Jochen woke up with a headache and a sore throat, feeling sore too, worn out and sticky like waking up from a feverish night, clothing torn from his body in a sick frenzy that he could not recall, but it came to him slowly, first behind closed eyes: vague shapes, moments and words, the voice of a trickster, good boy, a tickle down his spine, rough hands, hate, his pungent lust and how much of a good boy he had wanted to be. When he opened his eyes he found himself stark naked, wedged between Meyer and Wünsche. He managed to crawl out of their arms without waking them up and stumbled to the bathroom where he threw up in the sink; it didn’t erase the memory of what he had let them do to him but it burned pleasantly.
Jealousy
A pang runs through Goebbels as he watches the Führer talk with others, as he watches how closely he listens to them all, as he knows Hitler sees the reverence on their faces that Goebbels knows shows on his own face when he talks to him.
He tries to get the bitter taste of an unknown emotion from his mouth, one he hasn’t felt since his childhood, when he saw the way the healthy, strong boys, boys who certainly didn’t have a clubfoot, would laugh and play and become friends with each other.
“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” Himmler asks beside him with a smirk, and it’s not until he says it that Goebbels realizes that it’s true.
“A sadness runs through him”
‘better’ never means better for everyone
Someone looks adorable while sleeping…
Heydrich could finally get back home after a terribly long day at work and meetings, he was exhausted and burnt out, he was dragging his weary legs back home, the clock showed 11 in the night and all he wanted right now is to fall face first onto his bed.
Just before his bedroom, there was a small room where his kids slept, he couldn’t just not go and check up on them, prying open the door, he peeked at the sleeping children sleeping so soundly.
The closest one to him was Silke, she was his little and most precious angel, Heydrich snuk in closer to her and brushed aside her messy hair, then he gave a small kiss onto her forehead, pulling back he smiled and almost cried happy tears, Heydrich walked back out of the door and wished them all a good night and then quietly closed the door.
Waking up slightly hungover
Listen to The Who’s “Behind Blue Eyes”, get all soppy, write something about bad men or sad men or lies, and blue eyes
Someone looks adorable while sleeping…
Criminal.
“My client was
only following orders,” the lawyer says next to him while he’s
trying to stare into the void between the judges, not thinking of
faces and faces and countless faces and bodies and bodies and
countless bodies but just keeping his mind blank: he was only
following orders.There are enough
fairy tales floating around that people are only too happy to believe
– if I hadn’t done it, they’d killed me too, is one of the most
useful, because the alternative (that no one had to force them to do
it, that it is simply what people do for ideology and a pay-check,
that people can so easily become butchers of their own kind) is too
terrible to accept, isn’t it?The thing is, his lawyer told him he
hasn’t be too nervous about the matter anyway, regardless of those
excuses, there’s no legal precedent for genocide and murder, murder
has to be proven, motive and all, for a particular case, and who can
testify to anything he did to this or that person when all witnesses
have been turned to ashes and dust?
loyal to a fault
Was he loyal to a fault?
Rosenberg paused from writing. Looked around his dim, dingy cell.
Was he? So many times, he had seen where the Party was going. People like Goebbels and Himmler– power-hungry, egotistical, unwilling to compromise. And Hitler had allowed it all!
So many times he had seen the filth the Party had allowed to accumulate. It had troubled him deeply, but what could he have done? He had had relatively little power, and wasn’t close to Hitler after 1933. In fact, he was despised by many– not that he didn’t despise them back.
Ah, but there was something he could have done, for himself if for nothing else. He could have left the Party. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been hard– could he have slipped away quietly, to some other country with his wife and daughter?Back to Estonia, perhaps? Back to Riga?
But he knew he couldn’t have abandoned it. It wasn’t the Party’s people he had been so loyal to. It was the opposite. Rosenberg knew he was loyal to its ideals– the National Socialist ideals he had devoted his life to. And, by extent, to the Party itself, in its raw state.
Loyal to a fault. Such an ugly phrase, he thought. Loyalty wasn’t a fault. Rather, it was a good quality that often led people astray because of their own foolishness.
Not that any of that mattered now. Here, at Nuremberg, nothing mattered.
Reichblr Ficathon 