Blindside— noun; a direction in which a person has a poor view, typically of approaching danger.

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Your unusually shallow oceanic blue eyes drifted their way across the sharply dressed soldier of German origin in front of them, taking only seconds before they were cast back down to the unforgiving sight of the ground— a sight you would soon become quite familiar with. You began to wonder where it all went wrong. In this scenario, who wouldn’t? An old friend, if even you were to call him that, holding a Wehrmacht standard issue Kongsberg Colt directly to your left temple. At this point in time, you were unaware of what was more terrifying: the fact that you had a gun to your skull with the sight of his finger more than caressing the trigger before you, or the fact that the barrel wasn’t ice-cold as one would imagine, no. It was hot— singing hot— warning you of its usage from mere moments before, and promising of usage once again.

You began to utter his name, but it only came out as a sting of incoherent syllables and consonants that even you couldn’t categorize or identify. Though, even if you were able to find your hoarse, raspy voice and the ability to speak a single, broken word, you would have been cut off by the shrill shriek of the pistol firing. It took you a moment to realize what had just happened. Or did you already know? You don’t remember, and quite frankly, it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was the blatant strike of a single round being fired into your mid-thigh— the sensation of it ripping and tearing at the skin and cloth in its way, lightly albeit ever-so-painfully grazing across the bone in your leg. Immediately you fall to that omnipotent ground that was once the very portrait of your eyes, writhing and detesting much to his desire.

Moments passed of his ice-cold glare on your ever-paling skin, rolling you onto your back with the filthy sole of his polished leather boot. “Jämmerlich,” he mumbled, the light behind his eyes flickering for only a moment. ‘Jämmerlich.’ ‘Pathetic’— a word that you had heard many times. Your mind was snatched away from the singular hiss as a reassuring warm seeped from your rent flesh, reminding you that pain was absolute; but moreover the pain of the past. It was then that you found your thickly accented voice, teeth gritted heavily as you spoke in a most raucous tone.

“L-… Lud…wig…” you managed out, wanting to look up, but knowing all to well that it just might be your last sight. Alas, alack. Before you could proceed, if ever you were to try, the world around you faded. Maybe it was for the best— maybe. Just… maybe.

May 10th, 1940. Approximately 0400 hours. The Fall of France to Nazi Germany.