Superiority. A good word, but was it enough? Enough to explain myself for my actions? Yes, I had done terrible things. Did I regret them?

Of course not.

“Hence today I believe that I am acting in accordance with the will of the Almighty Creator: by defending myself against the Jew, I am fighting for the work of the Lord.” Yes, a good quote, from my own Mein Kampf. And I believed every word of it. Because it was true. Oh, how foolish was the world! For everyone was not created equal! Look at the catastrophes in the world! Why did they happen?

Because of people that needed to be exterminated. The reason that there was cruelty in the world was the cause of the lesser races.

The Aryan race would have changed all of that.

It could have. It might have.

I heaved out a breath which had my sadness, had my fury being extinguished like my armies had been obliterated. I felt my old, weary hand close around the cold metal of the pistol. Of my death.

I would be a martyr, if anyone was smart enough to realize the good work that I had done. Of course…. no one would. They were all stupid compared to my intellect. None could see the sacrifices that had to be made to make the world what it could be.

I closed my eyes, and envisioned for the last time what I would have made the world be. I saw the sun rising, as a single drop of sunlight illuminated the previously dark world. A clear, clean nation stood there in the sun, a nation that was worthier to learn the secrets the world possessed. They would have unraveled the secrets that science had, and they could have used them for peace, instead of the destruction that the world was in now.

I should have painted it, I realized. This perfect world, so different from the one that I was in now. I always wanted to be a painter. And suddenly I wished that I had only been an artist, instead of the Chancellor of Germany.

I brushed the thought away quickly. It was my destiny to become what I had! I had no regrets! I was Adolf Hitler!

I opened my eyes to the darkness around me. It didn’t really matter anyway. It didn’t matter if I wished that I could have been a painter, or an architect, or even just an ordinary person. What had happened…. was what had happened. The world had become a black place. A place devoid of hope. Now it wouldn’t matter. Now I could finally rest.

I picked up that aged hand that had the metal of the pistol enwrapped in it.

I picked up my death.

I pointed it to my mortal prison, and as I did I realized that superior was not the right word to describe me. Then what was?

Something stirred inside me. A strange feeling.

A touch of remorse, of guilt.

A single tear rolled down my old eyes, I pulled the trigger, and the world was left in ignorance.