Bombs pounded the underground base; their explosions echoing inside like the drums of war.
He sat on the old worn sofa with cold concrete walls on all sides. Everywhere he looked he saw death. His recently deceased wife lay next to him as his now frail hands hovered over the pistol.
In a few short years he had managed to perpetuate human suffering to unhealthy extremes. But they deserved it. Didn't they.
Eugenics had failed him. His plans for a Super Race lay in ashes like this tomb he was forced to inhabit.
He looked to the portrait of his mother. The one person who might still believe in him.
What was it worth? What was anything worth?
He clenched his sweaty palms and cried into the stale air;
"God, if you're out there, help me."
The stark German syllables echoed off those walls.
He was insane, he saw that now, his meddling and personal vendettas had scared many. Even now he thought of all those nameless faceless people, not just the Jews, who he had personally affected in the most negative of ways.
"I can't live like this anymore." He said into the air. If anyone heard him they wouldn't think anything of it. And they shouldn't.
Outside the bombs pounded faster and harder.
He was the Germany's savior. The one who would make everything right with the world. Now he saw the insanity of what was his and his nation's goal. What was he thinking?
"I am just a man." He admitted as the once charismatic man broke down in tears.
There came the vibration of an explosion followed by the sound of clattering boots.
"If there is a savior out there, a true savior, accept me." He cried.
The inevitable was coming. A choice. His choice.
As the world climaxed around him it all stood still as he felt a rush of adrenaline with an odd sense of hope. And then he heard it. The whisper of a whisper.
"It is finished." It said, like the voice of summer itself.
He saw the gun. He heard the soldiers.
The French soldiers barged into the heart of the bunker where two bodies laid limp on that old sofa. Quite possibly the most sinister pair in history.
"They're dead. The war is over." Someone remarked in the silence.
"What's this?" The platoon leader said as he picked a crumbled piece of paper off of Hitler's body.
On it was a crudely drawn cross, and under it, written in German, were the words;
It is finished.
"What does it mean?" The same man asked.
"I don't know." His commander remarked discarding the artifact.
He must be dreaming. This must be a dream. Adolf stood in the brilliant light, it was greater then the sun.
Guilt and joy warred inside him as a brilliant white figure emerged from the billowing forms.
Adolf knew him.
The two joined hands as he looked upon the True Savior of the World.
Adolf's gaze fell onto those cold hands of his. So inferior.
"Your scars are washed clean. Now come. There's a party waiting for you."
Jesus's word's were perfect German.
Tears of joy welled in Adolf's eyes. He was finally home and the weight of a lifetime washed off as a party like no other ensued.