“Run goddamnit run! They’re swarming in!”
I peered my head out the shattered window to catch a glimpse of my malicious attackers, unceasing in their desire to end the lives of me and my platoon. I have no idea how they infiltrated our bunker, but I was keen minded and caught one of the damned krauts trying to slit my throat as I slept. Unfortunately for the bastard he met my Thompson machine gun before he could do me harm; and with the instincts of a true soldier I proceeded to storm room to room, slaughtering any of Hitler’s boys that I could find. I admit a slight maliciousness overcame me, as I often jeered upon hearing the quick screams of the damned jerrys cut short when I threw in a frag, and at least once I made an audible shout of joy when red crimson sprayed in the air upon a shot to the temple.
It was just when I thought I regrouped with the survivors of our platoon I shouted for them to retreat, opting myself to be the valiant last line of defense as my comrades would disengage for reinforcements; however, the only response from behind me was an inaudible scream of unimaginable horror. Immediately fearing the worst, I glanced behind and saw the familiar glint of gray helmets with a bell-like curve. Knowing my men were already lost, I fully turned around, Thompson in hand, and unloaded what was left of my clip to the kraut group of four or five, shouting at the top of my lungs as each was falling upon the other in a spectacular display of bloody carnage. The familiar stuttering of an empty cartridge followed, as well as several seconds of holistic silence; I couldn’t help erring a wry smile at my quick show of force that had no doubt kept me alive these many months behind enemy lines. Silence however was soon disrupted by a faint cry from the pile of cadavers I just created.
I stepped closer to investigate – gun in hand in case of survivors – and lifted one of the bodies; beneath it was crouched a young girl, around nine or ten, draped in what looked like a white hospital gown splashed with red. With her bloody hands draped over her ears she lifted her head and stared at me in pure terror, an unfamiliar but immediately recognizable sight beyond the likes of which I had never seen. Realizing the smoking barrel of my gun was aimed between her eyes, I quickly discarded that nasty bit of machinery and came to her eye-level, hers filled to the brim with horrified tears. In a sudden stroke of paternal instinct I held her tight in my arms, quietly murmuring that everything is going to be alright. It’s going to be just fine.
It was only then I realized my own attire, a blood-drenched white gown much like her own, and the quiet playing of a phonograph nearby that relayed the soothing sounds of Edith Piaf. If one listened closely, the distant wails of sirens soon accompanied that sweet tune.
It was 1946, the war was over.
Credit: Len Lye
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26 thoughts on “Tu Es Partout”
Okay, this makes a better PTSD awareness story than a creepypasta.
Have an ice day.
Thompson sub machine guns don’t have clips, they have drums….I’m not going to say anything about the racial slurs however because they do fit the story .
they can have either.
Not so much of a creepypasta, more of a nice story with creepy intent. I liked it.
Actually, I do like the story in itself. Still, it is hard to believe that the guy killed anyone if he thought he was fighting with a machine gun and grenades that he could not possibly have. If it had been a fistfight, or he had been hallucinating a knife or something like that, it might even be possible that he was actually killing people with his bare hands, but there’s not much damage you can do if you really believe you are firing a non-existant gun, and act accordingly. So I don’t get the blood on the gowns in the end (about the sirens, I just don’t care, it’s a hospital, there might be ambulances around).
I feel it’s a little harsh to say he could not possibly have had these weapons. Considering this is a European psychiatric hospital during peacetime (in the 1940s, before metal detectors) there wouldn’t be much security if any at all. Suppose in another state of PTSD delirium he could’ve smuggled in these weapons which being a soldier he would have easy access to. It’s a longshot, sure, but keep an open mind… it is fiction after all. Hopefully.
People aren’t usually allowed to go out and back in from hospitals at will, especially psychiatric wards, and even if they did, soldiers cannot simply walk into any amory available and ask for machine gun and grenades (I’d say, especially not wearing a hospital gown ^_^;)
And yes, it’s fiction, which means it didn’t really happen, not that everything can happen in it without any logical explanation.
I like how every comment that pointed out flaws got a negative one rating. Honestly, it wasn’t bad, but it was a little too vauge, and the ending left a lot to be desired. Still pretty good I guess. 7/10
It seems some people don’t really like the ambiguity of this one, but I really do. Did he actually kill people in this hospital? Was it all a flashback, none of it real? To me, I think both can be equally frightening. I recognized the author immediately, based on the subject matter and the descriptions. I liked this one a lot more than “What a Lovely War” (though in fairness, I did enjoy that one as well). I really like the reveal at the end, because it makes the whole thing more believable. One man against a whole army always has that unbelievable feel to it, but the twist at the end made it all too possible given the actual subject matter. Or the imagined situation. I tend towards the flashback/PTSD version of the story, just because I have trouble figuring out how someone hospitalized would get their hands on a frag grenade, but then again the sirens at the end push more towards a more violent scenario. It also doesn’t have to be a dichotomous choice, I suppose. And that’s what I love about this pasta. It really beautifully blurs the line between objective reality and subjective experiences. Great job, and happy writing!
You mistakenly referred to the magezine as a clip. Mags and clips are totally different. The Thompson has a magezine.
Just my 2 cents.
Was that really necessary?
Maybe not, but at least we learned something!
I really liked this one. It was awesome. PTSD is a terrifying disorder. I have a uncle who suffers from it and it’s pretty scary. I don’t know why every one is hating on. 8/10
Strong concept, but it feels unfinished. Like notes on a story rather than the completed tale.
“an inaudible scream of unimaginable horror.”
Well then how did he hear it?
Forgot to give this the micropasta tag, so it just seems like an unfinished story. Whoops…
What? Where’s the rest of the story? If this is meant to be a cliffhanger there needs to be more details…was he having a flashback and was in a mental ward? How would he get a gun? If was in a mental ward and didn’t have a gun, where did the pile of bodies and blood come from? Or was he hallucinating the blood and corpses? Was he dead and in some sort of hell? Although it’s a good story, it seems unfinished and too ambiguous for my taste.
Wait, so did he actually kill anybody, or is he walking around in a hospital making gun noises?
I think he did, his gown was soaked with blood
well then… nice story on post traumatic stress disorder i liked it
I’m a bit confused. Did the person, having flashbacks, think he was back in the war and murdered a bunch of in a hospital he was at?
Yeah, turns out he was a bit messed in the head due to the war and was in a hospital or something. had a flashback and ended up murdering some of the workers or patients mistaking them for German soldiers.
I don’t think this really counts as a creepypasta… Not a bad story though. But where did he get the gun?