A/N: I DO NOT own Inglourious Basterds.

Sazerac

As I sat in front of the vanity mirror, I stared at myself, before grabbing a brush and applying rouge to the apples of my cheeks.

Stroking lightly, I watched in wonder as my face came to life, transforming me from a depressed and lifeless drone, to a glamorous woman of the night.

With each circular stroke, my pale skin shifted, giving me the false impression of health and real beauty, covering up all the blemishes, the dark circles under my eyes, and the dullness of my eyes, which once sparkled with life.

Watching my appearance change nothing short of drastically, even I found myself mesmerized, forgetting the truth for a moment and pretending I was someone else, not the girl who was dying inside. The whore who lived under numerous kilos of makeup, hiding her problems and insecurities under layers and layers of paint. I found it incredible, just what makeup could do for a girl. For one, it could transformer her sad pace into a living piece of artwork, showcasing the false impression of happiness. It could bring a dull dead thing to life, giving her a sort of Glasgow smile that remained on her face even when it was long gone. Makeup could cover up everything and anything a girl was feeling, hiding her true emotions, although I had learned long ago that emotions are strong within a person, and unless you were strong enough to conquer them, they would always find a way to get through.

Setting the brush down, I looked at myself, turning my head to watch the way the blush highlighted my high cheekbones under the dim lighting of my room. The color rounded off my cheekbones, giving me a picture of youth and health, while the dark eye makeup gave my eyes the appearance of a feline-like smoky glimmer. Long eyelashes covered in mascara framed my eyes, and arched eyebrows dusted with makeup brought severity to my face, exactly what I wanted.

I was the picture of a woman who broke men, bringing them pain and making their fantasies come to life as I drove them places from which they could never come back from. I brought my whip down upon their backs, giving them a release from their life, an escape from the daily routine of control.

Hair slicked back in a strict bun, I stood up, almost laughing as I thought about the girl beneath the appearance. The girl beneath the whips and chains who was begging for mercy, the way her clients so often did. I wanted, needed , an escape. I needed a break from reality, whether it come from alcohol abuse or death. I wanted something more than the life I lived every day in this brothel, wondering each and every night if a missile would fall from a German plane above and kill us all.

Standing up, I looked around the room, grabbing a latex trenchcoat and slipping it on over the skimpy clothing I wore. A black bra, fitted with a chain that lopped around my neck with matching panties, garter belt, stockings, and thigh-high Wellington boots. Tying the trench around my body tightly, I glanced at myself in the mirror one more time, pressing my lips together to smooth my red lipstick and making my way out of my room.

Stepping out into the hall, lined with hardwood floors and paintings, I closed my door and made my way down the corridor, designed to give the place a feel of class, despite the activities that went on behind closed doors. Stepping past Delacroix's La Mort de Sardanapele, I sniffed and walked towards the staircase, silently thinking.

Working in a Parisian brothel had never quite been what I imagined doing at age 19, especially coming from a prominent family where money was all but embedded in our bloodline. I did not picture myself, fucking and breaking men day after day, making their dreams come true for an hour, and doing the things for them their wives could not. It kind of just happened, I suppose, as much as a thing such as that could happen to a person.

During the heat of the war, I was thrown out of my home by a father, a German officer who was also a war hero from World War I. Augüst Fuerst, one of the most recognized names in German households. The man who was responsible for taking down an entire battalion in World War I, and maintaining Germany's dignity.

My father came from a long line of men, dating back several hundred years to a farmer, poor as dirt who moved and started a vineyard. His success followed for many years to come, and the Fuerst name was now legend in Germany. At the tender age of 23, my father took a beautiful French aristocrat named Isabelle Gaudier as his wife, and together, they had me.

We lived in a magnificent home up in Nice, surrounding by rolling hills and green pastures. The sky remained ever blue, the sun shining on the horizon like a picturesque Monet painting, and for a time, life was nice. I went to an all-girls school, rubbing elbows with the other daughters of wealthy individuals, played with finely crafted toys, the best that money could buy, and wore clothes tailored specifically for me, all while indulging in the compliments that came with giving my surname, however, when the war started, things began to change.

When my father came home from dinner, it was no longer meetings with his friends he talked about, but the Nazi Party, a group of high-ranking German officials who would become the "solution" to a growing "problem", and I soon discovered that problem was not disease. It was not revolt, or uprising, or even danger. That problem, was the Hebrew race, everyday men, women, and children, who went from ordinary citizens, to a plague upon the country with the words of one individual.

I remember, watching my father change before my very eyes as he spoke of "ethnic cleansing", and the need to rid the country of the men and woman who remained innocent in the eyes of the Lord. He pulled me out of school when the daughter of a prominent Jewish girl was admitted, and never again did I see the kind eyes that sparkled when he read me stories, but the eyes of a man who was so small-minded I was ashamed to admit I belonged to him.

When I started secondary school, I met a boy, named Walter. I remember, he would stare at me across the room every day in class, something not only I had noticed, but my friends. He was exceptionally brilliant, the top of our class and many pegged him to be the next Einstein. He was a talented inventor, who constantly spoke of seeking out things that could improve the world, but more than anything, he was a Jew, straight off the boat from Israel. His parents had moved to Germany after he was conceived and his father received a new job in Berlin.

During school he would write me notes, leave me flowers, and for the first time, I felt my heart leap in my chest whenever I thought of him, and a blush creep into my cheeks each time I caught him look at me. He became my boyfriend, and was my first in many ways, besides taking my innocence. He was the first person that I was certain with all my heart that I loved. He was the first to treat me like a princess. He was the first who ever really listened to me, and saw me for more than my namesake. He was my first boyfriend, the first love of my life, and more than anything, the first person who showed me what life really was.

Part of me was always certain that I was just being foolish, letting my emotions and inexperience with relationships run wild, but after the first time we made love, I was certain that I truly loved him, and would possibly spend my life with him.

He always spoke of plans, he had so many plans. Plans to move mountains, see countries, and use his talents to better the world we lived him. He always said he would take me places, like America and Peru, where we would spend our days on the balconies of beautiful hotels and watch the sunset together.

And I believed every word he said, everything he whispered in my ear when we lay in bed together after making love under the stars. I believed we would live together, and die together.

When I told my father I was bringing him over for dinner after dating for two years, he surprised me by saying he looked forward to meeting him, and in that moment, I truly believed everything would be okay.

Walter showed up at my front doorstep in his finest suit, a bouquet of flowers in his hand and a dazzling smile on his face as he shook hands with my father, and complimented my mother. We sat down to a magnificent dinner where Walter struck up conversation with my dad, and entertained my parents in a way I never thought possible. I truly began to wonder if maybe I had been wrong about my father, when he invited Walter downstairs to come see his medals. Sitting at the table, I watched the two leave together, trying to keep the joy from bursting from my chest.

A knock on the door changed everything. Once I heard the voices of my father's three best friends, all S.S. Officers, I knew that things would not be okay. I screamed, sobbed, and begged as my mother held me back, and watched as the officers dragged Walter out kicking and screaming. The last thing I heard him say was my name, and the last I knew of him, he had been sent to a concentration camp with his family. Which one, I did not know.

The next night at dinner, my father went along like nothing had happened, asking me about my plans for the week and my studies. Sitting there in my chair, feeling empty and deflated, I was overcome with rage as he brought up Walter's name in passing, wanting to do nothing more than take a knife and drive it through his cold, unfeeling heart.

And that, my friends, is exactly what I tried to do.

It would seem impossible, you think, so try and kill a man who had given me life, taken care of me all my life and provided me with everything I wanted and needed. Even in my anger, it was simply against human nature for me to want him dead, it was against God's law, and even more so, it was against everything I knew. It was ungrateful, relentless, and proved me to be just as cold-hearted as he, but here is how I saw it:

Every day, he went to the camps. He saw the men, women, and children, starving, diseased, and dying at the hands of the man he so willingly served. He watched them strip down naked with their fly-ridden and gaunt bodies, and forced them to run around, acting as God as he chose which ones could live, and which ones would die. Even worse, my mother sat at home in her diamonds and jewels, smiling and entertaining him and his friends as though none of it was happening. As if her husband was not directly responsible for the deaths of dozens if not hundreds.

And so, in my mind, it was with that I justified the attempt on his life. Kill one, avenge a thousand, save a million. When I stood before God on Judgment Day, I firmly believed my name would be in his books, and if not, I would feel no remorse.

An officer trained in combat, I did not think of my inevitable failure as I grabbed a streak knife and streaked across the table, screaming with rage and eyes blinded with tears as my heart ached and raged for Walter all at once.

That night, I would have died, had it not been for my mother. After throwing me down onto the floor, my father savagely broke my nose, driving his boot into my face and told me never again would I look upon his face. His eyes were cold as his hands slid around my neck, squeezing tightly as I felt the life leave me, and for the first time in her life, my mother did something. She smashed the back of a glass against my father's head, knocking him out and giving me time to escape. I suppose that when it came to her own child, she just couldn't bear to see me die that way, although others had been choked in the showers, gasping for air just as I did on the floor.

I packed a bag with things and took off for Paris, unsure of how I would survive. I had only enough money for a few days, and I knew that working in stores was dangerous, where I would be an easy target.

It was when I was sitting on a bench, contemplating just what to do with my life that I met a girl, a year younger than me who told me she could take somewhere I would have food, shelter, make money, and better yet, protection.

A brothel, and so, unable to refuse such an offer, I agreed, delving into a world that I knew nothing of until the moment.

When I first started, I was known as Jeuene Elise, and dressed up as the innocent schoolgirl I truly was, taking on men with sick fetishes of young girls. With each client though, I began making my way up the ranks until discovering the pleasure I got from inflicting pain. With that, one year later, I became the Madame of Torture, the most ruthless dominatrix in the area, able and more than willing to make men's fantasies come true. I did the things for them they could not find elsewhere. Chancellors, officers, doctors, lawyers, they all came to me, sick and tired of the control and needing someone to take it away from them, and I did just that. I became everything they wanted and needed, and even more, I found a way to release the anger that had been building up inside for so long.

Making my way down the stairs, I clenched my jaw, silently transforming from the wounded girl of 19, into the Madame who made men call out her name. Hands on my hips, I turned into the waiting room, standing in the center and instantly commanding the attention of every man there, all except one.

He twirled his hat in his hands nervously, staring at the carpet and tapping his foot on the floor anxiously in a way that told me it was his first time.

"Monsieur Glohab?" I nodded, and he looked up, eyes flitting away from me before he nodded.

"I am Elise, your companion for the evening. You will call me Madame. Come with me." I barked harshly, and he stood up, trailing behind me in a way that was already submissive.

Without a word, I lead him up the steps and back into my room, closing the door behind me and locking it. He stood in the room nervously, thin as a rail with a dark moustache and mousy features.

"This is your first time?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

He nodded once more, not looking at me and I sighed.

"You will answer my questions verbally. Now, because it is your first time, I will go easy on you. Your safe word will be "apple", you say that when you have reached your limit and I will let you go. No matter how much you beg, unless you say that word, then I will continue. Because it is your first time, I will not have intercourse with you, that is a privilege I reserve only for my regulars, however I can please you orally if you would like. You will now give all control over to me. If you struggle, you will leave. Do you understand?"

"Y-y-yes Madame." He stammered, and I walked across the room to get rope.

This, was another day in my life.

As I stood in the market, I glanced around, observing the other women who milled about, picking up various items and inspecting their quality. Fingering my coinpurse in my hand, I made my way through one of the aisles, seeking out a bottle of cold apple juice from the sparsely stocked shelves that showed the true impact of the war.

It was evident from the quality of things, watered down liquor, cereal boxes half-full. No longer could we afford gluttony, and the basic necessities were getting harder to come across.

Grabbing a bottle from the counter, I held the glass container gingerly as I made my way up the counter, mustering a smile for the elderly shopkeep I had become acquainted with.

"Good evening Elise." He greeted me, hunched over in his usual spot with knotted hands and white hair. I nodded my head in return.

"Hello Monsieur Fragot."

He turned around, grabbing the pack of cigarettes I usually bought when I came in before looking at my apple juice.

"Three Reichsmark." She said wearily, and I raised my eyebrows, at the price which had increased in a week. Even beyond that, I still had not gotten over the conversion from Francs to Reichsmark.

"That's double last time I came in here!" I muttered, and Fragot sighed.

"I know I know. Krauts are setting my prices now."

"Tell them to set this." I snarled, handing over the total in Francs before giving him a small goodbye and departing.

Stepping out into the night, I wrapped my coat around my body tightly, protecting myself from the freezing air. Despite it being early Spring, the temperatures had continued to plummet over the last few days, leaving frost on the windows in the early morning hours.

Fiddling with the pack of cigarettes, I opened one, before sliding the slim paper between my lips and fishing in my pocket for a lighter. Stopping on the sidewalk, I lit the cigarette before inhaling the tobacco gratefully into my lungs and continuing my trek, listening as my shoes clicked against the sidewalk loudly. Ruby red shoes with kitten heels, a replica of Dorothy's in The Wizard of Oz, my favorite childhood film. I remembered begging my mother for a pair, and gasping during the early morning hours of Christmas when I opened a box beneath our tree and found the sparkling shoes, nestled beneath layers of tissue.

As I strolled quietly, making my way back to the brothel, I thought about the client I had that day, the way he cried out in pleasure beneath my booted foot when I ground my cigarette into his back, melting the skin. Despite his initial nervousness, he lasted longer than I expected, only crying out the safety words after I had accidently pierced one of his nipples with a spiked clamps after putting it on the wrong way.

As he limped out, looking more confident than he had been upon his arrival, I knew he would become a regular, and wondered how many days it would be before I saw him again.

And that, was another day in my sad life, beating men then spending the rest of the day in my bed, shut up in complete darkness so that I could escape the world, and letting dreams take me, along with the sleeping pills I took to keep me in the world of dreams.

By no means did I think my life was terrible, I knew wholly that there were those who had it a lot worse off than me. Each and every night, I came home to food, shelter, and had a bed to sleep in and water to drink. There were those in the world who had none of that, and every crumb of food I neglected, I knew that one of them, somewhere out there, would have eaten it happily to soothe their cramped stomach.

Socially though, I was slowly becoming someone who knew nothing of relationships. I had left my father learning that I could trust no one for any reason at all, and because of that, my ability to communicate with others slowly dissipated. I spoke to no one except our Madame, and that was only when I had appointments. Some of the girls were bothered by my sheer unwillingness to reach out and speak with them, but she insisted that as long as I raked in money, I could live life how I wanted.

I suppose the thing that frightened me the most, was letting myself open up again, and giving myself wholly to another person only to lose them. Walter had been the first person I ever truly let see the real me. At school with other girls, I kept myself guarded, knowing that I could not embarrass my family, but I could tell Walter everything. My fears, hopes, dreams and insecurities. When he was gone, it felt as though he had taken a part of me with him, and I feared now that by letting someone become close to me again, I would be faced with that void once more. I would feel the insufferable emptiness that dwelled within me at their absence.

A sharp whistle pulled me from my thoughts, and I stopped, turning to face a German officer who came from the other side of the street, medals shining brightly on his uniform.

As he came towards me, I tensed, face falling into a deep frown as worry began to grow within me. Through dark eyes he stared, stepping in front of me with white teeth bared like a wolf.

"Good evening young madam. How about a fine gentleman to escort you tonight? These streets are not safe." He said in German, and I quickly feigned confusion.

"Eh…no German." I said stubbornly in French, thankful my accent had begun to wear off with the years I lived here.

"A Frenchwoman who does not speak German? How unusual." He commented, the smile sliding from his face as he stepped closer to me. "Let me see your papers."

Thankful I had remembered to bring them with me, I fished in my pocket, grasping the official documents tightly in my hand before handing them over. He unfolded them, before glancing at the paper and curling his upper lip in disgust, recognizing my name in an instant.

"There will come a day when those who sympathize with Jews will suffer the same fate as them." He snarled, throwing my papers in my face. As they fell to the ground, rage boiled within me, and I met his eyes coldly, my fists curling.

"And one day swine like you will be killed like you deserve!" I shot back in German, watching his face contort with rage.

Without hesitation, he raised the back of his hand before sending it flying across my face, causing one of my teeth to sink into my gums painfully.

The powerful blow sent me reeling, and I tumbled backward, losing my balance before falling onto the ground, the glass bottle of apple juice breaking and releasing its contents onto the pavement.

"You will regret that." He hissed, grabbing my wrist tightly and yanking me to his feet. I struggled against him, before an unfamiliar accent pulled us both from the struggle.

"Ain't your momma tell you never to lay your hands on a woman." A voice drawled, and before either of us could do anything, the soldier was yanked off of me violently and thrown onto the ground by two hulking men in uniforms.

Emerging out of the darkness, a tall man with a moustache a sparkling eyes stepped forward, smoking a cigar between strong fingers. His face was slightly rounded and handsome, with wrinkles telling stories of both stress and laughter.

"You Elise?" he asked, with a thick accent that hit my ears sharply.

"Yes. Who are you?" I asked in English, clutching my coat to my body tightly.

"Lieutenant Aldo Raine, United States Army. Me and my boys been looking for you quite some time now."

I stared, uncertain what exactly to say. An American searching for me? Why?

"Why?"

"Come with me and you'll find out just that."