The Man with the Mustache

The Man with the Mustache
Yesterday he said he was going to invite two of his friends over, soldiers of course. He’s not my husband, but I know he wants to be. He’s so eager to please his military brethren. He even wears the mustache. I almost hate him but he loves me… no he wants me; he wants a trophy with the hair and eyes he thinks his beloved kind should have. It’s amazing that he can think I could ever love him (perhaps he really doesn’t care) when it is his ‘friends’ that took my boyfriend away: for it is unbecoming for my kind to consort with a Jew, he wants me to believe that. He thinks he saved me. Maybe he really believes me when I act as if it was a mistake.
He came today with his friends. I don’t even remember them walking in. I remember sitting there at the table with my baby in my arms. I had the table set with the nice china the food was cooking to the right of the rectangular table, right from where I was sitting. It was a soup, at least I think so; I remember there being bowls on the table, seems like there were plates too, maybe I was cooking a sausage of some sort, maybe that is just what I would suspect. One of the soldiers stood at the other far end of the table, leaning on his arm grasping the back of the chair, beside the china cabinet, watching the man that wanted to call me wife. The other soldier was standing almost directly behind me, the door to his right, leaning on the wall, his arms probably crossed. The desiring-to-be-husband told me I couldn’t keep the baby. It was “a Jew, it should be with its kind, it would be happier that way.” I told him surely we could at least keep him until he was older he needed to know his mom, he was not a complete Jew. “Feed him he is hungry,” he said. I was reluctant, looked around, looked at the soldiers, “Feed him, it may be the last time.” I fed him. A tear fell but I held, I didn’t touch it, maybe it would go unnoticed. I thought of the butter knife on the table, maybe I looked at it. But it was useless I couldn’t risk the baby. He sat down, the other soldiers still waiting there. I had forgotten about dinner. If I was cooking meat I hadn’t put it on yet; there was nothing burning. Even they had forgotten it seemed. It was apparent that wasn’t what this was about. They were there to take my baby.
I tried to talk to him. I tried to argue and yet agree enough so he wouldn’t get mad, to seem reasonable to him. It seemed like forever, maybe it was only an hour though. He had never hit me and didn’t even then, though I pressed the limits. He listened to me as if he respected me. But there was no hope, [it was against the law.] Even if the power of his rank could be used he couldn’t be known as the man with a Jewish baby. He had to fit right with his crowd; that was how he was. I was probably being silly to even think he could do anything about it at that point.
I looked down; somehow I knew this was all coming. I Knew I was in the fire long ago; the first moment he really latched on to me I felt the uncomfortable heat. I was only surviving for my child, what did I care about a life as the trophy to a self-centered, closed minded, hater; after the loss of my dearest friend. (The truth of the posers; those who seek to fit in falling even to the worst for fear of not being accepted by the many, the many that must be right.)
I looked down beginning to cry but holding it in enough to talk, slowly coming to peace with my decision. “If you take my child from me I will take myself from you.”
“What?” He was shocked at first. Then he told me that I was stupid, that it was just a Jew; that only made me cry. I could barely sit in my seat with the desire to grab the knife and launch at him, but I couldn’t with the child.
I was already done feeding. I stood up and turned to the soldier behind me and held out my child. “Here, take him.” The soldier took the child. The soldier was not grinning but I could see the happiness on his face, happy that his boss was getting the girl. I could see it as he looked at the desiring-to-be-husband. I turned around and quickly reached for the knife. I thought maybe I would be shot by the other soldier but I managed to get it and launch at the man with the mustache, that same mustache; as if he respected Hitler even more. But he grabbed me; my right arm, with its knife, and pulled me in. He held me tight, not letting me go, hugging me, as I struggled to be free. He kissed me on the top of my head, in my hair; I could hear him smelling it. I guess the other soldier new there was little to fear of a butter knife from me; weak me. The man with the mustache threw me to the floor. My elbows hit hard. I could do nothing, I didn’t move. He told the other soldier to hand him the child and told them to take care of me. He handed the mustache man my child and grabbed my arm pulled me up and began to lead me outside. The other soldier followed. They took me behind one of the other buildings on the estate. It was still wet from the rain that morning. The soldier pulling me stopped and waited in front of me unholstering the gun at his side. For some reason I noticed the tree behind him empty of leaves. The other soldier came from behind, said something, and pressed on my shoulders; I fell down to my knees. My knees were in the cold mud. I saw the movement of the first soldier’s body within his fat side-poofed pants, and felt the barrel go to my head. I looked at the black luger.

32 reads so far and no posts…any thoughts…does this suck?

I didn’t read it yet because I’m too drunk to follow it right now. But if you look at the topics in this forum MOST of them don’t even have responses. People like to share their own stuff but who actually likes to read others stuff? It’s not about you man, it’s about human nature and our egoism. I promise I’ll try and read it sometime soon when I’m capable and give you a response.

I do. I read everything on this forum. Sometimes it takes me awhile to get around to it all and sometimes I don’t get a chance to comment, but I appreciate the efforts everybody makes here.

Abstract, no it doesn’t suck. It’s very well written. You have a nice, clean style of writing. As for the story itself…I don’t know. It left me kind of shrugging and yet I know it was probably meant to evoke something more in me than it did. It’s short, and although I sometimes enjoy what I’ve heard referred to as flash fiction, the problem sometimes is that you never really get a chance to establish the characters properly, or the mood. The mood. That’s the key, I think. I’m a non-fiction guy, though, so I can’t really help you with the ways in which you can improve upon this. I just sense it needs more…something, you know? Oh, one thing: take out the very last sentence. End it with “…and felt the barrel go to my head.” That’s about the best I can offer. And keep writing. I can offer that, too.

Well, what can I say? I’m just a midwife.

Basically, what Rainey said.

I can read it for detail, and give you a full breakdown, if you like.

I don’t know…

Well, let me know when you know.

It is excellently written, though, I can easily say that.

Part of the reason I don’t know is that it actually is rather strictly in line with some dreams I had accompanied with a flash-back/hallucination…

But I guess it would at least be interesting to hear a breakdown…