The Master Race

(First story. Feel free to post feedback in the comments! Chapter 4: Up some time today tomorrow if not.

Prolouge

When I think about my early years, it's like trying to get past a brick wall. However, the brick wall reveals small cracks in its surface. I can remember the women; all the same. Blond, blue eyed, strangely beautiful. I had no father, one sister, a brother who wasn't. I remember the fear radiating off my mother when she looked out a window. Was there a house? Yes, there was, tall, shabby, loveable. Could we have left? Yes, we could've. And we did. 7, was I? Yes, I was. I was a clone too, maybe not a clone, but one of the ones who were the same. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. I was part of the Master Race.

We lived somewhere for a while. I remember a man in uniform, shiny shoes polished, eyes icy cold, the eyes of a killer. Had he killed? Yes he had, he killed anyone different. And there they were, chained, roped, ragged, filthy. Hurting, mothers holding their children close. I looked down upon them, the daughter of their killer. I saw their stares. Surely they weren't judging my appearance? Yes, they were, because I was part of the Master Race. Did they want to be me? Yes, because I was part of the Master Race. Am I a killer? This question lingers unanswered in the thin misty folds of my brain. And hopefully, one day, I will answer it with open eyes.

Chapter 1- Future Joy, Future Sorrow

I'm thirteen now, and things are very different. My mother is dead. She hung herself, lost in unspoken sorrow. Maybe it was my father, my brother, the hardship. I'm sitting here in this dusty old cellar, my only companions the rats and my sister's body, more lifeless and cold than the stone floor below me on this winter day. Like Mother, she gave up too. Like our brother, who gave up being safe that night on his way home, walking past one too many dark alleyways,. Now I am the sole survivor of our family. Unless I find my father. The drumming sounds above me. The drumming of the marching feet, wearing those same shiny shoes. It hurts my ears. I'm scared to go above ground. They might shoot me if they see these. What are the 'these'? My glasses, of course. There they sit upon my nose, shabby, dusty, spectacles, cracked in one corner. Two days ago, the cold, lifeless body of my sister, Alena, was alive. We were looking for food to quench our stomachs' empty thirst, and we found the house. It had plenty of food inside, even a couple of loaves of bread. This excited us extremely and we stuffed our rucksacks full. Unfortunately, our happy moments didn't last. What we were about to encounter will haunt me for the rest of my life. It was the bloodied skeleton of a man about 30 years old, with holes in it that could only be the mark of bullets, the mark of a cold, hard killer, a soldier like the ones above my cellar now. And sitting atop its long dead nose were the glasses. My sight has never been that good, though last year, it took a turn for the worst. I'm not blind, not like the scruffy boy I saw once, stumbling through the daily, ragged, gathering crowds of 'Impure' people being paraded by the cruel soldiers. His eyes were like the eyes of a ghost, staring into nothingness. I wonder if he knew I was there, watching from the edge of the bystanders. I wonder if he knew I was part of The Master Race. I think he did. I do need glasses, but luckily I am not as blind as he was. I use the word 'was' because he is probably dead now, for a blind boy can't possibly survive in this cold, lonely world of death. I hope he finds my mother, sister, and my older brother, Dieter in heaven where God and Jesus and Joseph and The Virgin Mary live. My mother used to say that Dieter's name meant 'warrior of the people'. Maybe that's why he became a soldier. I don't want to blame the so called 'Impure' people for killing him. That man was lucky enough to be able to carry out his plan, to smother the soldier in the night, take his gun, then as a result, kill my brother. My mother's name was Florretta. It meant 'flower'. From what I can remember, she was a flower. She was very beautiful, her eyes soft and kind, hair silky even when it was tangled in the roughest of times. My name is Engel. I think it means 'angel'. Sadly, I don't think having a name meaning angel will help me survive. Hundreds of people are shot and killed nowadays. I wonder if there even are special angels now, with all those dead people in heaven. I sigh sadly, and curl up next to Alena's body, and pretend she's still alive.

What's that? The creaking, footsteps coming down the stairs, a torch flashing into the cellar. They've found me! I duck behind my sister's lifeless form. However, as I peek out from behind her neck, I see it's a boy about my age, wearing a cloak, swinging his head round nervously. When he finally turns his back and begins to open his rucksack, I creep out from my hiding place. "What are you doing here?" I hiss all of a sudden. The boy swings around wildly. There's something in his hand.

Oh no.

It's a gun.

Chapter 2- Egon

I back away slowly. He's advancing. Then I stop, or, rather, I am stopped. There's a wall behind me. The end of the cellar! He's coming closer with every step. I close my eyes, hoping the bullet won't get lodged in my heart and kill me slowly.  It never comes. I open my eyes. The boy's face has softened. I never knew he had a face. His skin is a tanned brown, and the edges of his face and the lines on his cheekbones are still slightly round with the mark of a child, confirming that he is indeed thirteen years old. Then I notice something. His eyes- his eyes are green! "You're-" I begin. "You're-" he begins. His voice has an accent I've never heard before- it's certainly not German. Then he stops and takes of his cloak hood. His hair is blacker than the wing of a raven. "You're-" I begin again. "Different," we both say. He smiles. "My name's Egon," he says. "What's yours?"  I smile back at him. "Engel," I say. "But Engel, why are you down here? You're one of-" he stops, and I remember that we're too different to even know each other. "Them,"  I whisper. I change the subject. "But you're not like the usual tre- different ones," I say questioningly. "Where do you come from?" He takes a deep breath. "I come from Italy, in a small town in the west. I had an arranged marriage with a young girl... alas, we did not love each other. When the wedding date came, we refused to be married. Each of our families thought the other had persuaded their child not to marry the other. A fight broke out between our families, and the town was set ablaze. We fled as we saw everything we loved destroyed. My mother changed our family motto, thinking one of her children had betrayed her. Splendidi gioielli nascondono segreti scuro- Beautiful jewels hide dark secrets. She died soon after." He takes something out of his pocket. It's a letter, with a seal attached to the back. The seal carried a crest- a picture of a precious jewel surrounded by smoke. He bows his head for a moment. All of a sudden, he perks up. "You must be hungry," he says, and takes a parcel out of the folds of his cloak. He unwraps it, and berries, turkey, fish and bread spill out. "Where'd you get all this?" I ask suspiciously. He laughs. "I nicked it," he giggles. "How else, in this world?"

Chapter 3- Running from the wind

We spent the next few days together, taking turns at finding food. We were finding it harder and harder to find vegetables and fruit. Today, Egon is sick. He lies on a flour sack, a candle beside him and his coat draped over him. His legs are covered in red spots, and blood trickles out of his mouth occasionally. I am worried about his deteriorating health, so I think up remedies. I've stolen camomile tea and honey, various herbs such as mint and I've even tried mashing up a mixture of berries and snow to put on his bleeding teeth. Then I realise something. Egon and I haven't had fruit or vegetables for ages! This must be why he is sick. I put some more mixture on his teeth, then dash out of the cellar. "I'll be back soon, Egon," I call over my shoulder. The street is cold, and I stick to even colder shadows. Icicles adorn eaves and ledges above me, and snowflakes flitter down like tiny white butterflies. Then I see a house down the street. A man and a woman in rich clothes are lying dead in front of it. Blood collects underneath them, but I don't bat an eyelid. That's funny. Maybe I'm accustomed to death now. As a slink inside, I see an unfinished dinner. An orange lies on the table. Perfect! Apart from that, I find another three oranges, three carrots, a lettuce and some bread and cheese. I start to take it all, but I drop a carrot when a winter wind blows through the door, bringing the very close sounds of people outside. <i>Soldiers!</i> They're coming inside! I bolt out the back door of the house that leads from the kitchen. I run and run until I get back to the cellar. I slice an orange into small slices with a knife I took from the house. I give him a small bit. "Eat up," I tell him. He reluctantly eats it, then drops his head back and drifts off to sleep. A few hours later, I give him another, and then the next morning, I give him the final orange. The colour is coming back into his cheeks. His teeth are not bleeding and the spots on his legs are disappearing. I think he must be okay.

Chapter four- No excuses