spider season
romeo and juliet
not knowing when to shut up
frills
revenge
My favourite guard is as tall as a giant. His hair is the palest blond. His eyes are tiny grey pebbles. He smiles like a shark and his nose is crooked. Sometimes I imagine stories for him: what music he listens to after work, what his first kiss was like, what happened to his nose. None of the others pay attention to him like I do. Blind to beauty when it strikes them all they do is work and sleep and moan. But I know what it means when his nostrils flare and he lets his baton slide through his fingers, in and out. Someone will get a beating. Tip-tip-tap, two to the head and one to the groin.
Me, me, me, do me, I want to scream but I am good and I don’t. I work. I am quiet. I obey. And I hope that despite it all one of these days it will be me who gets the baton.
I think maybe he spares me intentionally. He’s so clever, he knows that I want it. Sometimes I think he’s looking at me and his lips raise to a snare. I must be daydreaming. I’m so hungry. It’s hard to think and not think of him. Dreams become tangible. Boots on the floor, a familiar pattern, the slight limp. I wish I was a little ball of meat, soft and squishy and his to use.
He never does hurt me. And then they come and free us, Americans with their clean clothing and fat cheeks and loud anger and wide smiles. He doesn’t run, he’s not the type. He stands there, strong and tall with his head high and his nostrils flare but now we have the baton and the Americans won’t stop us; they watch like visitors in a zoo.
Tip-tip-tap. He screams just like we did. And then he screams worse, shrill and wild. It’s hard to hear the sound of his cracking skull over the cheers and the grunts and the laughter. In the end he looks at me, just me, always just me, and I’m sure in his last moments he regrets having toyed with me like that. Cruel men find cruel ends. I’m free and life goes on.
Lipstick on his collar.
“Who is it? Who?” Lisl sobbed, her back turned, unable to look at his severe face, not after what she had found. “Is she pretty? How old is she? Why don’t you invite her for dinner sometime and introduce her to me?” she spat, having long suspected that he had been straying. Why should she be special? She had always known of his wandering eye – it was an open secret in Linz – but she had hoped that a home and children would give her some security. Had it all really been in vain?
He said nothing, refusing to dignify her distress with a response, putting on his tunic, the gold braid of the shoulder boards glinting in the mirror.
“You think you can just ignore it? Is that what you think?” She felt crazy with grief, burning with betrayal. She knew what color she wore, and it wasn’t the shade she had scrubbed from his shirt the day before, that was for sure.
“Let me guess, she’s a secretary. A working girl. Probably married with a man on the front, if I had to guess, since you apparently have no shame. Is she good in bed, Ernst? Did she throw herself at your feet and spread her legs when she saw your rank? I hope she was worth it. I’ll even take the children. Don’t think I won’t.” Her voice broke once more, harsh, ugly cries preventing her from continuing to rant.
He was behind her now, gripping the back of her neck so hard that she could feel bruises forming. Still, in her anger, she was beyond fear. He could kill her if he wanted. She didn’t care anymore.
“Go, then. Take them. I’ll track you down, and I’ll get them back.” he snarled, jerking her head to the side, sending pain shooting up her spine, wanting to crush the woman’s windpipe like an empty can. “She’ll make a better mother than you anyway. You took years to give me our children, and she is already giving me twins.”
After After learning what was occurring at Auschwitz Frau Höss refused to sleep in the same bed with her husband “and physical intimacy between the couple was rare. They became emotionally estranged from each other.” – something from her POV maybe?
She knelt on the cold tile, the waves of nausea crashing over her relentlessly, her mind a mess of horrors. Her body felt as though it had been hit by a train, the emotional shock so severe as to be felt physically in her very bones.
Who was he? This was not the Rudolf that she had met as a teenager. This was not the optimistic young man whose only goal in life had been to be a Wehrbauer with a farm and a family of his own. They had been young and in love, determined to build the simple but rewarding life that they both dreamed of. This was not the Rudolf that she had married, in braids and a white cotton dress, three months pregnant, back in 1929. This was not her husband.
“Tell me. Tell me the truth.” she had demanded. “Gauleiter Bracht didn’t say those things for no reason.” she barked, no doubt surprising him with her vehemence, so different from her quiet, unassuming personality.
This family, this villa, this life in the East, it was all built on lies. Lies and corpses and suffering. She retched again, thinking of the horrible reality of it. Never again could she look him in the eye. Never again could she touch him. Never again could she share her bed or give her body to such a monster. Never again could she be his wife.
Gerhard Roßbach perverting Ernst Röhm — or basically anybody :)
Röhm watches as Roßbach puts his hand on the soldier’s neck and the lad suddenly becomes slack, his features soft, the eyes lowered, and to Röhm’s surprise (a curious tingling sensation under the skin, spreading warmth, arousal) he twists his lean body into the demeaning hold, stretching like a cat begging to be pet.
Roßbach looks at Röhm, looks through his uniform, has him completely figured out, and he’s smiling (tipsy but not unrestrained). ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret,’ his dark eyes, twinkling under bushy eyebrows, seem to say. He applies just a little more pressure and the soldier who should be strong enough to withstand, the brat who wouldn’t take this from any other comrade without socking them square them in the face, that wonderful proud creature just drops to his knees without a word.
“They like it rough,” Roßbach says but he’s not looking at that treat at his feet, he’s only looking at Röhm, studying, and he grabs the lad by the hair and pulls his head back. It’s painful, you can see it on his face. The obedient little soldier’s eyes roll up to look at his commander in a poor imitation of one begging for his life, the expression likely snatched from the faces of the men that he had slaughtered himself. His mouth drops open, his wet tongue darts out, he licks his lips. He knows that he will not be spared and he loves it.
Reichblr Ficathon 