Is it sad to say that I still really like the shows? I mean, I know now that they aren't the greatest, but I have had the time to rewatch and acknowledge the effort put into these shows. The research, the imagination.
It's one of these days where I take the time out to appreciate such things in my life as it's rapidly declining.
But yeah, school tomorrow. I've finally finished my commentary on my creative writing piece. Would you like me to share it with you? Well you don't really have a choice because I don't have much else to talk about. I won't share the commentary though, I don't know if I've done it right or not....
English Literature.
Creative Writing – The Book Thief.
Let us take a break from our main character. Let me jump you to a new place, a character of lesser importance. But a character of intriguing qualities.
I could tell from just the look on his face that he was going to be an interesting one. The sky, an unholy white stared down at me from above. Again, today, thousands of innocents will be lost. Their bodies piling high. Creating a lot of work for me.
I stalked around the concentration camp, taking notice of all that was around me. Haunting would be the correct word to describe what was going on around me. Their faces. Full of fear, confusion. They did not know what was going on around them. They did not understand that by taking those small fearful steps they would never return to this world..
They could not see me, yet I felt all of their gazes piercing me. This was an unnatural way for them to die.
But this is getting off the point. This is not the reason that I’m talking about them. There was one man in particular who had a strange face. I was doing one of my increasing visits to there, ‘the showers’ as the Nazis liked to call them.
The man stood there, his face stone blank, no emotion on his face. No pleas of escape tearing its way through his throat like the others there. Nothing.
No emotion crossed his face at all. He did not take any longer than the rest of them to die. He was just a peculiar being.
His emotionless face, not even a whisper of a prayer ghosted out of his mouth. No form of prayer. He had no reason to believe that there was any salvation for him out there, for he had grown up in a nation where he was believed to be a disgusting form of human being, lower than the rats that wonder the streets.
The boy himself could not have been older than his late teens. He had no understanding of the way of life. He did not have a chance to understand how people lived. How people were supposed to die. He had no understanding of what was happening to him. He was a confused person. But he did not let that show.
Even as I held him after death, holding his cold soul to my chest. His face was expressionless. His eyes staring into the depths of beyond.
I don’t know whether I should call where he was going ‘salvation,’ it was salvation from the cruel unjust punishment he had received. But it was not salvation, as he was taken from the world prematurely. Not shown how fulfilling his life could have been.
One thing he did that most surprised me, was that he looked up. He looked straight at me as though he could see me. He looked death in the eye. No one has done that to me before. Though any who think they have, have all suffered the same fate as he, the boy.
I looked up at the sky that day. I looked up and noticed its white. A white that blinds. A light that shines purity into the darkest of people. But there was also blotches of red, disturbing the peace. The blood of the innocent.
I was waiting for Hitler though; I knew his time would come to an end soon. I knew that one day he would be resting in my arms as I retrieved his soul for the beyond. The hands of his soul bloodied with the boys blood, with the blood of all who died because of him. I will await that day.
Hitler’s face is something that I wish to see, not to see the face of a killer, I’ve seen plenty of them. But to compare his expression to the expressionless one of the ones that he had ordered people to kill.
During that day, there were many scared faces. There were faces of understanding. Faces of bravery. Calm. But he was the only one with a face that was expressionless, like he was already dead on the inside. Like the men outside had killed his soul (though I can assure you it was still all intact) before killing his body. It was a sight to behold.
I would like to see that face again. I yearn to see that face again. Study it more in-depth than I did the time I saw it. Master everything that there is to master on the face. The blank expression, the dull eyes, the firm set lips. The way the lights dimmed in his eyes as he died, as I extracted his soul from him.
I would have liked to know what her expression would have been like to what was going on here, covered in a veil of lies. Though it is not the only camp, her expression would be one of disbelief. She would cry for their release. She would not be able to believe her eyes. Though my eyes have witnessed far more, her eyes hold knowledge that not even I know of. Her eyes see things that I do not.
The boy, no younger than a teenager, no older than her, died at the hand of the enemy. He did not die an honourable death. He died out of spite, vengeance. Something petty that Hitler holds against his kind of people.
He knew this though. I could tell. He was the kind to know of something without realizing, he was clueless to the world, clueless to the destiny that he had, clueless that he was to be a number, a fragment of history that people will study in many years to come.
His face, is something that I will always remember. It is not something that I will cherish. But something memorable. As with every new day comes a new face.
And there ya have it.
Hope you enjoyed. Not that anyone looks at my blog anyway, I can pretend people do... so...
Night!
Night
