The hectic workday squeezed the last ounce of energy I had in me. The instant I closed my eyes, I dozed off like a dead chap. My wife, Clarissa, was a nurse, and she held the night shift that day. So, I slept with my lovely little daughter, Cassie; since she was afraid to sleep alone. But, this unusual fear did not exist in her until a few days before. Perhaps, it was a horror movie she watched, I assumed. But, I never knew, in the least, that I was letting her sleep with an evil spirit.

Somewhere in the midst of the silent night, I sensed someone at the corner of my bed. I was sure my limbs had felt the presence of some other person in this room; I was beyond terrified. The adrenaline my body procured in the next few moments were too much in quantity against the tiredness I procured from a day. My eyes were wide open, and I bounced away from the stranger who seemed like a man. On the second apprehension, I recognised this visitor, and a dread pervaded my mind.

He wore baggy brown pants with a plain white shirt, the suspenders of his trousers dangling relaxed on both sides of his ribs. His black-tie dragged down, the coat missing, he looked very distinct from his depiction in history books. It was the Fuhrer of Germany, Adolf Hitler himself, who was resting peacefully on the other side of my bed. He held his head down, his eyes vacant, and his iconic strands of hair tumbled over his blue eyes. He did not look like an arrogant, superior leader, but more like a weak, defeated man.

Though I recognised this untimely intruder, the first question that escaped the chambers of my mind was, “Who are you?” He glanced at me, surprised, but then lowered his head again as if he realised something. With trembling fists, he propped himself up and proceeded to the other end of the room. He stood near the windows. He was weak; only a shadow of the man who commenced a tumultuous World War and murdered millions of Jews. He could barely stand on his legs, his arms sought for support, but no shoulder served him.

He glanced up at the stars and muttered something; it was faint, but it possessed more power than I could ever gather, “I thought the world would remember me.” His vision danced around; he no longer had a purpose, he no longer had an aim, and his demeanour hinted that he no longer even had life within that frame. He did not turn around, not once; he could not even face a mediocre someone like me. His gaze transfixed to some point far away, and he again mumbled something weak, more uncertain this time, “I am afraid I was wrong.”

Six words. A total of six words summed up against the dictator’s entire life. Was this a confession? A regret? Was it that simple? Could grief possibly wash away his sins? Could anything? This man slaughtered millions, shattered cities, families, all in the name of a miserable objective; to cleanse the world. And he is afraid he was wrong? This man was wrong. Whatever perspective, whatever mirror reflects his story; no version of it will ever deem his motives pure as he stated they were. He was wrong.

All of a sudden, he turned around as if he could hear my thoughts. I was, for a moment, petrified; but his vacant expressions pulled me back together. He leaned against the racks and picked up the bottle of whiskey that I had stored away. He was not asking for permission, and I felt too feeble to question; he had dictated over an entire nation within his palms, and even proposed to dominate over the whole world. That man does not need an elaborate ceremony to take authority of an ordinary house.

“Would you like a drink?” He asked me, having found two glasses from the cupboard. The Fuhrer of Germany, the horrid nightmare of many, even seventy-five years after his death, and he wanted to share a drink with me. But, I politely refused; My daughter was strictly against my drinking habits, and I was putting in my best efforts to comply. But the lack of a company overnight did not stop him; he poured himself a drink and enjoyed the new flavours.

When he was halfway through his glass, Cassie exhibited signs of waking up; the noises inside the room was disturbing her peaceful sleep. Adolf quickly hid the drink behind his stocky frame. When I looked at him, surprised, all I could see was an innocent smile. It was the last thing I expected from such a figure in history, but yes, no matter, however powerful, it doesn’t change the fact that he was still human. And maybe, even a caring, childish heart.

He drew himself up and came closer to the both of us, but his eyes were not at all directed towards me. He only gazed at my daughter, and his features revealed nothing but the delight of seeing a little child. However, something unexpected happened. Just before he was close enough to Cassie, she moved back in fear; she hid behind me, clung to me so tight and her little eyes were full of fear. At this sorrowful sight, the epitome shattered; the happiness in his features faded, the hands once extended for caring trembled in mid-air, and his eyes turned gushing red. But before we could see the tears of someone who had never cried, he turned away swiftly, hiding his emotions and supporting himself against the windowpanes.

After a prolonged silence, he spoke again, “Children used to adore me,” He slowly turned, his voice almost breaking. His eyes were still red, and his hair covering his left eye, “But, I am nothing less than a monster, am I?” That moment, we felt weak air currents moving across our room, Cassie held on to me even tighter. Adolf again gained his vacant, expressionless face and held his body upright, though his left hand still trembled. A few moments later, one end of our room was not visible, but instead, some other infrastructure was present on the other end. A black border covered the places that no longer belonged in this reality; Adolf slowly moved into the portal, not looking back even once. All he left was a glass half-filled.

At last, he turned. An unbalanced grin crossed his face, but it was not one of happiness. But it was more like as if he retrieved a childish fantasy long forgotten. And before the portal closed in on itself, he uttered his last two words, glancing at my daughter, ”Blue Eyes.”

*****

First of all, thanks to @Prose for this wonderful challenge. Usually, the challenges rang no bells inside me. But this time, I was happy. I was able to come up with something. I don’t even know if the dictator is still applicable to the challenge. But, here it is. And, I hope you guys like it. As always, it’s your support that keeps me going ^-^

#fiction

Fettered in the trap spun by the beast’s own hands, Marie was unable to escape.

She squeezed her eyes shut as the creature lumbered nearer but the sickly stench of it invaded her nostrils, causing her to gag involuntarily. Its laboured breathing loomed closer, closer. Unable to stand the darkness any longer, Marie opened her eyes in time to see the dripping maw descending toward her face.

Even worse than having to wear Great Aunt Doris’s knitted Christmas jumper was the sloppy kiss that followed.

One day, Monkey felt something new. Monkey felt bored. Monkey wandered through the forest. Monkey found a mushroom and ate it. Before long, Monkey felt strange. Monkey’s eyes were seeing funny things. Monkey’s ears were hearing silly sounds. Suddenly, Monkey started cackling uncontrollably. Monkey could not stop laughing at what Monkey realized was the first joke in history:

Word.

Monkey’s guffaw encapsulated the world’s first word, and out of thin air, it no longer seemed so serendipitously absurd - for the cackle was not in fact such but instead much more gravitously momentous, and firm. The gesture was essentially a splatter of mental ink matter upon that edenic canvas of form. The door to explore this infinite floor of untapped lore had been abruptly torn from its hinges. Oranges and bananas were no longer just colors. No, no - they, too, were their own laughs - with different tones and pitches to honor their semantic bones and syntactic image - cutting perceptions in half and multiplying them five times fast.

Monkey was thoroughly fragrant with antianguish -

for Monkey had

heretofore

discovered

language.

What can I say

on this fine day,

to tickle Dionysus of wine?

Your spirit is wealth

when drunken for health,

showing moderation is the sign.

That true joy that can be found

in the love that surrounds

kindred spirits sharing their laughter.

For what best is wine

than to help us find

this bubbling pleasure you're after?

So, with your permission,

I request to commission

this source that lives in your vines,

who hold this, your power,

and tastes sweetly sour

to all who share their sweet chimes.

You don't need me

to force you to see

that you have the power inside

to spare my life,

from this disharmony causing strive

who once was your purple-hearted guide.

Once you drink your sweet cup, you'll conjure up

what you're missing to make yourself whole.

With this precious gift,

you won't soon forget

to draw from the well of your soul.