Could you say you were proud of me?

I'm a man in his early forties, who has traveled a bit of distance in this world.

When I was little, I was taught to believe that the U.S. government was the best I could have, and it would be a honor to serve them. I trained everyday, hoping for the day I could serve my country.

I went to boot camp, and earned myself a good gun that represented my honor.

They gave me black leather boots, spit-shined so clean that they gleamed. They shaved off my hair, but I looked alright to me. I became friends with those I trained with, and we marched and we sang like it was noble to do this.

Then they sent me off to war, to be all that I could be.

On my first mission, I kicked down a family's door, and ordered them on the floor. We saw our man, a terrorist. I dragged him to his knees, catching the fear in his eyes, and wrapped a bag around his face. I bashed him with my Honor, and dragged him from the house as his wife and children cried.

They sprayed him with a fire house, enough that his skin became raw. I thought at first to stop them, but I was too new. So I did as I was ordered, and hit him like the others, no reason other than who he was.

My next field mission, we were fighting a group in the streets, when a woman came running at us. I ordered her to stop, and she did. My commander ordered me to shoot her, and I did. She fell to the ground, her white flag right beside her. I turned my gun and fired on at the enemy.

I was ordered to kill regardless of age, gender, condition, or alliance. Our mission was to search and destroy the enemy's will by killing indiscriminately. Children, men, women, and elderly. Even if they surrendered, our orders were to shoot and kill, and I began to not care.

After the war, I was given a Medal of Honor for how I served. The President called me a hero of war, and I could tell he was truly proud of me. I went back home, and they too were just so damn proud of me. I was happy at first, but then I grew sick with myself.

I was approached by a contracting company, and offered a job. I became a mercenary, a sellsword, a weapon of death to the highest bidder. I thought, if I could pick who I would kill, the drug lords and warmongers, it would make me fell absolved.

Now my employers, too, call me a hero of war, so proud of me now that I lead the most successful operations here. Beneath the bed in my provided room, I have a small box. Inside are my medals, and my Honor. I won't open that box again until I feel like I deserve them, and that box has been closed for ten years.

I carry a folded up flag, all fifty stars with thriteen stripes, because it reminds me of what I had hoped to be. I don't trust the government, the politicians or the president. But I still carry the flag because it is the only flag I love, and the only thing I trust.

Could you say you'd be proud of me? Would you say I should be proud of myself?

When you read what I've written, could you say I was a hero of war, because I have never felt like one. Even if I am beyond hope of ever having my honor back, I'll still carry that flag, into hell if I must.

I have to be vague here, so please understand.