All Characters such as Donny Donowitz and Colonel Hans Landa, mentioned here, are property of the brilliant Quentin Tartantino and Eli Roth.
I commend you, boys.
I am experimenting with Donny Donowitz as a character currently so I pulled out this little ditty. Tell me if you hate it, love it, or simply don't. No flames though, my poor self-esteem can't take it.
Canary yellow tin pots scattered about the azure reflective tile as the thin layer of dust dissolved into the warm light that snaked beneath the curtains. A foreboding Paris Morning, the ruined streets streaming visibly into the small kitchen whose clutter only made the cramped space more unbearable. The fake gold paint that covered the once copper red pots melded into the deep azure of the blue tiles. A pair of porcelain feet, bony and thin padded along the floor, dodging over simple pots and pans. Even the depths of spring, the air was still frigid, occasional snow lacing over the city on the most average of days.
A shiver raked through the thin girl's body as she neared the tiny cracked copper sink. She twisted the handle viciously, her fingernails unkempt and slightly dirty. Her pale skin gave away to another set of Goosebumps as she shivered, clinging to her thin, blue robe.
Another presence entered the kitchen as the woman parted the light emerald curtains peering out into the deserted and broken streets. Years before, children trotted over the cobblestone, their new knickers and leather shoes shined for the brand new school year. They sang in joy,
"undi matin, le roi, la reine et le petit prince
Sont venus chez moi pour me serrer la pince."
As the clatter of the metal, a frying pan clattering along the formally smooth yet rigidly cold tile, snapped the woman from her memory, she did not have to glance behind her to tell who exactly had entered. Her light hair, natural soft ringlets, fell into her narrow hazel colored irises as she bent her head downward slightly, her dirty fingers peeling an orange that she had found discarded amongst a bowl of apples near the sink. Normally, the Germans didn't allow such privileges; fresh fruit was a rare thing to behold inside the city. However, the natural born German woman had very little that she was deprived of, besides a pretty view of flowers by window and loving home.
One could make such sacrifices for fresh fruit.
A hand was on her shoulder and the touch, strong, firm, just a tad too tight sent an intense melancholy and longing through her entirety. A shiver, not caused by the harsh spring coldness, struck through her like a fresh wound. She knew that he was in his uniform… such a danger considering the home he was in. The hand turned her rail thin, unhealthy in stature, frame around to face him. She dare not lift her distinct 'ugly' face, for fear that it might be stricken, but she knew even then that he would not lift a hand against her, not as he would. Instead, he immediately cupped her small breast through her sheer pink satin slip, sagging yet full in his icey fingers and gripped her against him. She let out a gasp of either shock or horror, she couldn't tell anymore.
"Arschloch."
She cursed in her native tongue but was only greeted with a gruff chuckle, a low growl of need. The German crush was only met with bitterness or was it tenderness? She could no longer tell as the thick arm that grasped around her waist ruggedly bunched up her slip so that her awkwardly thin legs were exposed to the frostbitten air of the morning. Another gasp was elicited from her narrow lips and she rested her lithe fingers against the moist stubble of hair upon his recently washed face. So he had made use of her basin bowl after all? Even after he had refused. She clenched her eyes closed tightly, shaking her head of blonde curls.
She looked like a movie star. He had told her she looked like a goddamn movie star.
Yet he made no move to take her against the counter. Instead, he held her a little too tightly, firmly, strongly against his large muscular stature. He loomed over her in an appreciative, predatory way… a way that she had never been peered at before. His black eyes bore into her tiny body, her tiny bruised body. She finally lifted her angular face to allow her large hazel eyes, deer-like, to gaze into him as well. Neither of them could speak if they wished to.
For now, the depth of the space between their countenances and the bitter cold kept them silent, subdued by one another. With one another, they gave way to the monotony and the vivacity of silence, the quiet breathed in their presence and embraced them together.
Speaking was entirely irrelevant but this was their final ballad of time.
"Odelia…"
was the only word he could provide, addressing her. His Boston twang thickened with the density of the moment and tears pricked her eyes, a murmur of German escaped her lips. Her entire body shook with an intense tremor only causing him to grip her still too tightly. He never pronounced her name correctly, the nazi overtones being stripped from her namesake. Somehow she loved this… she lacked much pride she had only months before. "Don't…fucking…" It was only the words he expressed in protest to her sudden tears.
She moved one set of fingers from his visage and batted away at her eyes, scrapping away the tears that marked them. Married women didn't cry over enemy soldiers, did they? She could never imagine so. Never so.
"I know, Donovitz." She spoke, using his german pet name. He frowned in disapproval at her sadness and she shook her head rapidly, soon pressing her forehead against his thick woolen uniform. Her tiny fingers befell to his belt buckle and suddenly he was entirely before her, his small form of nakedness burning against her frame. The last time he would come to her, against her, into her.
As they shared skin, searing against one another, seeking out a rapid and ecstatic rhythm, they bit into one another, bleeding out against one another. They raped each other in every manner possible, taking, taking, and taking all they could from the other's body, embrace and warmth. The sunlight leaked into the room, shedding the light over the back of her naked form, pressing painfully against the counter. She screamed out his name, her voice cracking, breaking and wailing, an halo shining around her face, much like one of Apollo's.
Next time…
Paris was the city of death.
'All ze Jewz, ze are taken from ze zity. In ze carz, like cattle and all zer property, all zer voluez… taken from zem. Zey are gone."
Her lips move, those thick, fat fingers clenched a lit finely packed cigarette, fat fingers, thick lipstick, stringy black tresses, calves… so much calf. Odelia could never bear to look at her mother in a respectful manner. So far from who she had been, who she had wanted to become. Now she was the disgusting memory of her own mother, fat and gluttonous, bursting into another box of Turkish delights, her well-manicured nails harboring chocolate tracings underneath them.
The year is 1941 and all the Jews of Paris are gone.
Odelia… fair, lovely Odelia, however, is not. The blonde woman was destined to a life, as any German was who so fit Hitler's ideal plan, a life as a military man's wife. As Odelia's large hazel irises scoured over her mother's greedy fingers as they raided the tiny box, tearing the thin paper that had shielded the dessert from her paws beforehand.
Colonel Hans Landa... such a name... as if he never wished to be outwitted or even touched. Odelia wanted to be both.
Well that is that. If you want more, (AKA the origin story as to how Donny and Odelia even met) review and let me know! Bye!!!