u/BaronVonChahyll

Haven't written anything since high school but this story was stuck in my head and I wanted to get it out

A man sits alone in a concrete cell sealed by a large steel slab of a door. He is gaunt, practically bones wrapped in skin. He has been on a hunger strike for weeks, but his body is covered in bruises and cuts from the guards who force-feed him to keep him alive. They won't let him choose his own way out. The guards want him to suffer; they know that every minute of waking life is agony for him, let alone his final punishment. He has been left with nothing. No chair, no bed, no pillow, or blanket. He has even been stripped of his clothing so there can be no possible attempt at suicide. Time has lost its meaning, and he is not even sure what day it is. Has it been two weeks, or has it been two months?

The never-ending darkness and silence are suddenly broken by the commotion of a large crowd coming down the hallway, a growing chatter rising among them. The familiar yell of the guards comes shortly before the door opens. Though it is just the light of a simple bulb hanging from a wire in the hallway, it practically blinds him.

He knows what is coming next. He is hauled to his feet by the guards. They attach shackles to his ankles and wrists, connected by a heavy chain wrapped around his waist. He shakes—maybe from the chains, maybe from the cold, or maybe because of what awaits him. With one guard flanking him on each side, he is led to the door. He instinctively brings a hand up to shield his eyes, but it is stopped by the pull of the chains.

He is led down the dimly lit hallway and out a simple wooden door at its end. As the door opens, a cacophony of flashes comes from seemingly endless cameras held by yelling photographers. The guards shout for order and demand calm, but the reporters are driven to get just one word, one sentence, or a glance in their direction—anything for the defining photo. The photographers are left behind as the guards march the prisoner through clean, neat offices and hallways until reaching a simple loading dock.

The prisoner's ride waits for him. It is something familiar to almost anybody and even sparks a small, joyful memory in the prisoner himself, if only for a fraction of a second. It is an old, worn circus wagon, yet still bright and colorful in an age-defying yellow. The open sides are enclosed with thick wrought-iron bars from floor to ceiling, allowing those on all sides to see the animal pacing within. It is difficult to tell from the engravings whether this had once been the domain of a lion or a bear, but whatever had dwelled inside, nobody would want it to get out.

There is no apprehension from the guards as they lead the prisoner into the wagon and lock his chains to a single eyebolt in the middle of the floor, leaving him with barely enough slack to stand, let alone move more than a foot or two in any direction. The wagon itself is not pulled by horses, but by a small team of donkeys—an added layer of humiliation.

The wagon begins to move within a convoy of Jeeps and Studebakers, filled with men armed and ready to keep the prisoner safe from anyone who might try to take the glory for themselves. The glory belongs only to the people. Looking out, the prisoner sees only disgust and hatred etched into every face. He had once been loved by millions, but now he can only feel the hatred. He hears the roar of airplanes and the rumble of tanks getting into position for the parade.

As the wagon slowly rumbles along the cobbled street, the prisoner can catch a glimpse of the spires between buildings of his final destination. He had heard that some of his men had gotten almost close enough to see them before being pushed back. As the spires draw closer, he begins to hear a new roar—not just of machinery, but of the crowd. Tens of thousands of people are cheering.

They turn a corner, and the street gives way to an immense square. This is the fabled Kremlin. Over the roar of the crowd, the aircraft, and the vehicles, a booming voice echoes from hundreds of speakers spread throughout the parade grounds:

"We now have a very special treat for the world from Comrade Stalin and the Soviet people—a monster, more than a man. Who has caused all your suffering? Who has caused all your pain these long four years of patriotic resistance? Who has taken your loved ones from you and driven the hordes across our lands and to the gates of Moscow itself?"

The wagon rolls into the main parade ground behind the donkeys, stopping in front of thousands of men standing at firm attention alongside dozens of freshly painted tanks. Patriotic slogans adorn the armor, matching the large banners held by soldiers in the crowd. The roar of hatred is deafening—a thousand insults, a million hate-filled words, enough to drown out the sound of almost everything else.

At the large podium overseeing the parade, a man in a military uniform steps forward to a microphone and raises his hands, demanding silence from those below.

"Comrades, this is a historic day for the Russian people. We come together today to celebrate our victory over the fascist invader, driving her to her knees in unconditional surrender. We took Berlin and have liberated so many of our brothers and sisters across Europe. We have ended the murder factories of the invader, and our great patriotic war is at an end. But something seemed unfinished. Where was Hitler? All of the others had either cowardly killed themselves or knowingly surrendered, aware of the atrocities they perpetrated. But not little Adolf. Today, we finally give justice to the heroes who gave their lives for the freedom and happiness of the Russian people and the people of Europe, by giving you the man who dragged all of the world into war and murder."

The wagon sits parked in front of the podium. Adolf Hitler stands inside—naked, bruised, skeletal, but still recognizable.

"We kept his survival a secret for fear that our ever-loyal Allies might want to see this animal given the rights of a man. This is not a man. This animal we have here is going to be put down for the whole world to see. There will never be a question of whether justice was served to this creature for the horrors he brought on all mankind. The presidium has decided on a punishment to be carried out."

At that moment, a group of women is led from behind the podium to an area near the wagon. The guards step down from their seats and unlock the cage. A step is lowered. His shackles are detached from the floor of the wagon. As he is led down the steps, it is eerily quiet. The distant hum of airplane engines can still be heard, but the massive crowd is dead silent.

As Hitler is marched toward the group of women, he notices another eyebolt driven into the ground. He is quickly chained to it, and the guards make a hasty retreat.

"These comrades are the bearers of our sorrows," the voice booms. "These women are the mothers, wives, and daughters from all the groups ravaged by this dragon with an insatiable appetite. These women will put this animal down with the tools they have all chosen. Their bare hands."

The group of women begins to slowly encircle him, and looking into their faces, he sees that there will be no mercy.

A man sits alone in a concrete cell sealed by a large steel slab of a door. He is gaunt, practically bones wrapped in skin. He has been on a hunger strike for weeks, but his body is covered in bruises and cuts from the guards who force-feed him to keep him alive. They won't let him choose his own way out. The guards want him to suffer; they know that every minute of waking life is agony for him, let alone his final punishment. He has been left with nothing. No chair, no bed, no pillow, or blanket. He has even been stripped of his clothing so there can be no possible attempt at suicide. Time has lost its meaning, and he is not even sure what day it is. Has it been two weeks, or has it been two months?

The never-ending darkness and silence are suddenly broken by the commotion of a large crowd coming down the hallway, a growing chatter rising among them. The familiar yell of the guards comes shortly before the door opens. Though it is just the light of a simple bulb hanging from a wire in the hallway, it practically blinds him.

He knows what is coming next. He is hauled to his feet by the guards. They attach shackles to his ankles and wrists, connected by a heavy chain wrapped around his waist. He shakes—maybe from the chains, maybe from the cold, or maybe because of what awaits him. With one guard flanking him on each side, he is led to the door. He instinctively brings a hand up to shield his eyes, but it is stopped by the pull of the chains.

He is led down the dimly lit hallway and out a simple wooden door at its end. As the door opens, a cacophony of flashes comes from seemingly endless cameras held by yelling photographers. The guards shout for order and demand calm, but the reporters are driven to get just one word, one sentence, or a glance in their direction—anything for the defining photo. The photographers are left behind as the guards march the prisoner through clean, neat offices and hallways until reaching a simple loading dock.

The prisoner's ride waits for him. It is something familiar to almost anybody and even sparks a small, joyful memory in the prisoner himself, if only for a fraction of a second. It is an old, worn circus wagon, yet still bright and colorful in an age-defying yellow. The open sides are enclosed with thick wrought-iron bars from floor to ceiling, allowing those on all sides to see the animal pacing within. It is difficult to tell from the engravings whether this had once been the domain of a lion or a bear, but whatever had dwelled inside, nobody would want it to get out.

There is no apprehension from the guards as they lead the prisoner into the wagon and lock his chains to a single eyebolt in the middle of the floor, leaving him with barely enough slack to stand, let alone move more than a foot or two in any direction. The wagon itself is not pulled by horses, but by a small team of donkeys—an added layer of humiliation.

The wagon begins to move within a convoy of Jeeps and Studebakers, filled with men armed and ready to keep the prisoner safe from anyone who might try to take the glory for themselves. The glory belongs only to the people. Looking out, the prisoner sees only disgust and hatred etched into every face. He had once been loved by millions, but now he can only feel the hatred. He hears the roar of airplanes and the rumble of tanks getting into position for the parade.

As the wagon slowly rumbles along the cobbled street, the prisoner can catch a glimpse of the spires between buildings of his final destination. He had heard that some of his men had gotten almost close enough to see them before being pushed back. As the spires draw closer, he begins to hear a new roar—not just of machinery, but of the crowd. Tens of thousands of people are cheering.

They turn a corner, and the street gives way to an immense square. This is the fabled Kremlin. Over the roar of the crowd, the aircraft, and the vehicles, a booming voice echoes from hundreds of speakers spread throughout the parade grounds:

"We now have a very special treat for the world from Comrade Stalin and the Soviet people—a monster, more than a man. Who has caused all your suffering? Who has caused all your pain these long four years of patriotic resistance? Who has taken your loved ones from you and driven the hordes across our lands and to the gates of Moscow itself?"

The wagon rolls into the main parade ground behind the donkeys, stopping in front of thousands of men standing at firm attention alongside dozens of freshly painted tanks. Patriotic slogans adorn the armor, matching the large banners held by soldiers in the crowd. The roar of hatred is deafening—a thousand insults, a million hate-filled words, enough to drown out the sound of almost everything else.

At the large podium overseeing the parade, a man in a military uniform steps forward to a microphone and raises his hands, demanding silence from those below.

"Comrades, this is a historic day for the Russian people. We come together today to celebrate our victory over the fascist invader, driving her to her knees in unconditional surrender. We took Berlin and have liberated so many of our brothers and sisters across Europe. We have ended the murder factories of the invader, and our great patriotic war is at an end. But something seemed unfinished. Where was Hitler? All of the others had either cowardly killed themselves or knowingly surrendered, aware of the atrocities they perpetrated. But not little Adolf. Today, we finally give justice to the heroes who gave their lives for the freedom and happiness of the Russian people and the people of Europe, by giving you the man who dragged all of the world into war and murder."

The wagon sits parked in front of the podium. Adolf Hitler stands inside—naked, bruised, skeletal, but still recognizable.

"We kept his survival a secret for fear that our ever-loyal Allies might want to see this animal given the rights of a man. This is not a man. This animal we have here is going to be put down for the whole world to see. There will never be a question of whether justice was served to this creature for the horrors he brought on all mankind. The presidium has decided on a punishment to be carried out."

At that moment, a group of women is led from behind the podium to an area near the wagon. The guards step down from their seats and unlock the cage. A step is lowered. His shackles are detached from the floor of the wagon. As he is led down the steps, it is eerily quiet. The distant hum of airplane engines can still be heard, but the massive crowd is dead silent.

As Hitler is marched toward the group of women, he notices another eyebolt driven into the ground. He is quickly chained to it, and the guards make a hasty retreat.

"These comrades are the bearers of our sorrows," the voice booms. "These women are the mothers, wives, and daughters from all the groups ravaged by this dragon with an insatiable appetite. These women will put this animal down with the tools they have all chosen. Their bare hands."

The group of women begins to slowly encircle him, and looking into their faces, he sees that there will be no mercy.