Cultural Demolition

A man destroys a town. And an elder.

I recall marching to the next site alone. We had just wrapped up taking down the first, and we had direct orders to continue on to the rest. I got to site three and noticed a man. An indigenous older man, he had a stoic face and hardly even gave me a passing glance. I walked up to him.

“Sir, I recommend you evacuate the area. We have orders to demolish it.” I informed him. The man did not respond, his eyes seemingly devoid of any emotion. A little confused, I decided to question him.

“Sir, are you the only one here?” I asked. This made the man respond.

“I am. The others have already left.” He replied with succinct and a voice of gravel.

“Why didn’t you go with them?”

The man finally looked up at me. “I decided I will die here.”

I squinted my eyes. “Why?”

“This is where I’ve lived out my entire life.” The man explained, “It isn’t the most affluent of areas, but it bears much significance to me. My life is nearing its completion nonetheless, and I’d rather die of my own volition than not.”

For some odd reason I took umbrage with his defiance. The man’s infallible eyes bothered me; seeing someone so ready to die was personally quite insulting.

“Evacuate.” I commanded vehemently, getting closer to his face. “Now.”

My provocation seemingly wasn’t enough. The man was unbothered. I sighed, eased back, and turned back, offering my acquiescence.

“Fine. I have no qualms. Do as you like.” I lied, turning back to report the man to HQ. Years later, I would have to come to terms with the fact that I truly hated taking life. A decision that affected me for the rest of my life.