One-Shot Book [REQUESTS OPEN!]

Warning - Suicide references, themes of death, blood

November, 1921

Thirty years following the death of Wendla Bergmann

None but a waistcoat torn around its edges; exceedingly large trousers that had to be kept up by suspenders; flats ripped at their seams that allowed the penetration of mud, weaving around both feet; a limp hand; a satchel. The night was remarkably chilled, cold enough for the deaf to interpret the screeches of snowflakes that drizzled above my head. Not a flurry - thank the night for that. I would only be further blinded to my trail; the path (-who was to say that there was any path at all?-) was one that I had ne'er ventured. I could be struck by another man who had lost his way with ease or tormented by the flakes that nuzzled against my eyelashes. Yes - in either scenario, I would be led to my demise. It was a hellish night indeed.

I kept my hope, by God I did, that I would be met with a miracle sent by the heavens. If only Moritz Stiefel, that poor sod from school who ended himself, would send some kind of sign - is this what he felt in his final moments? Perhaps it was true, I was dying, and just like him, my soulless remains would not be discovered until the morn. Perhaps the snow would form a porcelain burrow around my body that a child or a dog would stumble upon, or perhaps I would become one with the earth. To Hell with it! - I deserved to rot with the weeds. If young Hanschen Rilow saw the man that he was inevitably bound to become, he would throw that noose around his neck without hesitation. He would rather join Herr Stiefel than be here. We could wander this mortal world, and whilst I would find no joy in doing so, I would be free of the suffering I would endure.

I whisked my still-working left-hand above my eyes and peered outwards. Nothing, I tell you - a tsunami of white. I was the inferior, and yet I was the living. I carried myself along, my agitation proliferating with the mud that squelched about in my shoes, twisting and contorting itself around my toes as though it were a mime trying to rip the money from my pocket simply by pestering. I lashed, striking the ground with my foot but making my situation all the worse. I could feel it splatter against my leg this time and I groaned. The streams would be frozen in this weather, so there would be no way to wash this off unless I found a building. Preferably a stable - I could nestle beneath the hay whilst the horses admired my ability to survive. To them, I would be a knight - a prince, even, and I would ride one back to the city once the sun rose and my energy had returned.

In the moment that I released my anger upon nature, I gazed out, finding a perceivable home of some sort. It seemed that my prayers had proved me well. At once, I seized at it, hogging at my satchel with my right-hand flailing about in the wind. I could sneak myself inside and not a peep would be heard of me. I would snatch up whatever valuables and treasures were lurking, wrestle what I could into the satchel and keep myself hidden. There was no possibility that I would be going back outside, not even for the chance of becoming a millionaire and finally making my fortune.

Alas, I stumbled over a sort of boulder in the ground, only enhancing my cold. I groaned as my face hit, the snow doing me barely any comfort. The adrenaline was enough to make the pain I felt diminish almost instantaneously, and I again got to my feet and strode for the building. As I neared, it seemed to me to be a parsonage, encouraging me to go into a jog. The valuables, oh, the treasures! I sang in my mind for the Almighty Lord to forgive me for what I would do to his precious worshipping, vowing to him that I would carry on his praise in my name. There was no other choice than this. Germany was meeting its end. But the riches, oh!

I sprung to the doorstep at once, peering around through the windows of the parsonage to detect any movement or light source: none. I removed my shoes - the parson couldn't know that I had stepped foot on holy ground without his consent, nor that I was the one who stole the belongings of the Church. I had carried out the same procedure many times before, enough to know that most homes had a lock on their front doors at night; however, this one not quite so. Abruptly, so abrupt that I pounced back slightly, it opened with a gentle flick at the handle. Grasping both shoes with one hand, I wandered inside, quickly taking note of my new surroundings as my eyes adapted. Tapestry was lined across every wall, predominantly consisting of the Virgin Mary and the Lord tending to cattle. A single Persian rug was matted across the floorboards, a crucifix hung beside the staircase just beyond the entrance and there was a large cabinet directed to my left.