Post by werwolf on Dec 5, 2008 20:10:32 GMT
So, it had come to this, eh? A failed man. A failed unit. A failed life. The biography of Dietrich Stahl.
He didn’t have a clue who his parents had been. Probably the son of a whore, and youngster with a bit of cash in his back pocket. He was abandoned, and then taken to an orphanage in scruffy Warendorf. He had become a man of hardness, learning to survive on instincts, and to ignore the pain that life threw at him. But life had thrown too much this time, far too much. Stahl walked along the corridors of the SS building, a few men looking at him quizzically in his civilian clothing. He carried a bag in his arms, which he swung in time with his step, his eyes watching his feat. He daren’t make eye contact with anyone.
Death didn’t scare him any more, nor did anything else. His life was in complete tatters, and he knew he was on the very brink of being dismissed from the SS and entire military. He was a young man, of only twenty four, but to others he was inexperienced, a fool who made constant mistakes and who the world would do far better without. Stahl had no money; he was in debt by over ten thousand marks. His drinking and gambling habits had caught up with him, and even now he had three grams of powder on him. But nothing could ease the unceasing pain he felt now.
Nobody would care, and nobody would be at his funeral. His corpse would just hit the ground and the dirt thrown over. His coffin would be cheap, and so would his gravestone. Nobody would mourn, and nobody would come. His gravestone would go decades without even being read. He was a lost soul, who had no chance of escape. Yet another dead body, littering this world.
Stahl moved along the officer corridors, not admiring the oak panelling, or the oil paintings on the walls. He was heading for his office, a room which he hadn’t entered in months, and he doubted anyone else had. He moved along the dark corridors, constantly looking at the stitching on his shoes. They were worth quite a bit; he should have pawned them a year ago.
A door finally appeared in front of him, with his name carved into a small brass plaque. A plaque that would soon be removed and melted down, then sold. The room would move on, him not a part of it, and a new officer occupying it. And he supposed this would be the last door he would move through in his short life. It was a nice door, it was a pity it would have to conceal such a gruesome act. The short man stepped threw, closed it, then locked it from behind with a bolt.
The central desk was piled high with paper work, lumps of tree that would never meet his eyes. The room wasn’t panelled, but it did have large beams across the roof, one running right across his desk. It was study, twice as thick as a man’s leg, and it should support his weight. If not, there was always his penknife.
Stahl moved the white and yellow papers and files from his desk, and placed them next to the marble fireplace fixed into the wall. He then made sure all the dark curtains were closed, concealing everything which was going on inside. It was pouring down, and seven o’clock in the evening. A good time to die.
He threw his bag onto the desk, and opened it up. He took out his knife, a note he had written back in his empty and featureless apartment, and a long thick rope. Stahl began to manipulate it, and after three or so minutes, he had a perfect hangman’s not. He had been practising for the past two weeks in his flat, but there was nowhere he could actually make his move, but here was the perfect place.
The memories of his early life returned to him. Every time he had embarrassed himself, or been picked on, or lost a fight, it all came flooding back to him now. It was terrible, a thousand knives through his body. Why had he had a life as bad as this? Everyone else’s’ life seemed brilliant, while his was crumbling. Nobody knew him, everybody whispered behind his back, people wouldn’t come close to the drunkard, the drugged man, the tramp. Everybody hated him.
He removed his hat, and checked all his pocket, removing what ever he found. Cigarettes, liquor, drugs. He all threw it next to the fire, and removed his cheap lighter. Stahl kicked all the paper, all his items of worth, even his bottle of brandy, into the fire pit. He kneeled down and set the papers alight, watching the flames creep around the sheets, and torch the ink. Within a few seconds the fire took hold, and Stahl moved back to the desk.
Using the chair, he pushed himself up and stepped onto the table. He lifted the noose, and was easily able to attach it to the beam. When he’d finished, he gave it a hard tug on the main rope. It wouldn’t brake. He sighed slightly, and slipped his head through the noose, letting around the back. He shuffled forward, so the toes of his shoes were just over the side of the desk. With a gulp, he stepped forward.
But his neck didn’t break. The noose tore into his throat and tightened, but the blow hadn’t been enough to shatter his neck. There was a very loud pop as the brandy bust out of its bottle.
Stahl dangled in mid air, his arms flailing madly as he tried to loosen the rope. But it was too damn tight. It wouldn’t come loose. He reached down with his right hand, trying to grasp hold of the knife of the desktop. But he was more than a foot from reaching it. There was sudden battering from the door, and muffled voice from behind it. The door handle turned, but of course the door didn’t move. Stahl tried to scream for help, but there was no air. All he could do was gag helplessly. He swung his body, but then the rope twisted and he began to spin around each way, every second losing breath. He tried to kick out at the desk to stand back up, but his strength was disappearing.
Finally, somebody began to shoulder charge the door, hitting it again, and again. After four attempts, the hinges could survive no more. The oak door came crashing down, and a dazed Captain picked himself off the floor as he had fallen inwards. He lifted his head, and was greeted by a twitching body, the eyes staring, the body limp.
He didn’t have a clue who his parents had been. Probably the son of a whore, and youngster with a bit of cash in his back pocket. He was abandoned, and then taken to an orphanage in scruffy Warendorf. He had become a man of hardness, learning to survive on instincts, and to ignore the pain that life threw at him. But life had thrown too much this time, far too much. Stahl walked along the corridors of the SS building, a few men looking at him quizzically in his civilian clothing. He carried a bag in his arms, which he swung in time with his step, his eyes watching his feat. He daren’t make eye contact with anyone.
Death didn’t scare him any more, nor did anything else. His life was in complete tatters, and he knew he was on the very brink of being dismissed from the SS and entire military. He was a young man, of only twenty four, but to others he was inexperienced, a fool who made constant mistakes and who the world would do far better without. Stahl had no money; he was in debt by over ten thousand marks. His drinking and gambling habits had caught up with him, and even now he had three grams of powder on him. But nothing could ease the unceasing pain he felt now.
Nobody would care, and nobody would be at his funeral. His corpse would just hit the ground and the dirt thrown over. His coffin would be cheap, and so would his gravestone. Nobody would mourn, and nobody would come. His gravestone would go decades without even being read. He was a lost soul, who had no chance of escape. Yet another dead body, littering this world.
Stahl moved along the officer corridors, not admiring the oak panelling, or the oil paintings on the walls. He was heading for his office, a room which he hadn’t entered in months, and he doubted anyone else had. He moved along the dark corridors, constantly looking at the stitching on his shoes. They were worth quite a bit; he should have pawned them a year ago.
A door finally appeared in front of him, with his name carved into a small brass plaque. A plaque that would soon be removed and melted down, then sold. The room would move on, him not a part of it, and a new officer occupying it. And he supposed this would be the last door he would move through in his short life. It was a nice door, it was a pity it would have to conceal such a gruesome act. The short man stepped threw, closed it, then locked it from behind with a bolt.
The central desk was piled high with paper work, lumps of tree that would never meet his eyes. The room wasn’t panelled, but it did have large beams across the roof, one running right across his desk. It was study, twice as thick as a man’s leg, and it should support his weight. If not, there was always his penknife.
Stahl moved the white and yellow papers and files from his desk, and placed them next to the marble fireplace fixed into the wall. He then made sure all the dark curtains were closed, concealing everything which was going on inside. It was pouring down, and seven o’clock in the evening. A good time to die.
He threw his bag onto the desk, and opened it up. He took out his knife, a note he had written back in his empty and featureless apartment, and a long thick rope. Stahl began to manipulate it, and after three or so minutes, he had a perfect hangman’s not. He had been practising for the past two weeks in his flat, but there was nowhere he could actually make his move, but here was the perfect place.
The memories of his early life returned to him. Every time he had embarrassed himself, or been picked on, or lost a fight, it all came flooding back to him now. It was terrible, a thousand knives through his body. Why had he had a life as bad as this? Everyone else’s’ life seemed brilliant, while his was crumbling. Nobody knew him, everybody whispered behind his back, people wouldn’t come close to the drunkard, the drugged man, the tramp. Everybody hated him.
He removed his hat, and checked all his pocket, removing what ever he found. Cigarettes, liquor, drugs. He all threw it next to the fire, and removed his cheap lighter. Stahl kicked all the paper, all his items of worth, even his bottle of brandy, into the fire pit. He kneeled down and set the papers alight, watching the flames creep around the sheets, and torch the ink. Within a few seconds the fire took hold, and Stahl moved back to the desk.
Using the chair, he pushed himself up and stepped onto the table. He lifted the noose, and was easily able to attach it to the beam. When he’d finished, he gave it a hard tug on the main rope. It wouldn’t brake. He sighed slightly, and slipped his head through the noose, letting around the back. He shuffled forward, so the toes of his shoes were just over the side of the desk. With a gulp, he stepped forward.
But his neck didn’t break. The noose tore into his throat and tightened, but the blow hadn’t been enough to shatter his neck. There was a very loud pop as the brandy bust out of its bottle.
Stahl dangled in mid air, his arms flailing madly as he tried to loosen the rope. But it was too damn tight. It wouldn’t come loose. He reached down with his right hand, trying to grasp hold of the knife of the desktop. But he was more than a foot from reaching it. There was sudden battering from the door, and muffled voice from behind it. The door handle turned, but of course the door didn’t move. Stahl tried to scream for help, but there was no air. All he could do was gag helplessly. He swung his body, but then the rope twisted and he began to spin around each way, every second losing breath. He tried to kick out at the desk to stand back up, but his strength was disappearing.
Finally, somebody began to shoulder charge the door, hitting it again, and again. After four attempts, the hinges could survive no more. The oak door came crashing down, and a dazed Captain picked himself off the floor as he had fallen inwards. He lifted his head, and was greeted by a twitching body, the eyes staring, the body limp.
