How could it have been so easy, to find something that meant so much in just a few minutes...The Internet was truely...sacred. And cursed at that... He stared at the screen of his laptop, glaring into his own face, trying to find a way that maybe this was not real.
He was anxious to go to sleep, he wanted to wake up in the world of nazi germany again, to verify that it really was a pattern. "Pattern is used for psychology, when someone's hallucinating...this isn't a pattern," he muttered. Monica looked up from her book. She sat across from her husband, on the other couch that faced his. He'd been acting distant and troubled, even more so than in the last days. "It's a fact...it's a reality." He leaned back, still gazing into the bluelight, even though the picture in the front of the screen became blurry in his eyes.
When his gaze focused again it met that of Hitler's brown eyes. Even though the photo was black and white he could see those dark pools as if their owner stood in front of him. Hitler's eyes were a similar color yet completely different from the eyes of the jewish doe. Hitler's eyes were brown like melted chocolate, whilst her eyes-.
"Honey!" Monica's repeated call finally ripped him out of his thoughts. "Do I have to ask you seven times?" They'd been to couples therapy before getting married several years ago; the reason: Monica had started to have doubts they'd last. And the therapist had told them to 'be realistic' when you speak with another. He'd said that most every couple got into the downwards spiral by accusing the other of 'always' or 'never' doing something or having done it 'a hundred times'. So Monica had simply changed the word 'hundred' to anything that had to do with the number seven, her favourite digit.
"I'm sorry darling, what is it?" Alistair asked tiredly. "Can I help you with something?"
***
As he lay in bed that night, obsessing over the photograph and what it now meant for him, he didn't notice various things. He didn't notice that Monica was awake too, and growing steadily more worried at his absent-mindedness. He didn't realize that his phone, which he'd shut off, kept vibrating silenty due to all the text messages that the Vice President sent him. He also didn't realize that he hadn't locked the door to the bedroom, something he always did for additional security. It was the first time that he ignored his duties as US President, or moreover, momentarily forgot and denied them, to instead obsess about the place he found himself in at night. He'd regret having turned the ringer off the next morning, when he'd be not only confronted by his employees, but also by the whole of his country, demanding why he'd reacted so lately.
It was the beginning of a new era for Alistair Bowmore, not just one as President of the United States of America, but also as an inofficial translator for Germany's Adolf Hitler, a translater with a dangeous intention.