Tʜᴇ Pᴀᴛʜ Tᴏ Hɪɢʜɢᴀᴛᴇs

Bᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ Hᴇᴀᴠᴇɴ Aɴᴅ Hᴇʟʟ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 50

"Oh, it's just you."

You let your hand fall flat on the door. Your body half turned to face the Russian standing behind you.

"Da, it's just me." He mumbled, hands in his pockets, kicking the carpet.

You bit your lip, eyes to the ground. "Look—"

"Kan ve talk?"

You noticed it right away. The nervous glances to the ground, the shuffling and muttering. It was like he was forcing himself to speak with you. Like deep down he didn't want to talk with you at all. You couldn't exactly blame him, you didn't treat him right either. The longer you thought, the more you realised you were a terrible person. The more you despised yourself.

"Not now." You mumbled, finding yourself mirroring his nervous twitches.

Soviet coughed— clearing his throat. His eyes darting everywhere but to you, his face growing redder by the second. His hands clammy and shaking— he was obviously extremely nervous. Too much so to try and hide it.

He didn't take your hint. He didn't turn to leave. He stood still, working himself up for something, his hands twisting in his pockets. "I um." He cleared his throat— playing with his feet. "I hope you don't mind zat I took Salem into my room."

You met his eye from under his mop of red hair. Before he shot them away and brushed the strands to sit in front of them, so you wouldn't be able to meet his gaze again. Something seemed wrong, you knew that instantly, he never really acted like this before. Had you hurt his feelings too? Was this his sad attempt to pull an apology from you?

You felt your heart twist. "It's fine."

Because it was working.

You wanted nothing more than the pits of Hell to open wide and swallow you whole. For you to fall through this world again, and find the next one. To get away from the hurt looks and silent anguish. Without intending to, Soviet was making you feel worse. Was this what Hell was? Facing all the mistakes you've ever made and still being unable to mend them? To be unable to forgive yourself? Regretting the regret.

"I um— I think I owe you an apology." You mumbled, turning to face the ground. Now it was you who couldn't meet his eye. You didn't like how bright they were. The crystal white backdrop hurt your head. "I'm really sorry for giving out to you. You did nothing, really you didn't."

Soviet just huffed— the uncontrollable kind that you let out after a joke that wasn't all that funny. It made you bring your eyes back to his— the burning vibrancy of a man who just didn't care. Who was above all the bars that held you down. "It's okay, it didn't bother me zat much."

"Really?" You sounded surprised— so surprised that Soviet laughed this time— a short and low laugh that ended in a simper. Maybe it wasn't everything you had ruined. "Da, it's okay, really."

But he had always been the least of your worries. The person you had hurt the least. You still had to answer to yourself. To German Empire— to Reich most of all. What did it matter if it was okay to one person? You didn't feel okay. You had never felt so low before. Never in your life had you so wanted something to end more. Soviet was okay, but you were minutes away from giving up— then giving in. "I still feel bad about it though." You shrugged, drawing a sigh from the Russian. He looked away— thinking of something, then came back smiling.

It made you feel even smaller.

"How about zis." Soviet began, beaming in his eyes— bright and wide and vibrant— the only Suns you had seen that day.

"If you vant to apologise so bad, you kan make it up to me by joining me for dinner." Your eyes flew wide, you were a little unsettled by the suddenness of his request. Was that what he wanted to talk about? Was that why he was so nervous? Maybe he was telling the truth when he said your apology didn't mean anything. It didn't bother him what you had said— but what he had wanted to say.

"When?" You asked, playing with your hands like yarn. "Is tonight okay? I kan ask Vilhelm to make us something."

You suddenly felt acutely aware that he was asking this outside Reich's door. Just the thought that Reich could hear the exchange made you feel self-conscious— rubbish. What would he be thinking? After all, you said last night, you decided to show up outside his room and agree to meet someone else for dinner— like you were replacing him. Instead of spending your time with him, you would spend it with Soviet. Was that why you felt so heavy? "Why are you asking though?" You questioned, swallowing the lump in your throat. Buying time to save your tears.

"I said I vanted to get to know you, didn't I? Zere's no better vay zan over dinner." The Russian beamed— his prior nervousness diminished to nothing now he had his request out. "I guess." You shrugged, turning away again.

This time Soviet noticed. His smile fell, having been taken from him by your despondency. Yet again, you ruined something else. You wished that whatever being resided in Heaven struck you down— things would be better off that way, wouldn't they? "Are you okay?" Soviet asked.

You were okay— as good as you could have been within a whirlpool. But as soon as he said that it felt like everything snapped. The ribbons holding your heart up pulled apart and let go— the will in your eyes to hold it in released— the choke in your throat burned like tequila— you almost broke down. You almost let go. But you were sick of being someone else's problem. You couldn't let yourself be another. You were too tired. "Yeah. I'm fine." 

Soviet remained still, staring into your eyes that twitched and burned with the water that filled them. It was obvious you weren't telling the truth. Soviet could see it clearly. But he didn't pry, he didn't seem like he wanted to. Maybe he didn't care— it wasn't his business to. "What did you vant to talk to Reich about?" He asked after a moment.

Maybe he knew the reason why your spirits were so low was because of what you said. You were reaping the consequences of your actions— Soviet understood that. He wasn't a stupid man. "Something important...? I guess."

Soviet perked up, ignoring the dullness within you— choosing instead to divert the conversation. "Kan I ansver it?" You narrowed your eyes, a little confused of why he would ask. "No? I don't think so."

He seemed a little disappointed in your answer, but didn't let it show. He seemed to understand there was little more to say to you. As he began backing up, slowly marching backwards down the corridor. "Oh. Vell. Um. I'll see you tonight zen?"

"What time?" You called to him— which made him smile with his eyes. "When you smell it being kooked."

You felt your head fall, shielding the pathetic sorrow shining through your eyes. "Okay." You mumbled, watching as he turned— a smile still on his face. He looked proud he had asked. Too wrapped up in his own little fantasy to notice the floor devour you— for hell to open up and pull you down, your self-loathing seeping from every pore of your body. He couldn't see it. Or maybe he didn't care. He got what he wanted— and it ended well for him.

You turned back to the door, placing one knuckle against it, gently brushing it. Before you breathed in— and finally knocked.

Now you were going to get what you wanted.

But deep down you knew, it wouldn't end well for you.