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Nightmares

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Helen. Lovely, inoccent Helen. She looks so young, not tained by the worries and scars of a war that never was.

She smiles at him from across the bookstore. Shy like a mouse. He gives her a tiny smirk in return and she blushes. Bright red cheeks just for him.

He has come to Poland to close some deal for his father's company. Her father was the owner of the bookstore. Or something. Details don't matter.

He meets her again outside of the bookstore. It's raining and he offers her his umbrella. Her house is only a few blocks away. He walks her home. She is meek and so very beautiful, pretty pink lips and soft brown eyes. A girl barely in her 20s. He wants to kiss her.

He does the third time they meet. The go for a walk in the park in Krakow, under blue skies that hadn't seen any bombs since the Great War. The breath gets caught in her throat as he unexpectedly presses his lips to hers, more passionately that she has ever experienced before. Her skin is impossibly soft. She tests heavenly.

He kisses her again and again, every time they meet, beneath the trees in the park, behind the long bookcases in the bookstore, underneath the covers of his bed in his apartment. He has lost track of how many times it has been when they finally sign their wedding papers in the mayor's office in Vienna.

Yes, in Vienna. Even now he had taken her away from her family, her land, tied her to him, but this time she is happy. She smiles at him at their wedding night and she fits perfectly underneath him, moaning in the familiar pleasure they both take from each other. Pleasure neither Ruth or any other woman could ever hope to give him.

She does her duty perfectly in all aspects one could wish for, his wife. His maid, his little creature, his Helen, now both in body, mind and soul. How he adores her. He wants to press her aganst his body and never let go, until they feel like one flesh and blood forever and he forgets himself, forgets the war, forgets everything but her and-


 

Amon wakes up covered in cold sweat. Alone in his bed in Plazow. Helen hates him and he hates her, this vile, lower thing, this filth, not even half human. This witch that has cast a spell on him. He feels goosebumps in his naked skin and tears in his lashes.

He wants to shoot himself for it, for loving her, for hating her, and shoot her too for making him feel that way. He deserves nothing less than a bullet in the head for both emotions, and his actions regarding them, and so does she.

But he can't kill her. He just can't bring himself to put a bullet in her pretty head. And he is too much of a coward to put one in his. So he resorts on beating her instead, until she bleeds out anything good and beautiful in her, anything that makes him want her.