Note: this is rated 16+. It contains strong, derogatory language and some mature content.
I came up with this story plot when pondering how to address a contest prompt. I'm hoping to enter it if I can make it fit the prompt well enough.
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A knock sounded from the front door. Two knocks. Three knocks.
In the furthest back room in the apartment, Shosanna Halevi sat against the far wall with her knees tucked into her chest. Tears streamed down her face. They were coming for her. They had already come for her father last night, they had already gotten Emmanuelle. Now it was her turn.
Shosanna grabbed the kitchen knife lying on the floor next to her and held it in front of her face. Her hand shook, making the blade shake as well, and the tears blurred her vision. She didn’t have the courage to use it on either them or herself. Trying to use it against them would only quicken her death anyway. She tossed it away and there was a clang as it hit the wooden floor.
Her father had been brave. He had opened the door standing tall and proud. Even when they took him down to the street and beat him, he had not fallen or flinched. Shosanna knew this. She had been watching from the living room window up above, even though her father had told her to stay in her room.
Her sister, Emmanuelle, had been even braver. She had helped lead the Zionist youth movements and always talked about Palestine, Palestine. She filled Shosanna’s head with stories of this promised land, though their father always scolded her, saying their home would never be anywhere but here, in Vienna. Emmanuelle was always on her feet, always moving, always doing something beneficial and productive. They had gotten her a long time ago.
But Shosanna wasn’t brave; her sobs proved this. She had never been brave. She had spent her whole life under blushes and quiet words. And now she was going to die, weak and pathetic, as she had always been in life.
More knocks sounded from the door. Louder, as though they would break down the door any second.
Slowly, Shosanna stood up, her knees trembling. She walked to her sister’s vanity table; she was in her sister’s room. The vanity was a beautifully crafted piece of art, mahogany and at least a century old. On it laid her sister’s ivory hairbrush, the one that had been their mother’s before them. Shosanna fingered it gingerly and a single tear fell down upon its polished handle.
Shosanna was fourteen; Emmanuelle was eighteen. They were sitting on Emmanuelle’s bed and Emmanuelle was brushing Shosanna’s hair, back before the end of humanity.
Emmanuelle sighed. “You truly are so pretty, Shosanna.”
This was true. Shosanna had always been beautiful, garnering the unwanted attention that contributed so greatly to her shyness throughout her life.
Suddenly, Emmanuelle laughed. “It’s funny, you know, you could be awfully good at manipulating people, with your looks.”
“You know I couldn’t do that, Elle.”
“I know. Though it wouldn’t be bad if you could. People are not all good, Shosanna. You mustn’t let yourself be pushed around.”
Shosanna stared down at the hairbrush in her hand and allowed two more tears to fall. Then the crying ceased and she began brushing her matted hair.
Brutal knocks sounded from the front door.
Finished with her hair, Shosanna looked into the mirror. Her dark, smooth hair was now at odd contrast with her hallow cheeks and sunken eyes. Her skin looked sallow, sickly. Opening top drawer of the vanity, she found her sister’s elegant collection of makeup nestled in the same place it had sat for the last few years. With a resolute expression upon her face, she powdered her skin and applied thin layers of lipstick and mascara.
The mirror now showed an appearance much more satisfactory. Shosanna sighed, staring into her own eyes for answers she could not find. After a moment, she placed the makeup neatly back in its drawer and artfully tore the top of her shirt to reveal more of her collarbone. Her smooth, pale skin now stood out against the brown fabric of her shirt, and she walked back to the wall and resumed her seated position, picking up the discarded knife on her way.
Her back against the wall, her knees tucked into her chest, Shosanna stared at the closed bedroom door. The knocks continued to resonate from the front of the apartment and Shosanna flinched at each one. She tucked the blade into the hem of her skirt, and she waited.
A roar came as the front door crashed down to the floor. Shosanna heard the footsteps of men entering the apartment. Thump, thump.
“Come out and quickly!"
Thump, thump. The footsteps got louder, and she could just make out the words of the soldiers to each other.
“Start out over there by the parlor, I’ll take the back.”
Thump, thump. Shosanna heard the doors along the hallway opening and one set of footsteps slowly nearing the bedroom. Thump, thump. Emmanuelle’s door was the last in the hall, prolonging the wait. Thump, thump. But before she knew it, the door opened.
A young soldier entered, bearing a black uniform, the swastika armband, and the fair coloring of a good Aryan. His blue eyes scoured the room before focusing on Shosanna huddled up in the corner.
“Fucking Jewish cunt,” he spat. “Get up. Get your things. You’re leaving.” He stood rigidly at the doorway with rifle in hand, waiting and watching her like a hawk.
Shosanna obeyed, again trembling as she stood up. What if she had been wrong. She had probably been wrong, and now they were taking her away, just as they had taken her father. Just as they had killed her sister. She could come at him with her knife now, but he would just beat or shoot her.
But she remembered her sister’s words and she thought of her father’s actions. She would meet her doom with pride. Slowly, she walked with what dignity she could to the door.
However, the soldier did not let her reach the door. He stopped her with one hand as she approached. “Whoa, wait a minute there,” he said, grinning and dropping his rifle to the ground.
The soldier snaked one arm around the small of her back and pressed her against him. His other hand grabbed her chest and begun pulling down the fabric of her shirt as he used his body to push her against the wall. Shosanna gasped involuntarily.
Shosanna fought to find her hands, trapped as they were against the wall and the mass of his heated body, but she did not attempt to push him away. Instead, she worked to reach into her skirts and dislodge the object placed there. The soldier slammed her into the wall with renewed force at the movement, but it was too late. Shosanna’s fingers were already wrapped tightly around the blade.
But merely grasping the knife did not prove to be that beneficial. She could not move to get out from him – and now his hands started to work their way down to her skirts – and there was no room between their chests to stab him.
The soldier’s warm hand moved down her skirt. Shosanna shrieked. And her arm made its way out of his hold and stabbed him in the back.
The soldier grunted and grabbed onto her as he fell to the ground. With some effort, Shosanna pushed him away and his body fell facedown on the floor. The knife still stuck into his black uniform and blood started to pool and frame the blade.
Shosanna stared down at the body on the ground for a long moment. Then she hurriedly opened the bottom drawer of her sister’s dresser and grabbed the sock-full of money stashed there. She walked back to the doorway and listened. There was no sound of footsteps, but the other soldier would be back any second.
Gathering her courage, Shosanna peeked into the hallway. It was empty. She breathed in relief and was suddenly thankful for her family’s affluence and the large apartment it afforded. Shosanna Halevi exited her sister’s bedroom and silently made her way down the hallway that promised freedom.
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