Memories of the Broken
Chapter I, Part II:
Science
Four hours of nothing but pure work have taken their toll on his body and, as if on cue, his stomach clenches painfully. Aramuil grinds his teeth together, half expecting powder to fill his mouth with the action. It's no use getting angry, however, and he resigns himself to more back-breaking labor. He may have his pride, but he also has his sense of self survival. The Nazis have already made it quite clear that they enjoy a good show, and he has no intention of being the next act. So, with the shovel already heavy in his fingers, Aramuil continues.
It hurts like hell, this constant work, nonstop, but showing any hesitation is enough to get an earful of angry German in his ear. He's had enough of that, today, but he knows there will be plenty more in the future, both near and far. Not ten minutes later and, as expected, German voices do rise... But not in anger. In fact, they're not directed at any of the prisoners. Curiosity killed the cat, yet Aramuil is willing to ignore that saying as he steals a quick glance across the grounds.
Scientists. Just that mere word is enough to bring the foul taste of loathing and fear into his entire system. Aramuil hates them more than the soldiers. At least the gun-toting bastards don't lie. They don't try to cover up their cruelty by saying how it's all for science, all so that Germany will be great once again. Bullshit. Aramuil knows they're just filthy little liars who take a sick delight in their experiments. After all, he's seen the little children with needles stuck in their eyes. He's seen those poor twins, their backs crudely sewn together with pus and blood oozing out.
He's seen it all, and he'll never forget, no matter how many years pass, no matter what happens to him.
With sudden venom, he slams his shovel into the ground. One such scientists always gets him in a foul mood, and he's quickly learned to hate that paralyzing poison green stare. However, those thoughts are easily dismissed once he spots the cause of all the fuss. Amongst the gaggle of scientists, one figure simply doesn't fit. It's a girl, thinner than he is, and with long dark hair that falls in curls down her back. There are plenty of girls here, other prisoners, who look just like her. Her appearance is unbelievably ordinary, yet there's something in the way she walks that speaks of pride. It's almost exotic, and Aramuil finds himself staring at her just as she turns her head. Their eyes meet for only a fraction of a second before a fists slams into the side of his head. Aramuil stumbles forward, the ground beneath him splitting into two for a moment and ah, there's the German screaming he was expecting.
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"Up! Up, you filthy f*****t!"
Blows are already landing on his back, his arms, and Aramuil struggles onto his feet. Sleep, pain, and hunger make him dizzy, and he doesn't have even two seconds to regain his bearings before a harsh grip wraps around one of his arms. The soldier jerks him forward, practically dragging him out the door. Cruel, mocking whispers follow him out the door, but it's nothing new. Aramuil only focuses on trying to see straight, his free hand pressed against his head. Time seems to be a foreign concept, because one minute, rocks are digging into his feet, and the next, brilliant lab lights are burning into his pupils. Hissing, he jerks his head up, eyes narrowed. The soldier doesn't even try to look back; he just continues to stride forward, Aramuil helplessly dragged along.
A creak, a click and there's suddenly a tight grip around his neck, forcing him to stand straight. Blinking his eyes a few times, Aramuil's sight clears and he surveys the two other people before him with a carefully blank gaze. On the inside, however, he's terrified. ******** oh ********, no, no, they're going to use him as one of their ******** experiments. Aramuil can practically feel the blood draining from him and onto the glaringly white floor. There was hope, however meager, while they simply worked him to death. Experiments, however, are a death sentence. In fact, they're worse than that. Curling his fingers into fists, ARamuil is absently aware that his palms have begun to bleed.
Quickly, he wonders if he's fast enough to grab a scalpel and end it all before it even starts.
After the first moment of stupefied panic, however, Aramuil notices how unusual the entire thing is. For one thing, there's only one actual scientist. For another, the person besides that scientist is the same girl who raised all the fuss earlier. He's curious, oh yes, but prisoners aren't supposed to speak. Instead, biting back his questions, he watches as the scientist grills the girl.
"Child really should be grateful to nice Doctor Vogel that she gets such a gift. If child wasn't so smart, didn't make such efforts, then she certainly wouldn't have gotten an assistant for our work." Aramuil isn't even being spoken to, yet he still feels anger at how the scientist speaks to her, as if she's a retard. She doesn't seem bothered, however. She only stares up at the scientists innocently until he turns away. Then, her gaze is instantly on Aramuil. Up close, her exotic air is even more obvious, and her dark eyes are mysterious. It gives her an unreachable appearance... But Aramuil thinks he's probably the only one to see this.
The sharp clack of the scientist's boots and the pressure releasing his neck draw Aramuil's attention away from the girl. Impatient gloved fingers wrap around his chin, and he fins his head turned this way and that. With the soldier having relinquished his control around Aramuil's neck, he is forced to stand on his own on shaking legs. Rather helplessly, he grits his teeth and waits for even an inkling of what's going on. It takes a while, and a lot of poking and prodding before the scientists finally moves away. "Yes, yes, this one will do," he mutters, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Aramuil's blood freezes. "This will make a useful servant indeed."
Servant...? Oh. Oh. Aramuil could almost laugh, if he wasn't so tired and scared. Safe. He's safe. Thank God. Buried underneath all his relief, his pride bristles weakly, and it's easy to push it aside for now. They just need a tool, not a toy... For now. Pride doesn't matter at the moment. Survival is key, then he'll get his revenge.
Some day.
As Aramuil revels in his relief and thoughts of revenge, the scientists retrieves a file. As he begins to flip through it, he reads aloud. "Aramuil Schäfer, of sixteen years. Hm, is a perfect age as well... Yes, he'll do. You can take him back, we'll retrieve him in the morning."
Morning isn't that far off, and it feels as if Aramuil's closed his eyes for only a moment before he's being yanked onto his feet again. This time, however, he's slightly more prepared. The sunlight helps as well, giving him a clear image instead of dark blurs.
"Move! Move, filth!"
Aramuil snaps his head up, suddenly wide awake. Out of reflex, his whole body tenses even as he realizes the voice isn't directed at him. Across the stretch of dull dirt, a Nazi soldier screams at other prisoners to get them moving. Formerly a part of the pack, more or less, it sends a shiver of shock up Aramuil's spine to see those skinny bodies at work. How pathetic they all look... For the first time, he realizes with disgust the position he's in. He's just like those pathetic things slaving away for the Nazis. It makes him sick, and more than a little ashamed. It won't be like this forever, he promises himself, even as the soldier pulls him along even harder. One day, he'll be free of all this.
One day, he'll be stronger, and these sick scum will regret ever treating him and the others this way.
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"Bridgette Tenenbaum" is what she tell shim when he asks her what her name is. For the time being, the lab remains empty, and only the two of them remain. Without a soldier breathing down his neck or scientists invading his personal space, Aramuil is able to look the girl over better. The yellow star stitched onto her clothes does not escape his notice. Not that it's surprising, really. Yellow stars here are a dime a dozen.
Out of politeness' sake, he introduces himself while setting down a large crate of chemicals. "My name's Aramuil Schäfer." When he turns around, she's smirking at him. At his quirked eyebrow, she even gives a small chuckle.
"I know," Bridgette states simply, her hands neatly folded in front of her. "Doctor Vogel said it quite clearly last night, or is your memory faulty?"
He'd offer a witty retort, yet the door clicks open, and they both fall silent as the doctor steps in.
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There's truly little difference in working in the labs and working outside in the dirt. The conditions are somewhat cleaner, yet backbreaking labor is backbreaking labor, and Aramuil finds that the scientist's screams are similar to the soldiers'. However, if there is a bright side to any of this, it is Bridgette's presence. No matter how silent she remains, there is a kind of superiority in the way she stands. It's nothing compared to when she speaks, of course, a kind of dry wit lacing through her voice.
Both of them know it drives the doctor positively mad.
"Why!?" he explodes one day, whirling away from the microscope and onto Bridgette. "Why do you tell me these things!?"
His hand quivers at his side, as if it aches to hit her. However, Bridgette seems unperturbed, and Aramuil admires how blank her expression is. The only emotion is a mocking kind of innocence as she speaks. "If you're going to do something, you should at least do it properly."
Aramuil keeps his head ducked down so the grin on his face isn't seen. Of course, the dear doctor needs to take out his frustration on some one. In quick time, Aramuil finds himself int he possession of a nice dark shiner and the order to get more water. It's only in the (relative) safety of the courtyard that choked laughter starts spilling from his mouth. He has to take a few minutes to get it out of his system.
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Apparently, despite how valuable she is, even Bridgette isn't clear from punishment, even if it is only mild. As he stands in the courtyard, his arms ache from having held onto the bucket of water so long. Aramuil's bones creak with the effort and he can feel the blisters on his hands scream in protest. However, he's distracted when he hears the angry stomps of the doctor and the sound of something being dragged along the dirt. He doesn't move, of course; the soldier assigned to watch him is actually paying attention now. Aramuil merely continues to keep the bucket up, and watches from the corner of his eye as Bridgette is practically thrown into place next to him. A bucket similar to his own is shoved into her hands before the doctor storms off again. The dark-haired girl mutters a small curse under her breath before she mimics Aramuil. He waits for the soldier's attention to drift again before murmuring, "You're lucky they haven't done worse to you sooner."
"It's not my fault they make flaws in the work," Bridgette replies with a shrug. "How long have you been here?"
"Ah, three hours, I think." At her frown, he smirks and adds, "I missed a spot."
"Well, you-"
Quickly, the two of them shut up as the guard returns to his post. Aramuil doesn't even twitch, patiently waiting it all out. Bridgette speaks again, however, her whisper sharp and quick. "Well, you do have a tendency to rush."
"You have a tendency to piss off scientists," Aramuil growls back. Sometimes, he wonders if she even has a heart. She certainly never acts like it.
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Day by day, the number of dead rises. It's impossible to miss the stench of decay, especially the times when the doctor lets the soldiers borrow him, as if he's some sort of item. On those days, he shovels strangers into the dirt, or pushes loaded metal trays into greedy flames so that there's no evidence left. Those days leave him filled with nausea, both from the stench and the sight. It's impossible to ignore the fact that one of those bodies could easily be his, one day, and the threat of death looms over his head.
It's those days that he remains silent, his jaw set and eyes heavy with a determined glint. Those days, not even Bridgette bothers to say anything.
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"I've been wondering what you've been doing with the rest of your water."
The voice is softer than even a whisper, yet in the pure silence of the dark courtyard, it's like a gunshot. Aramuil stiffens, body expecting punishment even as he recognizes that familiar voice. Carefully, he looks over his shoulder, and his blue eyes land on Bridgette, hidden in the shadows. Still full of nervous energy, he passes the minuscule cup he has from hand to hand. "Didn't think you'd be out," he comments quietly, with a lick of his chapped lips.
"You know you're going to die of dehydration if you throw away your water like that?" is all she says, clearly ignoring his words. Aramuil frowns at that and, after a moment's pause, moves away from the spot he was hunched over.
"I'm not wasting water," he states, and gestures at the struggling little bit of green that sprouts out of the earth. Still gripped by paranoia, he watches as her eyes widen. Bridgette's soft steps come closer, and in no time at all, she's kneeling besides him. As one slim finger runs itself over the tiny leaves, Aramuil smiles. "I'm not wasting water," he repeats. "I'm giving life." His hands join hers, and together they gently cup the little sprout. "If a thing such as this plant can survive, then can't we? One day, this plant will grown into something huge and beautiful. That will happen to us as well."
Bridgette watches him carefully, her dark gaze dissecting. Slowly, she asks, "What if it doesn't grow? What if it withers and dies?"
The words make Aramuil close his eyes, and he merely listens. Deep inside his chest, his heart beats, beats, beats, and he can almost feel the heart of the world thud along with it. Bridgette's breath goes in, out, in, out, in time with his, and far off he can imagine the other prisoners doing the same. All over the world, people and plants following the same rhythm of life.
"It'll grow," he whispers.
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Things could be worse, Bridgette constantly reminds him, and Aramuil consoles himself with this thought as best he can. So far, all he knows of the other experiments are rumors, which are definitely worse than a tiny needle puncturing his skin. None the less, a shiver of disgust snakes up his spine as he feels his own blood being drained right out of him. It's even more disconcerting to see that tiny little glass vial fill up with red. Almost distantly, he wonders why they even need his blood, and if Bridgette knows about this.
The lab he's in is foreign, large and empty. Of course, perhaps it's because Bridgette's larger than life presence is absent, but Aramuil brushes the thought off. Instead he watches as the scientists bustles about the lab, carting away his blood. This one doesn't have anywhere near the power or arrogance of the doctor, and his hair is a mousy brown instead of the desired 'perfect' blond. If his twitchy, anxious movements are anything to go by, Aramuil figures he probably gets picked on. Heh. Not even the mighty Germans are immune to internal conflict.
As the mousy scientists digs through a cupboard of who-knows-what, Aramuil enjoys the rare moment of calm. Real calm, too, not that tense 'never know when the next blow will come, calm before the storm' bullshit. While his muscles, sore from hours of lifting and scrubbing, slowly begin to relax, Aramuil daydreams.
He dreams of when he was a child, of when the Nazi Party was simply a kind of vague idea that hadn't quite formed yet. He dreams of scraped knees and vicious soccer games, tossed insults that were really some deranged form of affection. Teachers yelling Pay attention, this will be important! Kisses shared behind a house. Blue eyes.
They're precious to him, all of those dreams and memories. Precious because of the freedom he never realized was so important.
There's a world outside of the camps, too, and Aramuil dreams of that as well, even though it seems as if that will always remain just a dream. A far off dream...
He wants earth, he decides right then and there. None of this hard and dry rock, with cracks splintering like a dozen spiderwebs and filled with blood and tears. Soft earth for things to grow in, to blossom and thrive. That's what he wants. He'll build a house there, as if he were a pilgrim from back to Columbus' time. Maybe it'll be America, maybe it won't, but he'll build a house none the less. He'll force Bridgette to move in next door, and every morning they'll wake up and insult each other from their windows with as much fondness as humanly possible. He'll marry her twin brother, even though the part of him still anchored in the real world points out that Men don't marry each other, you idiot and Bridgette doesn't even have a twin brother, probably.
Those things don't matter, he figures. He still wants some one like Bridgette to fall in love with, wants a confident and mysterious smart-talking Arschloch of a man to fall in love with. On Bridgette, he can only feel fondness for such traits.
A house. A lover. A friend. A garden close to all three.
Freedom to have all these things.
The scientist's voice snaps him out of his thoughts with the proficiency of a whip, and Aramuil obediently gets to his feet. Time for more work, it seems... Yet the two of them are barely out into the hallway before a screaming reaches their ears. That kind of thing isn't uncommon in the main building, yet this is different. It's not terrified, or the kind of yell one gives when in pain. Rage and sadness flow through this screech, and Aramuil and the mousy scientist stop, surprised. Ahead of them is a crossing, and a nurse suddenly appears, backing away from the right hallway. Even from the distance he's at, Aramuil can see the tears dripping down her cheeks and the gun in her hand.
There's really nothing he can do except stare while the woman screams curses. The gruff, frantic voices of soldiers are yelling back at her, but her voice rises above all of them. "I'm sick of this!" Sick of all your twisted ******** experiments! There's no way I'll help with this anymore! You can't make me!"
"Calm down, woman!" a man's voice orders. "Just put down the gun and calm down!"
The nurse's laugh is sharp and biting. "And let you haul me away?" she snarls, a bitter smile twisting onto her lips. "To some asylum or as another prisoner in one of these damn camps!? Go to hell!" She straightens suddenly, and her legs spread apart while she jerks her chin up proudly. It almost seems as if she knows some grand secret the rest of them don't, and Aramuil is entranced by her smug smile as she raises the pistol to her head.
The world falls silent. A gunshot shatters the air, and the nurse crumples to the floor.
There are whirls of color and movement as the world bursts once more into action. Soldiers are hurrying to and fro, and the mousy scientist runs forward to try and grain some sort of control. Feelings numb, Aramuil follows, and finds himself standing before the nurse's corpse. The hole in the side of her head is grotesque, leaking blood and brain matter onto the tile floor. Her eyes, a brilliant green that belongs to spring, are still open, staring blankly at his feet, and the proud, mirthless smile refuses to leave dead lips. She's a symbol of death, now, just another corpse to add to fire and earth.
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"Some cannot handle war," is all Bridgette has to say on the matter as she does her best to patch Aramuil up. Thanks to a soldier, he now has a lovely little scab on his cheek. As Bridgette dabs at his face with ice water, stolen from experiment or another, Aramuil just frowns. The image of the dead nurse refuses to get out of his ind. He finds it hard to believe that this camp can be a part of war when it just seems like mindless torture. When Bridgette steps back, Aramuil pulls himself out of his thoughts. Curiously, he watches as her gaze rakes of his agonizingly thin body. "This is ridiculous," she snorts. "How can they believe you'll do good work without being properly fed?
"Desperation?" Aramuil offers, and finds his words being ignored by the girl.
"They're such fools, honestly. So obsessed with their little revenge. They only waste money on working you to death, and receive shoddy results in return." Uh oh. Apparently, it's rant time, now. "So obsessed with revenge, and blond hair and blue eyes-" Aramuil tunes her out, and simply returns to scrubbing the floors while Bridgette rants and puts away the wash cloth.
Right as she's winding down, Aramuil suddenly finds himself blurting out, "She was very beautiful."
Bridgette pauses, and quirks an eyebrow. "The nurse?" She flicks a finger in the direction of the pink triangle stitched onto one ragged sleeve. "I thought you were homosexual."
"I am," Aramuil says with a simple shrug. "But she was still beautiful."
He can't place a finger on the reasons for this view. It's just so abstract, it feels as if he's trying to grab at the wind. Every time he tries, however, one image always stands out clearly: the nurse standing tall and fearless, her sharp gaze electrifying even in her death. Somehow, he knows he's discovered something important.
Aramuil just can't figure out what.
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