Monologue, The Daughter

When I look at Adolf Hitler, I don’t see him, especially the film clips that show an old man shuffling from a bunker surrounded by rubble, bent over, pulling his arm inside his coat to hide its trembling; his crestfallen face; the self loathing that has finally caught up to him; this man buckles under the weight of what he has sown; yet, he reaches for the children who have idolized him, the children he has groomed, the children he will at long last liberate when he puts a bullet through his temple; he pats their cheeks and musters a smile, relies on their loyalty and protection, expects them to take pity on their Furher and forgive his selfishness and cruelty.

He expects they will love him still.

 

©Alana Noël Voth