1 Name: f_mirage : 2008-05-05 20:10 [Del]
This is an experiment in writing for me, I would love for you to criticize it though, so I can make it even better. The theme is the Holocaust and World War II.
---- Prologue: Part 1 ----
Darkness… Nothing but darkness… Darkness so thick it hangs as oppressing bedding down upon the occupant… A world so cold that even the tendrils of warmth that beat from the still pulsating core of the occupant are swallowed and squelched into nothingness… Blindness… It as though blindness is the only fruit brought to the lips of the maiden entwined in its silky branches… Thoughts, the only medium that can fill the dreary void of this uneventful place without time, float endlessly by, sometimes in random absorption, sometimes clearing a place of their own.
“Quiet… there is no sound…or light… but there is the walls… and a top and bottom… six in total… I can feel… its rough, like sandpaper but stretched farther… so, so hard… and cold…and there’s me, but… who…am… I?”
And innumerable variants fill the head of the poor soul at the base of that container of wood, bent inward from the pressure of carelessly stacked other similar containers, held together by cheap rods of metal, minuscule in size and tapered to a point, some of the nails even penetrating the barked chamber as to poke and prod at the pitiful female form huddled together, her vestiges of sanity perhaps not yet gone, but alas hidden for all to see, in the void that enveloped her like a cold blanket of icy snow; she drowned beneath it.
---- Prologue: Part 2 ----
The dull buzz of an electric lamp filled the small room, furnished with simple metal furniture and of the utmost simplicity, with walls of wood painted in a single dark hue of green, covered at one end by an elongated pentagonal flag, a rectangle tapered to a point, that had embossed on its fabric, held circumscribed in a white bounded red circle, held in the deepest of blacks, that seemed indeed, to fit the mood of the sweetly falling snow outside, the blazing swastika of Nazi Germany.
A man sat in a desk nearby, possibly even duller than the room itself; his whole body seemed to absorb any action the environment had to offer and seal itself up inside his cold, denatured eyes that spoke of nothing at all. His face was distinctly chiseled in a rather hardened state, which, along with his formidable, curled mustache, implied an air of antiquity. A final touch to his face was brought by dark glasses, elongated square in frame, and tinted in a slight orange color.
The door to the building, wooden and without decoration of any kind, swung open on its hinges, nearly shattering its thin bonds to the fragile walls of this temporary structure, and the winds of the cold alps blasted into the room, chilling the floor, the walls, the chairs, the pictures, even bearing down on the small heat ejected by that singular lamp, but never, touching that individual across the way in the desk.
“Captain! We’ve gotten the reports from Division 22, I just received it on secure telegraph!” shouted the man who invaded the quiet room, his voice booming and grating against the walls with great fury, while he rushed into the cabin with extreme haste, as if his words carried more importance than the items he brought, his very words!
Whilst this intruder spoke with little to his monotonic voice, he was given a sharp retort from a heavily German voice, which spoke with brevity and a sense of finality.
“Guten Abend” he practically spat the words out, “do you think it is funny, my soldier, to interrupt the quiet night of a higher officer… or I am guessing you have actual results with you today…” the sultry, old man completed, his vocal tone becoming a crescendo from irritation to something cynical, and finally, interest.
Knowing the hidden signal, his charge retreated into the ghostly cold and returned heaving a large wooden crate, much worn from the snow and elements, however still intact and viable surely. Its contents had suffered some settling during this small trip, and they bounced around with audible results, inciting an even greater response from the Captain.
“Ja! Bring it here! I must see for myself…” His voice had now surprassed mere curiosity as he literally forced the box from his guest’s hands, quickly barring the door to its closed position, and heaving the container’s lid open with a crowbar of appropriate size found in wrought iron nearby, and clearing away the sticks of hay and packaging that surrounded his desire.
The more timid of the two, the lower soldier, had initially stood back, not fully understanding the contents of the crate, knowing only of the rumors, that, though they pervaded all ranks, were only rumors, was now in full force peering over the edge of the box.
“Darf ich…?” He spoke without really thinking of its meaning, both of them now veining for the best spot to see, yet not without destroying the light that indeed showed them what it was they wished to see.
Underneath the straw packaging of the sizable wooden cube, there lay what at first appeared a mannequin’s limb, similar to those used for target practice by the common privates, yet its flesh was silky sweet, so wonderful that it nearly drew the eye to press up against it, perfectly formed and well fed, the contours of the skin clearly visible, even the organs beneath bulged and pressed against their envelope, as if they wanted to escape their own host, not at all the starved bony variety found in the regular camps, no, this was bred especially plump and delicious for this. As the grizzled senior officer lifted it to the sky and squeezed it in his cruel grip, from its only partially coagulated edge, poured forth a torrent of sticky, scarlet red blood.
‘Twas only the beginning, of course, of such horrors that were found within this box. As he moved the arm over to the side, he plucked from it the remaining limbs; very soon, the legs and arms rested calmly on his table, devoid of life, but still warm.
The man let loose a howling laugh that shook the snow outside the building so that it fell upon the ground with resounding plops, similar to the sounds made as they toyed and squeezed the severed human parts before them, thinking almost of them as little toys, manipulating the fingers into strange shapes, breaking the bones inside, sometimes even chewing on them, but by and by the strangest sight there, was the simple color of their clothing as they neared the end of their fun.
Soaked in a red that would never leave their bodies, they had drained and juiced these items of all of their worldly contents, letting it spill across themselves in little rivers and tasty torrents of crimson. Capillaries of it now joined most of these tributaries so the two appeared to have swum in blood. The old man, who was at once duller than the oldest piece of rotten bank ledgers, was now giddy as a man in his prime, his eyes blazing inhuman lust forth, the drunkenness of blood turned rancor shining most strongly, outperforming even the brilliance of the lamp that gave them license to see such things.
And yet onward they still played, throughout the night they tossed them back and forth, admiring and twisting the skins and tearing apart the muscles beneath, even holding little games to see who could keep their piece warm the longest, until at last, they had grown tired of their little abominable game, and they sat with each other upon the couch there, their clothes still in the dark red of the coagulated fluids, some of it dry, some of it not, and laughed darkly into the building, a bloodcurdling cruel laugh, as they toasted to Division 22, that honorable, so wonderful place that would supply them with such supple young female flesh, to toy with as they see fit; an activity fit for the finest, and such good use were those pathetic Jews to begin with, as their thoughts drifted to more horrific and terrible things they could perform with their severed articles, the sun sunk lower and lower, and finally, died beneath the cold, blood soaked snowy mountains.
