At night he went insane.

Maybe he was insane all the time and just hid it well, but at night it was undeniable. He would lie there, desperate to black out or die or do anything but this.

Every night the memories would come back, so real he doubted they were dreams. He tried to forget what he had done, but he never could.

Sometimes all the people he had killed would come and pull him into the gas chambers with them. And he would feel the death, over and over, and he would never die. And then soldiers, who all looked like him, would take him not-dead and put him in the furnaces with the bodies and he would burn to death a thousand times and never die.

Sometimes it would be different. Sometimes they would throw him in one of the mass graves. The bodies would pile on top of him, and then the dirt, and he would suffocate. The bodies would reanimate and tear him apart limb by limb, but he would never die.

Day would come, and he would be all right again, at least until the next night.

One night when they put him in the gas chambers, he died.

He didn’t wake up the next morning. If he had been asleep at all.