Locked Away (GerIta)

Chapter 48

Ludwig sat quietly on the edge of his bed, contemplating. He closed his eyes and laced his fingers together, finding the darkness comforting.

Therapy. It will help.

He sighed and opened his eyes again, slowly getting up and walking over to the small desk in the corner. He ran a hand over the sheet of paper there and picked up the pen as he sat down. Words soon occupied the page.

Come with us.

He flexed his fingers, joints creaking internally. Ludwig looked at the crucifix on his wall, something that'd been there since he moved in and had never bothered to take down. He prayed.

Impurities like you need to be extinguished.

Ludwig opened his closet door and moved a few boxes out of the way until he found the briefcase. He lugged it out and placed it atop his bed, opening the brass clasps. The fabric was just as starched and stiff as ever, left breast decorated heavily with awards.

Give a dog poison and it will surely die.

Ludwig combed back his hair and crouched down to lace his polished boots. He stood in front of the mirror that was part of the dresser vanity in his room. Back straight, uniform pressed, feet together. Ludwig placed the letter on the dresser.

It's only a matter of time. He has to break.

It was heavy in his hand as he weighed it in his moist palm. The barrel was clean, he looked down the eye. Everything was in working condition. Hundreds of rigorous cleanings had ensued, it had to work. Ludwig held it properly.

The shocks, they should work.

Ludwig drew in a deep breath, turned and stood at attention; stiff and stoic and still. He stared in the mirror, dark green uniform crisp, medals hanging upon his left breast. His eyes flitted down to the letter, Feliciano's name scrawled across the front. He clenched his jaw, cold metal of the gun's eye pressed against his temple.

Show no mercy. He does not deserve such a luxury.

Ludwig's finger squeezed the trigger.

~

Barely 18, a sturdy boy enlisted. He was with a shorter, stronger man with a grin across his face, a mischevious air about him. The blonde boy was taller, skinnier, serious, and sad.

They were brothers, registered together, listed as each other's next-of-kin. The older man at registration, fit but blind as a bat and unable to enlist, almost scoffed. How could this shy boy with bright blue eyes and no experience around a gun survive a war.

Turns out he wouldn't necessarily have to. His brother, sent to the front lines, was heard from rarely and then not at all. The blonde one, handpicked to be the lowest rank in the Reich, grew into a broad-shouldered man with stripes upon his sleeve.

He moved up, moved on. "To better things" they would tell him just before they sent him through the gates of hell on earth. He, the timid boy who went from office to Auschwitz, became a grim reaper. Decider of life or death. Labour or gas.

He never thought of what he was doing, not until he walked by the crematorium on his way to fence duty and the scent of burning flesh filled his nostrils. He went and stood at the electric fence, rigid and shaken.

The older men, taunted and teased. Told him he needed to man up. Told him this was all for a purer race. Told him this would soon be a second home to him.

His name was Ludwig and he was a lost cause, temporarily revived by the love of an Italian boy, but sunken in the depths of despair when he became nothing more than an executioner that could not kill.