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Snippet #1666981

located in Hospital, a part of Patients, one of the many universes on RPG.

Hospital

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Gunter tensed at Emory's hand on his back, but he soon relaxed. It was kind of comforting, in a way. It reminded him of Anna. He wondered where she was, if she was okay. As he contemplated this, he sat up, crossed his arms on his chest, and took a few deep breaths. He looked over and gave Emory a faint, strained smile.

The white walls suddenly became blinding, hostile. His ears rang. Gasping, he shut his eyes tightly and covered his ears with his hands. Voices barked and shouted in his head, 'Ducken! Die Artillerie, Die Artillerie!' 'Hertz! Ducken! Hertz!' Everything was so slow. All was light and noise. Then it stopped. Everything stopped, except for one voice. A female voice. 'Gunter! Hilfe! Hil-' It was cut off abrubtly by an explosion. A bright light flashed, and then Gunter felt as if he were being pushed backwards through water. It was another flashback, a visual one. He saw long, blonde braids being cut off and falling to the floor. Brave, determined grey eyes. He saw himself pleading with her to stop, to stay in the infirmary where she was safe. She shook her head sadly. She wanted to go. She needed to fight. She walked through the conscription line in her stolen uniform, pretending to be a boy, and they never suspected a thing. Either that, or they didn't care. He tried to stop her, but she just kept marching. Then he saw a small-framed corpse being dragged over with the others. He could barely tell it was her, she had been mangled so much.

The flashback ended as abruptly as it had come. He let his hands fall away from his ears as he opened his eyes slowly. Looking up, he realized that the flashbacks had only taken a few seconds. Gunter was left with clear, desolate understanding. Anna was not "okay." She wasn't even alive. She had died fighting beside him at the Battle of Berlin under a fake name, and he, the soldier, had lived that day. He even remembered whispering a prayer for her that night in the trench. His hands and jaw clenched in anger. He reached over and tore off one of his armbands, the one that said, "Deutscher Volkssturm Wehrmacht." He stared at it for a second. Then he whispered, hardly audibly, but with terrifying intensity, "Die Volkssturm kann in der HΓΆlle verfaulen." He flung the strip of cloth to the ground. After a moment of thought, he grabbed his other armband to rip it off, but stopped. Overcome with fear, he jerked his hand away from the swastika. "Tut mir sehr leid," he breathed, either to the armband or himself. Then he fixed his gaze back on the ground as if he had been flogged, trying to look as small as possible.