferdinand. He boldly proved for all of us—the whole of Serbia—that we were not making fools of ourselves. Together, our mission was to murder the man who was making Serbian life a miserable one.

From my mouth, creased into a small, almost permanently tired frown, erupted a sharp cough. I took special care as to cover my mouth with my hand, as I was tubercular and beginning to cough blood. Never a good sign. A young woman at the next table glanced at me with concern, though I found it hard to meet her gaze. I was in no mood to take pity on a day such as today. We had failed, and that was all that perturbed my mind—not even the fact that death from my illness was waiting for me in the distance.

Another cough, another small bite of the sandwich. I was thinking again. The Archduke of that miserable Austria-Hungary would be out of the city by now. Failed, failed. The words ran through my head continuously, like a nightmare. I couldn’t let that monster go ahead and corrupt my country. Something had to happen.

Much to my dreadful surprise, I saw the black automobile carrying the Archduke and his wife round a corner and turn onto the street. Headed my way, towards the shop. Something surged through me. This was my job—this was my time. With a violent hack, I pushed myself up from the table, and tilted my worn black bowler hat over my eyes. I gathered my jacket closer around me, feeling my Browning pistol press against my chest. My eyes drooped with fatigue as I ran my fingers through my hair. The cool outside air embraced my presence, along with the euphoric cheering of citizens. Nothing to lose, Gavrilo.

I told myself to walk calmly, look normal. I didn’t need to get arrested so soon. This was my chance. As the automobile continued its slow run down the ugly grey street, I felt inside my coat in a daze, trying to get my fingers to move correctly. I muttered something incomprehensible under my breath and finally gripped the pistol firmly. My entire body was limp. I ignored the coughs that racked my brittle ribs, tasting the blood but not covering my mouth. The car was closer now, too close. I could hear the thin tires crunching on the gritty stone. And it when it got to the point where the driver was staring at me, where I could see every shocked, suspicious, scared and angry contour on his flat face, I aimed to prove him wrong. I aimed to prove that I was not the scrawny, tuberculosis-stricken weak young boy that so many saw me as. As I set my foot down, time seemed to trickle down to the pace of a snail. I took a step, and finally, I shot.

Smile, Serbia!