⊱┆ ᵗʰᵉ ᶰᵉʷ ʳᵉᵈ ʷʰᶤᵗᵉ & ᵇˡᵘᵉ

        YOU FLATTER ME SO, but do not concern yourself, for flattery is the way into my heart & soul !! oh yes, i certainly strive for a specific atmosphere concerning smith, specifically one which evokes a FEAR or STRESS response, to the point of making someone who isn’t even guilty feel as though they have rightfully garnered suspicion. on the flipside, i do wish to HUMANIZE him from time-to-time, slip in a thought here & there which implies something so strangely normal, it’s abnormal. having him dwell on thoughts about family or old hobbies or etc. when he is a line of dialogue away from TORTURING SOMEONE is so very…tantalizing.

        any way what i’m trying yet failing to say is THANK YOU for this !! little anonymous messages like this really keep me going because it reminds me that i’m not entirely a failure at what i do. especially when i’m so busy & barely on here as much as i wish to be, it means SOOOOOO much to me that someone is still keeping an eye out. i hope i can continue to impress you !!

The bookstores in this city were one of Mika’s favorite places to visit and she’d stop in everyone she happened to come across. Books were brought to her back home, and they were always books approved by the ministers before they ever graced her sight. Being able to pick out her own reading material was a joy for her. She tried finding books from before the war but, being in the heart of the Reich, it was nearly impossible. Those books were banned and destroyed when they Nazis came to power and owning one was considered treason.

This particular shop was welcoming and the proprietor friendly; Mika’s tensions eased in the comforting confines of the shelves as she began to lose herself in reading the many varied titles on the shelves. It was relaxing, almost like the meditation she did with her mother growing up. Her eyes darted from title to title until she saw one that immediately grabbed her attention. A Great American History. Her inner self jumped for joy and threw all caution out the window as she reached for the book only to be shaken out of her introspective state when she felt a hand touch hers. 

At first she jumped back in surprise but then, as she realized who he was, an SS officer, her eyes grew wide with fear. At his insistence that she could have the book, Mika shook her head. “N-no thank you, Ober-” she stopped short of calling him by his rank. Most regular Japanese citizens weren’t required to memorize the rank structure of the Nazis like she had been. Mika straightened her stance and took a deep breath. “No, thank you, Sir. I thought the title said something else. I was mistaken in my pick.” 

      meek voice utters meaningless strings of syllables. she is stuttering, tripping over words, overtly nervous, & this merely serves to increase suspicion, which clearly was quite the opposite of the dismissal’s intended purpose. the book paled, lost its luster in comparison, & smith pivots to face her in her entirety, broad shoulders effectively blocking the narrow book shelves’ exit. she is cornered, & although most frightened animals struck back, it was a safe bet to believe no harm would come his way.

      optics hone in on key features of her face, familiarity giving way for identification. ah yes, for who else could have recognized his rank lightning quick if they were just a regular ignorant citizen? lips purse together. who would have thought the japanese empire’s princess would have strayed so far, only to be right in the den of the reichsadlers? he plays along, pretending not to notice the guilt etched within the surprise of her eyes. she could not hide for much longer. “i do not think you were mistaken in your pick. you chose the right book, at the right place, & the right time.”

       drinking was more of a socialization skill for him, but that did not mean he wouldn’t take a lone trip to a local bar once in a (rare) while to unwind. when out with friends or colleagues, the occasion would be fun & lighthearted. he would drink to loosen up; god knows he needed it, for without the aid of some liquid courage, he would remain the stiff-lipped obergruppenfuhrer. people would choke out hearty laughter between puffs of cigarettes, & everything would be fine in the morning. no regrets. no consequences.

       but on nights like these, where he steps through the bar doors unaccompanied, he drinks to forget. to delay the inevitable facing of reality. to avoid swallowing the hard pills of truth which hung heavy in his grip. or perhaps, more accurate, a needle, a syringe, a harbinger of death, within his grasp. it did not matter with which name it was called. either way, it bore holes into his conscience, guilt grinding the marrow of his bones. he needed so desperately to distract himself. & distracted he became.

       there is a significant increase in the volume of people cramped into this bar than usual. john would know; he frequented this little hole in the wall. the center of the traffic seemed heaviest near the bar counter itself, & impatience has him pushing through a few bodies to secure a stool. it does not take long for the crowd to disperse, as john’s face is well-recognized in these parts, & no one wants to start a tussle with the obergruppenfuhrer.

       & now he is face-to-face with the magnet for all of this attention. it now makes sense. a tall drink of water, a pretty face, occupies space here. no doubt this is a rarity. not to mention the familiarity of her countenance. john had seen it before, but he could not recall where. most likely a celebrity of some sort. figures that the day he wants to be in seclusion, some renown actress shows up just in time to attract larger sums of people. it’s not her fault though. smith sighs, eyeing the cigarette betwixt her slender digits.

     —— hospitals were not on the list of exciting or enjoyable places to visit. all these white halls ever did were spike anxiety, stress hammering at each nerve hidden beneath fair skin. heels click together down the tiled hall as john counted the doors he passed. 3-08, 3-09... there. john stops before the door & exhales, checking briefly to make sure his precious cargo in tow was not disturbed, & hopefully, still as presentable as it had looked when it left the smith family’s front doors.

     —— a fruit basket for the injured oberführer. helen had insisted. the sentiment was too sweet for the soured man, just like the ripened treats in the carefully woven basket. speirs would have probably preferred a pack of cigars. ah well, it was far too late to make a stop elsewhere. knuckles rap against the door frame twice & he lets himself in.

     —— a faint greeting as he claims a lone chair for himself, presenting the colorful basket. from the reports, smith assumed this single bullet wound would only put this spry man out of commission for what, a few weeks at most? seemed like the efforts of whoever shot the gun were fruitless. the thought tugs at his lips as he addresses the bedridden fellow lightheartedly.

     "you’ve certainly had better days, better looks, sport.”

     —— but it is back to business almost immediately. that was, after all, the type of man smith was. fingers intertwine together as he lurches forward in his chair. the resistance was behind this for sure, & john could not have a repeat of this happening again to such a valuable solider; a trustworthy comrade.

     —— unbeknownst to most of those who bore witness to john in the confines of his office, his natural element, one of his more preferred pastimes involved frequent visits to local book stores. there was comfort to be found between narrow passages lined with rows of pages upon pages of information. sometimes, if luck had graced his sight, he would find a diamond in the rough, a treat he could take home & offer to his eldest child. almost a feeble attempt at keeping the boy’s dreams of grandeur at bay, the knowledge of thomas’ illness still a guillotine hanging over the father’s head.

     —— the spine of an aged, likely forgotten book catches his eye. the indents spell out ‘a great american history,’ & the prospect of having found something so scandalous captures his breath & holds it captive. it is merely curiosity that draws his finger towards it, as though the book possessed its own magnetic field of force. one to be reckoned with, for sure. was it even legal to still put books with ideas about revolution & rebellion on shelves? as he contemplates this, there is a blossoming warmth flaring at his fingertips. john blinks, once, twice, unsure if he was just hallucinating the hand his fingers had rested upon, having met right on the edge of the book’s spine.

     —— it takes a great amount of exercised control to not jerk his limb back so as to avoid offense, instead retracting at a slow pace with practiced composure. a faux smile stretches across the chesire’s face, casting a seemingly bashful glance to the carpet below. what had he even been thinking, considering this novel? had he been found with this in his possession, his loyalty surely would have been called into question. the cat’s curiosity is beheaded.