Half Sick of Shadows » Band of Brothers [2]

01: Shadows of the World

"And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:"
- Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Lady of Shalott

-

A hand slams down on the wooden desk. I flinch back instinctively. The paper is torn out from under my hands without remorse.

I don't dare look up. I keep my eyes set firmly on my hands, which lay strewn across the table, shaking. I only move my eyes away when I have to close them. The hauptsturmführer has spat at me. Though it isn't the first time, I still shiver in disgust as his saliva slithers down my face.

The beast of a man slams the paper back down onto the desk and grabs ahold of the back of my chair, spinning me to face him. He demands in no uncertain terms that I open my eyes. When I do, he is leaning in close.

"What you have written," he snarls at me, "tells us nothing. You have spent three weeks writing nothing." Just like some sort of rabid dog, saliva comes leaking out of the corners of his mouth. He looks utterly savage. I don't dare say anything in reply. "It is a privilege to be writing out your confession. An act of mercy. You spit in our faces every time you waste our time with your useless civilian memories. And so, I spit in yours." He spits at me again. For emphasis, perhaps. Or for the drama of it. Either way, he has proven this point to me too many times to warrant doing it as proof. I already know there is nothing that is beyond him. There is no line he will not cross.

"Writing out everything is the only way I can remember it all," I insist, shrivelling under his fierce gaze. There is nothing in the world I fear more than Hauptsturmführer Becker, and he knows it.

He yanks me up by the hair at the nape of my neck until he's holding me up to his eye level. I feel his breath fan my face. I want to scream.

"Every piece of paper you fill without any useful information is another minute you will spend holding the phenol in your mouth. How long do you think you can last without swallowing?"

Phenol. Carbolic acid. The liquid they use in lethal injections.

I want to cry. I want to cry. I want to cry.

He pulls me impossibly closer to his snarling face. "Do you understand, Miss Chevalier?"

"Yes." It emerges as a whimper. The fight has long since gone out of me.

The hauptsturmführer drops me. I remain sprawled out on the floor until the two guards at the walls are ordered to sit me back in my chair. When they do, they let my head slam into the table. Everything is blurry when I lift it back up.

"You and I," begins the hauptsturmführer, walking casually towards the door, "have a meeting in half an hour. I will be checking your progress." He turns back to me and smiles. It sends a chill down my spine. "Tell us your secrets, or burn. The choice is yours."

I want to die. I want to die. I want

"Write," one of the guards demands, but I can no longer remember where I left off. My mind seems to want to believe it was something about Gene. Gene. Gene, who I never deserved anyway, but wanted with all my heart. God fucking damn it. God damn it. I was so stupid. I have never hated myself as much as I do right now, thinking about Gene. I wasted so much time. I hope he thinks I'm dead.

Oh, God, Thomas. Why am I not dead?

I might as well be, I suppose. I will be soon. I am rapidly running out of time, and though I am not afraid to die, I am afraid to find out how they will kill me. I am so, so afraid.

"Write!" that same guard screeches at me. He presses the lit end of his cigarette into my shoulder. I flinch every time, without fail, which only makes him actively search for excuses to do it again. And again. And again. But it works. I carry on writing. It's jibberish, but I will do anything to stop him from burning me again. I can still feel my skin hissing fiercely.

When the hauptsturmführer returns he will read what I've written, and he will not be pleased, but I don't have any energy left in me to carry on remembering. I like remembering, now - I used to hate it, because it was painful, but memories are nice things to have now. But nice memories don't belong in the pause right before an interrogation. Eugene Roe has no place in something so terrible. Sometimes I even fool myself into believing that the anticipation is worse than the actual thing itself. Needless to say, it never is, and that only makes the waiting for it worse each time.

The door crashes open as I am writing out the alphabet for the eight consecutive time in a different font. I all but collapse onto the wooden desk, draping myself over it in a mixture of panic and exhaustion. When he sees what I've written I will die. I feel sure of it. But perhaps he is not so merciful.

I don't hear what Hauptsturmführer Becker says to the two guards who always watch me. I am sobbing too loudly. The man I fear most shoots me a look of disdain, of disgust, for I am a pathetic creature and apparently seek to remind him of this every time I am in his presence. When he picks up my papers he scowls. He slams them down onto the table. He hauls me up himself.

"I thought we were past playing the martyr, Miss Chevalier," he growls at me, yanking me out of the door by my hair.

"What are you going to do?" I hear myself beg. I don't remember consciously making the decision to say that, but I am in a state of hysteria. Tears are streaming, my eyes are screwed shut, and my feet thrash at the floor in an attempt to slow him down. "What are you going to do to me?! Tell me what you're going to do and I'll go quietly. I have to know! Please!"

When I land on the familiar stone floor of the interrogation room my body collapses under me. I barely have the energy to weep and screech as I do, but I do it anyway. "Please tell me! Please tell me!"

I hear liquid pouring and remember what he said. A minute for every piece of paper I wasted. I can't remember for the life of me how many that is. Memories return too late. Every time. I would have suffered the burning to not have to face this. Why am I always wishing for things I can't have?

Stupid, stupid, stupid. I will just swallow it. It'll hurt, but it'll be over. I'll swallow it. I'll swallow it.

"Do not even think about swallowing it," Hauptsturmführer Becker sneers, as though reading my thoughts. "It has been diluted. If you swallow it, it will not kill you. But it will burn. It will hurt. It will disfigure you. It is in your best interests not to swallow it."

"Why do you have no mercy?" I beg, slamming my fists into the concrete repeatedly. They won't even let me die. "You're a coward! You're a sadist! You're a goddamn fucking ruthless bastard! Show some compassion!"

The hauptsturmführer doesn't turn, only continues to pour. "Do not think about spitting it out, either. I will pour it down your throat myself and make sure it burns you from the inside out."

I fight against the arms that lift me into the chair with all of my might. It's not enough. I try desperately to keep my mouth closed, try to lock my jaw and grind my teeth. It's not enough. When he pours the acid in my mouth I have to press my tongue up against the back of my throat to prevent it from slipping down.

I will never forget this taste. I will never forget the burning in my eyes. I will never forget the gleeful look on his face. I will never forget this panic.

Oh God oh God oh God. I thought I had such problems. Afraid of growing old? I would give anything to grow old. Anything. Anything. Anything.

I hold the acid in my mouth for thirteen minutes.

Why did I use so much paper?