Just a question: now that they’re about to hang you, are you still as sure of your actions over the past seven years? You certainly seemed sure of yourself while you were on trial, but the day of reckoning was still a long way off at that time.
As they lead you into the room where those ridiculously large nooses await, are you willing to admit that, yes, you were wrong in being so aggressive in your role as Prime Minister? Or will you stick to what you’ve professed to believe the entire time?
You did feel your country was being treated unfairly, after all. In fact, you felt the entire continent of Asia was being treated unfairly by the West. You wanted what was rightfully yours. The West said no. So you attacked, just like they would have – and had before – under similar circumstances.
Why, then, are you the so-called brute, the thug who is being compared to European tyrants? The noose next to yours certainly isn’t there for the Emperor. Why is it that you and a few select others are the ones who have been hand-picked to die, to more or less take sole responsibility for the entire affair?
You know the answer. It’s politics. It’s always politics. It’s always been politics. Yet you’ve thrived in politics. It could even be argued you’ve luxuriated in politics. In that sense, then, your death is merely a consequence of existing in a world of your own choosing.
You look at the white men in uniform who are about to put a bag over your head and fit you for your method of execution. You’ve heard that one of these men wanted to be a preacher before he realized he couldn’t give up drinking and smoking.
That story made you smile and flash the false teeth they made for you after your capture. It’s never been a case of you not liking Westerners, however. It’s simply been a case of you liking your own people more. A lot more.
Perhaps you’ve loved them too much, though. There were many atrocities which were carried out by soldiers you yourself put into combat, after all. Surely you can understand the anger of the Americans in that regard.
The truth is you could have done more to make the whole affair honorable. You should have done more. You can’t justify what can’t be justified, even if you can’t understand how it’s led you to this moment.
The taller of the two Americans has taken hold of the bag he’s going to place over your head. You think back to those awful meetings, where you argued against surrendering. Even as the world literally blew up around you, it was impossible for you to concede the war was lost.
Now you can openly it admit it’s over, however. You’ve lost and now you’re paying the consequences. As the bag is placed over your eyes, you use your final words to apologize for the atrocities committed and to ask for mercy on your people. It seems the honorable thing to do.
What of the other matters, though? While you’ve honestly made it clear you wish to die, you don’t wish to do so with a lie burned onto your brain. Should you truly feel remorse, you wonder, for deeds you yourself were solely responsible for?
You ponder this as you feel the thick rope being fastened around your neck.
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Sean Crose has been fortunate enough to have his work appear at Fiction365 on numerous occasions He lives in Connecticut with his wife, Jen, and Cody, the world’s greatest cat.
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