Fiction logo

The Perfect Patriot

A Requiem for Regret

By Insinq DatumPublished 2 years ago 6 min read
Like
The Perfect Patriot
Photo by Zack Marshall on Unsplash

When I was young I thought myself infallible. I was so sure of myself — I thought I would never make a decision that I would regret, because I wasn’t a spontaneous person. I thought about my decisions before I made them and I tried as hard as possible to make the right one. What is, the ‘right decision’, though? When something that’s right for you is wrong for someone else; when something that’s right for then is wrong for now. How do you come to terms with what you’ve done when you’ve never done anything wrong in the moment? This regret, I think, is the worst kind. The regret that is unavoidable, the regret that comes with hindsight and wisdom. This regret plagues me, every hour of every day.

I was in a dank, dark room, my head underwater. Men surrounded me — it was another interrogation session. I was a prisoner of war, in a concentration camp somewhere. Once I knew, but such trivial facts have long since fled the dark confines of my mind. They wanted information, but they were getting nothing of the sort. I was a soldier, and I would not betray my country. I didn’t know how long I’d been there, but there were only two of us left. Myself and a comrade of mine, and there was no animosity spared between us. I had hated him since the first day I had met him, and he had similar feelings about me. The men around me seemed to exhale as a collective, and their leader regarded me with contempt. Suddenly he was barking orders and I was released, reeling backwards and coughing up dirty water. Suddenly my comrade was in the room with me, and I knew my time was up. They wanted sport, to see us fight to the death, and I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing me a broken man. We grappled extensively — at full strength I could easily have had the fight but I was weakened from my imprisonment, making the fight incredibly even. Suddenly there was an explosion outside the camp, accompanied by chattering gunfire. My opponent was distracted and I used his distraction to my advantage, throwing him to the ground and quickly breaking his neck. I glanced up to see the guards dying all around me, explosions of crimson erupting over their bodies. The first face I saw come through the door was that of my best friend. I was rescued.

I was in a hotel room, and the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my life was on the bed next to me. She was wearing an expression of deep concern — she didn’t know what was wrong, and I couldn’t tell her, but deep inside she knew that something was wrong. Something. I had to go; to leave. I knew my duty, and I knew my orders, and she could not factor into my mission. I could not be thinking about her safety. The words left my lips as if each one was a terror pounding on the drum of death in the depths of hell. I will never forget the look on her face when she heard those words. “I don’t care. I don’t love you and I don’t think I ever will.” There was no anger in her eyes, but a deep and powerful hurt filled them. Worst of all, I think, was the lack of understanding. It was a childish look that became her expression, an immature mix of emotions. She didn’t understand anything and it hurt her so much, and there was nothing I could do or say to fix that. She never spoke to me again, that woman. I’ve never forgotten her; her name and the colour of her eyes and the shape of her lips when she smiled. They have remained, burnt into my mind for eternity. In that moment as she looked at me without understanding, a single tear rolled down her cheek. Then she got up and she left me in the hotel room, and I watched her go feeling as if she was taking my heart with her, never to be returned.

There was a man seated in front of me. He was bound to his chair, and a filthy sack covered his head. This man was a terrorist, and I was charged with executing him for his crimes against my great nation. I only heard him speak once, but his voice has haunted me for the rest of my life. I stood in front of him, trying to grapple with the deed I was about to commit, when he spoke. A simple word escaped his lips, “Please.” That single utterance evoked a dread deep inside my body. I didn’t know what he meant; Did he want me to end his suffering or save his life? I didn’t know — I couldn’t know, and I was being watched, so I did the only thing I could do. I drew my pistol, I placed the barrel against his head and I pulled the trigger. As I heard the click that comes an instant before the gunpowder ignites, I realized the source of the terror in my gut. I knew that voice. I knew that voice well.

There were people arrayed out in front of me, a congregation watching me closely. I was being presented with medals of war, honouring me for my bravery and valour. I stared out into the crowd, searching for three faces, but I knew they would not be there. I knew them all intricately, as they painted my dreams every night. Two men and one woman. All gone. I was asked to speak, they wanted to know if I had anything to say and I approached the microphone. I wanted to give honour to them, I wanted to apologize, and I wanted to make things right but the words died in my throat. There was nothing I could say to fix this. There were no expressions that would ever be enough. I shook my head and turned away from the crowd.

I’m in my childhood house now, and there is the same old flag above the mantel. My medals rest against my chest but they are so heavy. I watch the fire as it slowly consumes the flag that I lived my life by. The fire burns hot, but I don’t even feel it. I wonder if the medals will survive the inferno. That would be nice.

x

This was perhaps the first serious piece of writing I ever created, and it was when I was just eleven or twelve. I haven’t edited it, because I think that would infringe on the integrity of the piece; it is what it is, that being an expression of an idea which struck me profoundly in a way that none ever had before: the tragic nature of regret, and my awareness that I never wanted to suffer it. To this day, I try to live my life in such a way as to ensure that I will not regret it when I am finished with it, and so it is as an attempt to honour that ideal that I would not modify my work by way of polishing it. I am proud of what I produced, even though today when I read it I feel that it is far from my best work. I don’t regret that flaws I now see in it, though. They simply are.

Thanks for reading :)

Short Story
Like

About the Creator

Insinq Datum

I'm an aspiring poet, author and philosopher. I run a 5000+ debating community on Discord and a couple of Youtube channels, one related to the Discord server and one related to my work as a philosopher. I am also the author of DMTheory.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.