Hi, guys! A month ago, my history teacher told us about the months before Germany lost World War 2. He actually told us something I didn't know: 3 million German women were raped by Soviet soldiers in the spring of 1945. I tell ya, I can get pretty mad, and that? It made me outraged. So I wrote this because I got this little thought: what would happen if a Russian soldier maybe got a little more than he bargained for…?
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Yours truly, Mickasala
They were winning. He knew they were. Everyone knew they were winning. Even the Germans knew it. They didn't even fight anymore, just stood there, the hopelessness written all over their faces.
He despised them.
This was vengeance, for what they had done to his people. Vengeance for all the pain and death they had caused. They deserved it. They all deserved it. He was high on adrenaline, now, no thoughts in his mind but to find gold and women. That was why he was searching the tiny, gray building, with the screams and gunshots outside. For gold and women.
He was a rich man, now, would be considered rich when he got home. He would have to hide it, of course. In the Soviet Union everything was to be shared. Everyone was alike. It was a nice thought, but some clocks and some money couldn't hurt.
He had to survive.
He picked up a tiny bag from a table and grinned when he saw the yellow shine inside of it. Gold. Wedding rings, probably, and some bracelets. He put it in his pocket and moved on to the next room.
There was a girl standing in the opposite corner from the door. Beside her, on the floor, a dead body. A young woman, skinny and dirty, worn out by the war. There was blood, in the room, even on the woman still alive. It didn't bother him. In fact, it made him excited. He had learned to appreciate the smell of blood.
"Come here!" He demanded in Russian. She probably didn't understand his language, but the tone was unmistakable, as was the lust-filled grin on his face. She was very beautiful, thick, light brown hair, high cheekbones. She was tall and curvy, not skinny and emaciated like the rest of them. He didn't know why. He didn't care. All he cared about was the smooth curve of a breast he could catch a glimpse of underneath her simple, blue dress and the adrenaline in his veins.
"Poor little man" she said, softly. He didn't know what language she was speaking – it wasn't Russian, anyway. But still, somehow, he understood it.
How could she call him little? He was a man. A soldier. She was just a woman, a girl! No more than sixteen years old.
Somehow, it didn't make him angry, like it should have. He was scared, more scared than he had ever been before.
He was going to die here, in this room. He knew it.
"Poor, poor little man. Are you scared?" Suddenly, she was by his side, whispering in his ear. Mocking him.
He silently prayed to the God he had stopped believing in to save him. He would do anything. Anything.
But it wasn't enough, and, right then, he remembered every man he had killed, every young, frightened boy, every trembling elder, every woman he had raped, and he knew, that he was doomed.
"I am going to enjoy this, little man" she whispered. A blinding pain overtook him and he tried to scream as she sunk her fangs into his neck. But there was no sound.
And then, there was only darkness.