Forgive Me, Yaakov.

(This story may contain sensitive content that includes historic times, such as war and trauma. I have done my best to write with respect and care.)

Write a story that includes the line ‘I can’t sleep...’

Careless echoes from the past. Dreams that haunt me still. Eyes that quiver and beg for rest – yet my mind denies, time and time again.

I can’t sleep.

The air – cold and seducing. The bed, stood near the corner, its alluring gaze gawking at me. I was a victim to my attempts of sleep – but to no avail did I succeed. It was considered a luxury, perhaps even a commodity I couldn’t afford. I tossed. I turned. Futile attempts to set my mind liberal from the engraving chains of the past. Nothing worked.

The same memory kept on playing in my head. Again and again.

“He dictates. He controls. He manipulates. And then, he kills.”

1934. A solemn night, filled with power. Power of all sorts. Glasses clinking, jazz music echoing from far off, and lo, I stood next to my second in command.

Heinrich.

He sipped wine, a smile following that action. Hallways reeking with wealth and delusion. Money that never came clean. Golden chandeliers swayed gently, thick velvet curtains enveloping those in fraudulent comfort - muffling the screams and the stench that followed the burning of bodies.

I gazed at the moon – perhaps the only pure thing to ever exist in this regime.

Laughter reverberated across the hall - void of joy, full of ego.

“Those Judes.”

Heinrich scoffed. Others sneered in agreement. He went on.

“Nothing but self absorbed egoists who once thought they could rule the world.”

They laughed – and I did too.

They mocked – and I did too.

They obeyed – and I did too.

I found myself helpless, for what could I do?

My alarm snatches me back to reality. I glance at it – 3.42 A.M.

A sigh of frustration is let out.

Still dark.

Still empty.

Still haunting.

The moon peers at me through the curtains, it’s judgmental stare evoking memories I longed to simply forget. No glasses clinking, no music playing, no weightless laughs. And yet, I found myself buried in a constant notion of guilt.

Rain, almost like a companion, follows through with the morning. Soft gentle pattering, almost as if politely knocking on the window. Times when the Sun shone bright – utterly forgotten.

But those very eyes that beheld mine were anything but.

He never said a word, that boy. He told me his name once – Yaakov. He simply looked at me with eyes of disdain, his hands tightly gripping the fence.

He had dug a whole beneath it. Too small to fit even him. And I saw it. I caught him, desperately digging. The shovel was bigger than him. Too heavy for a mere ten year old to lift. Yet he did. He tried.

Until he couldn’t.

He cried, when he saw me. Wept quietly. Shed a tear of defiance. My very presence had taken away the opportunity of hope. HIs hope to escape brutality - to avoid his inevitable death.

I said nothing. For at that time, I felt...nothing. No remorse. No pity. Nothing. Just a cold silence that had engulfed me in it's slow, suffocating pursuit of guilt.

I walked away. Dissming the boy, as if he meant nothing.And if he escaped? By some mircale, crawl out from a hole too small and vanish into the night? Nothing would change. So I walked away. Slowly. Quietly. Cowardly. Leaving behind the only soul who had enough bravery to even 'try'.

Until I heard my name called out, almost in shock.

“Do you not see this hole, Friedrich?”

A deafening silence. The boy wept louder. I slowly turned around.

A gun, comfortably placed within Heinrich’s arm. He pulled it out.

“Is that hesitation I see?”

I looked at him. His eyes, hollow.

“No.”

That was all I could say.

“Then take this..”

He threw me the gun. I barely caught it.

“And do what must be done.”

The gun felt cold.

Empty.

Hollow.

My eyes met Yaakov’s. Quiet, but heavy. A child. An innocent boy. A victim. My hands trembled. My legs shivered. My mind quivered. I...couldn’t do it. I may have been ruthless - but I was no monster.

I dropped the gun.

Heinrich scoffed.

“How pathetic.”

He strolled towards me. Bent down. Picked up the gun. He faced me with a gaze free from guilt. Free from remorse. Free from humanity.

I turned around. Maybe if I walked away, he’d think twice.

“Friedrich!”

He called out.

I stopped dead in my path. I turned, hesitantly. His gun, directly pointed at the boy. Heinrich didn't flinch. He didn't tremble.

He didn't even blink.

“Heinrich, don’t-”

But the word hadn’t finished leaving my mouth before the gunshot shattered the air.

One. Single. Shot.

Yaakov's hands slipped from the fence. He fell slowly, almost gently, as if even the world didn’t want to hurt him.

A thump.

No words were said. Nothing. Heinrich walked past, laying the gun on his shoulder. He strolled away as if he hadn’t just murdered an innocent being. As if he hadn’t just took the life of naive ten year old.

And I stood. I stood in denial. I stood in disgrace. I stood in...guilt.

I didn’t run to him.

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t hold his body.

I didn’t even kneel.

I just watched.

Like a monster covered in the fragile skin of a human.

Perhaps I was.

I abruptly wake up. The rain was louder this time. Almost as if banging on the window, demanding an answer.

An answer, or perhaps a justification, of sorts. As I lie lifelessly on my bed, I realize;

Nothing can justify what happened. Nothing at all.

Thunder booms far off in the depths of the sky. Wind howls. Rain weeps. Weeps like how Yaakov once did. Howls like he once cried.

And in the mirror’s blur – I see his eyes, in mine.

Begging. Merciful. Innocent.

God help me.

I can’t sleep.