Patriot No More

Tyrant would have been the word most befitting that man, not politician or democrat, but tyrant, there was absolutely no other word to describe him.

Everyone I'd spoken to, who had a similar distaste in him, every single one of them used that as their main point of description. And why wouldn't we? We weren't titling him as such for the simple excuse of hatred, but because that is precisely what Rodger Kerner was;

A corrupt politician who used his charms and connections to climb to the top. A supposed democrat who used lies and false promises to gain trust. A president who used his newfound power to dismantle the very system our ancestors had been cultivating for generations.

With this new era of confusion and chaos, Kerner was made out as a hero of sorts. Soon enough he was crowning himself King of this demolished constitution. No one fought this, as we had all yet to realize he was to blame for our misfortunes.

However, Calum Stacy, an unabated war veteran and a true leader, my mentor, awakened us to Kerner's wrongdoing. Stacy was the face and voice behind the revolution. A revolution that crashed and burned before it even had the chance to truly begin. All because I had no will of my own and let my weakness ruin us all.

I can remember the exact events leading to the end of the revolution as if they were yesterday, and it might as well have been with the way it still haunts my dreams. I'd stood tall, not daring to look guilty or regretful, out of what I told myself was fear for my family. But truthfully it hadn't been for anything other than my own selfish gain. It seemed worthwhile at the time, but in the end, it was my downfall and the worst decision of my existence.

Turning to glance at my wife, I’d found her expression the same as it had been since she'd learned of what I'd done; cold and detached, void of love. Although, I knew my wife, and under all of that was unyielding burning hatred and every ounce of it was directed at me. That knowledge was almost what broke me. Almost.

The drumming began, the signalization that any hope the people had was about to end.

Dragged out by heavily armed guards were the members of the revolution. One by one each of my old comrades were dragged to the podium, and none of them missed the chance to spit on my first ever pair of polished dress shoes. A luxury I’d only ever longed for in my prime. With each passing friend, now turned foe, my heart turned the slightest bit grayer, and when Calum finally walked by me, he mouthed that simple word that sapped any remaining colour that my heart once held. Turning it black. "Traitor."

The King did not address the crowd or justify his actions as he sat on his throne, and that sent a message far more significant than any speech could, it instilled fear and absolute obedience as he motioned his hand, ordering the commencement of the executions.

As each man fell my black heart crumbled and burned until there was nothing left but ash. Yet still, I looked on, refusing to look pained as I met eyes with my dictator and smiled. The expression foreign, and excruciating to upkeep.

The executed were heroes, but I, however, was no hero in this story, and I most definitely did not go down as one in the history books. I am a man who thought himself brave enough to fight for his rights, for the freedom of his country, only to succumb to fear and greed at the feet of a man I claimed to despise. Who I am is a weak, pathetic excuse for a patriot, nothing more than a traitor.