|Meiner Macht English
Author: VonTeeseLady PM
Thoughts Amom Göth, tied with a rope around his neck and hands behind his back. How the war turns a man into a monster.Sorry if there are spelling mistakes, please. R&RRated: Fiction T - English - Drama/Tragedy - Words: 884 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 5 - Published: 02-13-12 - Status: Complete - id: 7831225
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
OK, so here is a little one-shot about Amon Göth, portrayed by an amazing Ralph Fiennes, in Schindlers Liste. Sorry for my english, I am not native, I only do this to practice. So, here we go.
I am a terrorist. At least, that is how others see me. They don't see me as a human being, no. A drinking buddy, maybe, a colleague, yes,a monster, for sure. Sure I am. But a human being, that's a different thing.
Amon. Amon Goth. That's my name. At least, that was my name. My shield, my reputation. Now I'm just a man with what is left of his little conscience. After all, in a world where morality is a memory, what could a "soldier" say? Soldier, that used to label me when I started. Someone who fought for a fair cause, someone who was willing to act for the welfare of their country, their nation, their Gross Reich.
But no, things were not like that in reality, all of us had our eyes closed, and we fell into what is the most primitive state of humanity: the struggle for survival. A term as clear as his own composition makes it. The one who is stronger, lives better, lives above others, and is entitled to take action on them. Having a gun in your hand, pointing to the skull of a man, that,just that gives you the power to decide. And only that power, only the value of that little life, compared to the extent of the world, has the importance of a simple ant in a hole, or a rat in an abandoned cellar, gives you power among others.
You can see your borders expand when you pull the trigger, you see what you can do, and what they can't do, you feel in possession of their lives.
And right there, when you get to possess someone's life, is when you start to see him as a mere object. Overall, little by little, all things start losing value. Life around you becomes boring, you stop to appreciate the good cognac glasses when you drink one after another.
And in the end all are objects. Your spare goods, goods that you use, property of which you can get rid when you obtain benefits and when you consider that any of then can serve you anymore.
Yet these objects bleed, cry, feel. But you're not like them, you are superior. Their tears do not affect you, their blood will not impact you, their pain does not come to your subconscious. Because you have power, and power makes a man immune.
But one day a man comes. A man who tells me I have not the power that I think I have, and do not control everything around me, but destroy without the virtue of forgiveness. Conceals his criticism with his lovely eyes, his voice low, and his words that hide moral bullets that are embedded in my skull. And I realize that I am the man waiting to be shot in the head, and I've found someone with a power superior to mine: the word, the word on weapons.
And then there are things that somehow, begin to make sense around me, but briefly. Because he is he, and I am me.
And along comes a woman, whose silence captivates my senses, she look weak, the will that she has under her sunken eyes, her hands thin, cold, her voice turned off, the image of a broken human, that reminds me by a vague moment that there is more inside, deep, deep there in those objects, which may slightly resemble me.
However, it all ends. Everyone who I thought were somehow beside me, were disappearing one by one. But I didn't give it importance. In the end, what were they for me? Objects.
As in the eyes of those who consider themselves superior to you, those who live better than you and those who feign interest in what happens to you. Fortunately or unfortunately, as a good man told me, everyone has a mad man tied inside them, waiting to be unleashed.
The war unleashed mine.
And now I wait, with a noose, the end of my existence. I have been judged for my crimes, and they have decided to hang me. They sentence, my death, the exact time, exact way. It was not something spontaneous, everything was calculated, planned, as a protocol. As the time when the truck picks up the trash.
Here I am, I have become an object. A vague contraction of my neck reminds me that I feel pain, like the others. The noose tightens me, I run out of air. I do not cry. It hurts, physical pain, but my heart feels no shame, no remorse. And my last thoughts, directed toward the man who saved so many that I could have killed, and the woman who won me over with her silence, vaguely remind me I was once human.
The translated version to spanish is un my profile too, if you are spanish or sudamenrican and want to read it more clearly. Sorry if there are nay mistakes =( But you can tell me!