Tʜᴇ Pᴀᴛʜ Tᴏ Hɪɢʜɢᴀᴛᴇs

Tʜᴇ Aᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛ Tʜᴀᴛ Cᴀᴍᴇ Bᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 8

You gazed up at the Swastika as you shook the boy's hand, which went against every one of your inhibitions as a history student.

"Vu're not going to tell me yours?" Third Reich asked, his eyes leaving your intertwined hands in favour of your face.

You lose your breath again, trying to figure out whether or not to be afraid or composed in the presence of this boy.

"(𝚈/𝙽)." You manage to squeak out, still gripping his hand.

His pure white eyes drilled into yours, examining every little inch of your skin stretched over the framework of your bones. You begin to feel painfully self-conscious, wishing for the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

He wasn't releasing your hand, he just held it firmly between his gripped fingers, you could feel calluses pressed unevenly against your palm and the sharp ridges of his defined bones.

Feeling uncomfortable, you pull your hand back, but he gripped harder, holding your hand in place and sharpening his gaze.

"Vat ist vrong vith vu?" He asked, his voice low and thickly stooped in his German accent.

You could feel his calluses dig harshly against your skin, his rough blemishes scratching against your palms. The boy had unusually long nails, and it was made painfully obvious as he dug them into the skin lining the back of your hand.

You swallowed a ball of terror.

"What do you mean by that?" Your voice nervously asked, quivering under his bleached gaze.

"Vu're not German, I vant to know vere you're from und vy you're here, you don't belong here." The boy hissed out through sharp teeth, his strong glare making you feel uncomfortably uneasy.

You tug your hand back harder.

"Your father wanted me here." You boldly say, holding back reactionary tears as the boy's nails sank deeper into you at the word 'father', opting you to stop struggling.

You could feel the bindings of your skin break, and a wet substance ooze out of your hand.

"Vhy?" He asked.

"I don't know." You quietly respond, taking deep breaths in a futile attempt to calm yourself. "He didn't say."

Reich stared at you a moment longer, his eyes searching for something akin to a lie. But he found none.

"Come vith me, I'll take vu to vere vu can vait for him." He says, releasing your hand, revealing blood bubbling in purple dents on your skin.

You cradle your injured hand, feeling the hollows in your skin and the numbness surrounding them. You quietly agree to follow the boy, still hugging your hand into your chest.

Reich rolled his eyes.

"Hurry up, I don't have all day." The German said irritably.

You scurried after him with your head down, feeling something comparable to embarrassment burning against your epidermis, though you couldn't tell the difference between anxiety and that uncomfortable tingle of bashfulness.

You could see the German's feet march ahead of you, his footsteps echoed strongly against the muffling carpet, the aura he put out was clearly manufactured to excrete power and authority. Though you were fairly certain German Empire was the only one who possessed this fabricated power.

The boots he wore looked like platforms, their soles were chunkier than normal boots, which only added to his intimidating height. In a way, they looked like Dr. Martens, with their heavy lace-up body and black leather complexion. You couldn't tell if they were an attempt to make him look like he possessed more authority than he owned.