On not killing Mary

I have recently discovered that it is excruciatingly hard to kill off one’s own characters.  I started writing short fiction stories recently, and one of them took off quite well.  That is, until it came time to kill off the main character.  I haven’t written a thing on any of my stories since I reached that point.  I can hardly bear to think about it even.  It’s almost like she’s a person.  A dear friend even.  To write her death… it seems almost cruel.  I brought her to life.  I gave birth to her.  How can I kill my own child.

It’s crazy, because I know intimately the details of her death.  I researched the plausibility of the whole thing and plotted it out in my head.  Even so, I loath to put the words to paper (or screen, be it as it may), because I will have killed her.  I hate killing.  Even when it’s necessary. 

Hopefully, in writing this, I will be able to get past this silly block and finish the story.  However, I’m uncertain that I will be able to forgive myself for killing my own child.  Perhaps, it will become easier with time.