Flirting With the Wind

I focused all my rage towards the ten oncoming Gestapo soldiers. Shooting the machine gun at the on slot of Nazis as they began shooting back at me several went down. Out of rounds I chucked the machine gun aside and charged at the remainder fearlessly and strategically throwing my daggers into their standing figures once out of daggers I pulled out my sharp machete slicing through the Nazi’s necks like butter. Blood spurted every which way and I was coated in the crimson syrup. The shear carnage I created was ghastly but somehow I didn’t care as I plucked the daggers from the various bodies. Picking up a handgun from the grass I pointed it at a Nazi that was still alive and shot him right between the eyes, putting him out of his misery. I stared down at the lifeless body with my chest heaving from the great exertion of energy I had just used. Foot steps nearby caused me to turn quickly and shoot the unknown person in the left shoulder. Hugo grunted in pain holding his now bleeding shoulder.

“Damn it Mira why are you being like this,” Hugo says through gritted teeth.
“Fuck off Stiglitz, I don’t owe you anything,” I snarl coldly as I shoved him away and headed back towards the house.
“Mira please wait,” he responds as he grabbed my hand pulling me back but I grabbed one of my daggers and jabbed it into his already injured shoulder. Hugo let go and winced in pain as blood oozed out of he bullet wound; I didn’t even look at his face when I ripped the knife back out and just stalked off still fuming with anger. I entered the house to be gawked at by all the men.

“Someone should go get Sergeant Stiglitz I think he may have ran into both my bullet and dagger,” I mutter darkly before heading upstairs to wash the blood off my body not caring what anyone thought about what I had just done.

I stripped the blood soaked clothes off and began washing them diligently in the bathroom sink as I stood in my undergarments. After the clothes were clean I hung them on the bare shower rod and proceeded to use a wash cloth to wipe all the blood off my body then washed my hair using what little shampoo I had left to get the smell of death out of my hair. Once I was finished cleaning everything including my weapons I went to the bedroom I generally stayed in and kept extra clothes at.

Placing my utility belt of daggers and machete in its leather sheath on the bed I pulled out a pair of tan straight leg tapered pants then slid them onto my legs tugging them up and fastened them on. Lastly I slipped on a black tee shirt that I tucked into my slacks lazily then braided my hair to the side. Unsettled and still very angry because my wretched mind would keep replaying the past in my head and I felt the need to throw my knives again. Wrapping the belt and buckling it securely on my hips I took my stance about ten feet from the door then began throwing the daggers in an angry fashion.

“Ese hijo de puta. Me niego a mirarlo a los ojos de esos malditos ojos que me has abandonado llorado durante tanto tiempo (That son of a bitch. I refuse to look him in the eyes those damn forsaken eyes that I mourned for so long),” I rant angrily to myself in Spanish as I threw the last knife forcefully into the door. As if on cue the door opened slightly a hand holding white handkerchief waving through the open space of the door had caused me to stop.

“I come in peace,” Jean Claude announces sounding somewhat humorous in tone.
“Am I so horrible that you of all people are attempting to be a comedian?” I retort as I pulled out the throwing knives from the door.
“Afraid so kid, should I call a priest, you were speaking in tongues,” he says trying to cheer me up.
“Put me on a pyre and burn me alive for all I care,” I counter stubbornly.
“I was sure that joke was right up your alley,” Jean Claude states.
“Never in my life have I been this angry Jean Claude,” I respond seriously.
“You’re angry because you care,” he comments.
“Why in the hell do you have to say something like that?” I demand glaring at him.
“Just suggesting,” Jean Claude says throwing his hands up in mock surrender.
“Well keep your suggestions to yourself,” I retort.
“Alright well I take it you don’t want to interact with our guests,” he replies.
“I’ll interact with the ones I please, just keep Stiglitz away from me,” I state pointedly.
“Okay kid, just don’t go shooting anyone,” Jean Claude smirks.
“Fine,” I answer through gritted teeth. Jean Claude put his arm around my shoulder and we began descending down to where the Basterds were. I kept my eyes focused on the walls but I felt Hugo’s stare on me and I glared at him reaching for the nearby newspaper that had a gun hidden underneath. Jean Claude’s hand reached and took the gun from my hands that shook with anger.

“We agreed no shooting anyone,” he reprehends giving me a stern look then I reached the belt holding my knives, “Or stab anyone.”
“I didn’t agree to the latter,” I grumble dangerously.
“It was implied, come on lets have some whiskey,” Jean Claude suggests leading me past the men and headed into the kitchen. He sat me down at the table and poured me a drink. Lieutenant Raine and Sergeant Donowitz were both sitting at the table still. It was dead silent and I couldn’t stand it so I chose to speak to keep my thoughts from murdering Hugo Stiglitz.

“So you actually play baseball or do you just bash Nazi skulls in with a bat?” I question Sergeant Donowitz eying his baseball bat.
“More so the latter as of late, I liked playing back home,” he admits.
“Were you any good?” I ask sipping on the whiskey.
“Of course,” Sergeant Donowitz boasts.
“Favorite player in the league?” I inquire.
“Teddy fucking Williams, you a fan of baseball?” he counters looking at me a little surprised.
“I like Lou Gehrig better, but naturally I like him because he was a left handed hitter, damn shame he died,” I respond nonchalantly.
“He was a pretty good hitter but I’m a Red Sox fan all the way,” Sergeant Donowitz states.
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you Sergeant Donowitz with that distinct Boston accent and all,” I reply.
“Since you liked left handed hitters I assume you liked Babe Ruth,” he says.
“Yeah he was damn good, Red Sox missed out on that one when they traded him in 1919,” I comment.
“So you liked going to games?” Sergeant Donowitz inquires.
“Yeah when my pop could afford taking me, even so, damn games drove me insane to watch, I always wanted to join in, so my pop would agree to taking me early to watch them practice and sometimes coax the grounds keeper into letting me sit on the field after the game was over,” I chuckle remembering the baseball games me and my father would go to. How my poppa would agree to go hours early to watch them practice and sometimes talk to the players.

“At Yankees Stadium?” he asks as his dark eyes sparkled with admiration.
“Yeah,” I sigh dreamily as I longed to be on the Yankees Field once again.
“Well Donny ya finally found someone that can talk baseball with ya,” Lieutenant Raine states.
“Haven’t been able to talk baseball with anyone in a while to be honest,” I admit.
“And I’m not one to follow American sports,” Jean Claude states drinking his whiskey.
“Yes Jean Claude hasn’t experienced the amazing power of baseball or witnessed the prowess of great hitters like the Iron Horse or the Splendid Splinter,” I say with a smile.
“Ah marry me now,” Sergeant Donowitz says jokingly to me as I gave a soft chuckle shaking my head at him.
“My goal in life, to be Mrs. Bear Jew,” I reply sarcastically.
“So ya know my nickname,” he counters proudly smiling at me.
“Ich muss mit dir reden Mira (I need to talk to you Mira),” Hugo says in German.
“Of course I know your nickname, Jean Claude and I aren’t completely deaf to outside news,” I answer ignoring Hugo’s presence completely.
“Mira,” Hugo says again with more emphasis.
“There is nothing to talk about, leave me be,” I retort in English as the anger burned within me.
“Wie kommen Sie berechtigt sind, werden böse auf mich? Sie schickte mir den Brief sagen, Sie waren sich selbst zu töten (How come you are allowed to be angry with me? You sent me that letter saying you were killing yourself),” he snaps furiously in German.
“Schreiben Sie haben völlig verrückt Stiglitz gegangen, schickte ich keinen Brief behauptete, ich würde Selbstmord begehen, damit Sie selbst glaube, ich würde so etwas nicht helfen, Ihren Fall zu tun (Letter, you have gone completely mad Stiglitz, I sent no letter claiming I would commit suicide, for you to even think I would do such a thing does not help your case),” I counter narrowing my eyes at him.
“Bullshit, here I have it, its real I have not gone insane for no reason woman I thought you were dead,” Hugo retorts pulling a tattered envelope from his coat pocket and threw it on the table.
“What’s this justification for never coming back?” I scoff pulling the letter out of the envelope carelessly. My eyes scanned the letter that was supposedly written by me. It was typed out and full of nonsense so much so that I slammed it down on the table and stood up angrily.
“You didn’t write that,” he says.
“You would’ve known that if you didn’t just up and decide to go on a fucking rampage, you ignorant narrow minded German fool,” I state in a low dangerous tone.
“Hey you are German too Mirabel Shepherd so don’t you go pulling that card with me,” Hugo retorts.
“That’s where you are wrong, I was born and raised in America, and I am a god damn American, all lineages to being German is null and void every one of my German relatives killed by the Nazis. And as Hellstrom said ‘I will never be purely German,’ so fuck you Stiglitz stick that statement up your ass,” I sneer not saying the full quote of Hellstrom for it brought far too many horrific memories.
“Major Hellstrom?” he growls balling his fists up.
“Oh yes me and him got real close when you went off, but don’t worry darling he took real good care of me,” I counter darkly as I patted his injured shoulder roughly in a condescending manner as I walked off heading towards the upstairs room. I made it to the top before Hugo caught up with me.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Hugo demands grasping me by the wrist and turning me around to face him.
“No, you do not get to ask me questions, you don’t get anything from me now let me the fuck go you selfish bastard,” I retort fiercely.
“Look I’m sorry Mira, I thought you were dead, I didn’t mean-” Hugo says as his eyes softened.
“How could you believe that letter? Why would I try to kill myself when I was pregnant? It wasn’t even signed by me, none of it was me. Did you think so low of me that I was so weak I’d take the easy way out like that?” I demand cutting him off. Hugo let go of my hand and stumbled backwards hearing my words. How could he think so low of me?