Memories of the Broken
Chapter 2
Apple Seeds
Stop looking. Stop looking.
It's not past lunch, yet, so there's not even a single crumb of bread in Aramuil's stomach. Is this good, or bad? No food means he can't throw up. No food means nothing will spill out of his mouth and onto newly scrubbed laboratory floors and delicate equipment. Besides, he really doesn't have to throw up. He doesn't. Hasn't he seen all this before? The mutilated bodies they shovel daily into holes and furnaces have to come from somewhere.
There's no reason to be shaking he tries to tell his body, even as his fingers start to scream in pain from how tightly he's gripping the cold metal tray. There's no reason to be feeling this sick, you've seen it all before. Despite such thoughts, bile stings at the back of his throat and raises chaos in his stomach.
For the love of God, at least close your damned eyes!
It's impossible, however. Aramuil's eyes are glued to the procedure taking place not more than a meter before him. The screams are ringing in his skull, carving this event into his mind. The table he's staring at is of cold, cruel metal, its surface now stained with blood. Two figures are bound to it, hands and feet locked while their torn bodies are twisting in pain. Maybe it would be easier to accept this monstrosity of an experiment if only he had an answer. However, questions are never allowed, and Aramuil isn't quite sure if he can speak anyway.
The doctor is plagued by no such problems. It's impossible to ignore that wretched screaming, yet, somehow, he accomplishes such a feat. Only the annoyed flicker of his venomous green eyes reveals that he knows they exist. Chills go right down to Aramuil's very bones at the cold, distant way Doctor Vogel suddenly snaps, "Silence, you two." As if they're annoying little mutts. "And boy, keep that tray steady."
It isn't? Aramuil thinks numbly, and, by some miracle, manages to rip his gaze away from the twins. True enough, the syringes and scalpels are rattling against each other, creating Siamese triplet mirages in their quivering. Weakly, he tries to force himself to stop, to keep steady. It's no use, however. If anything, the shaking only becomes worse. Doctor Vogel gives a sneer and a muttered insult, but Aramuil barely notices. His stomach twists painfully as one of the twins sobs for his mother, his god, anyone at all- That's right at the moment Aramuil glances up, right into wide, despairing brown eyes. He jerks back in surprise, and the crash of the tray onto the floor drowns out the thundering of his heart. There's no time to panic over his clumsiness before a hand smashes into the side of his face. Quicker than a bag of rocks, he drops to the floor and tries to curl up in vain as kicks rain upon his side.
"Clumsy idiot! Fool! Tch, such a useless-"
Eventually, Aramuil finds himself curled in the corner, hands over his ears as he tries to block out the screaming. It's a futile effort, right up there with trying to forget the pure agony in that little boy's eyes.
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"You look like s**t," is perhaps not the kindest or politest of ways to inform a person they're ill. However, Bridgette has never been the kindest of people and polite only when she can't find an immediate insult. Aramuil can almost find it funny, but he can't find it in him to laugh. He only stares at her with a blank gaze, hand still limply holding onto the cleaning toothbrush he's been using to scrub the floor. "Do I?" he asks, voice raspy, dry, even though he knows it's true.
Bridgette's eyes narrow dangerously, and Aramuil can almost feel that dissecting gaze probe and prod at his body. Mirrors aren't exactly provided, so he's only able to guess at what she sees. Starvation is a uniform among the prisoners, and he knows he would be a nameless face among such a crowd with his bone arms and conclave stomach. She can't be deciphering something from such things like those, can she? From his appearance alone? Perhaps his actions are to blame, somehow, because Bridgette suddenly stomps over to him. Her own fingers can wrap around his arm with room to spare, he notices for no reason at all before Bridgette suddenly states, "You haven't been sleeping." He is barely able to utter more than a syllable before she cuts in. "And you haven't been drinking, either. This can't all be for that seed. Tell me what's wrong."
Most friends would state that as a pleading question. From Bridgette, it's an order.
Anger bubbles up inside his chest, burning away the numbness which had grayed his heart. He tries to jerk away, head turned petulantly. "There's nothing wrong," he insists. "Let go!"
"Not until you-!"
The words are cut off with a gasp and a harsh smack. Time seems to slow down as Aramuil catches his breath. His mind almost can't process the image of Bridgette hunched over, or the stinging in his bruised hand. Before he can stop himself, he hisses savagely, "Nothing is wrong! Nothing! I'm fine, I'm not going insane, I can eat if I want to! I just don't!" Feeling just about ready to collapse, he continues to rant while his fingers tear through what little hair they let him have. "I don't want to, because every time I try, I think of those damn kids! I think of the pus and blood oozing out of them, and they scream in my head whenever I close my eyes! It won't ******** stop and I-! I... Oh s**t." His words finally slip to a halt, and Aramuil stares with wide eyes at Bridgette. Blood is leaking over one lip, and she's staring blankly at a pink-speckled bit of white that lies in her palm. Suddenly apologetic, he stumbles over to her, an apology tripping over his teeth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
Her fingers curl over the tooth and then, without warning, Bridgette's fist slams into his jaw. For such a thin girl, it's quite a punch, although it's more surprise than anything that makes Aramuil trip onto the ground. Unable to do much but gape, he stares up at Bridgette's angry face. "Is that all!?" she snaps. "Get over it, Aramuil!" A stomp of her foot accompanies the words. It's just such an odd sight; the loosely-hinged part of him wants to laugh. Every other part, however, feels insulted, and Aramuil snaps his mouth open to defend himself. How dare she-!
Bridgette refuses to give him a chance. Apparently, she still has plenty more to say, if the kick to his still-bruises side is any indication. Whatever words he would have said is replaced by a sharp yelp, and Aramuil scrambles back as Bridgette continues her tirade. "Yes, the experiments are terrible. You've seen the corpses! You know that already. You've seen a nurse commit suicide because of these experiments. Are you going to do the same thing? Are you going to steal a gun and put it to your skull?" Her body stands tall and stiff, now, with her hands curled into fists and her eyes burning in barely restrained fury. "The plant will die, then, withered and worthless!"
Silence falls over them, and now Bridgette is longer glaring at him, but somewhere above his left ear. Finally, Aramuil's sigh breaks the quiet, and he pushes himself up onto his feet while rubbing his aching jaw. "Bridgette," he says slowly, "you're a crazy b***h." Even as the words leave his mouth, his usual tired but determined smile is returning. It's more the a little broken, but it's there nonetheless.
Her eyes catch this, and Bridgette snorts, jerking her head to the side and crossing her arms. "Don't expect me to steal any drugs the next time you have a mental breakdown. Tch, you act like such a woman. No wonder you're gay."
Aramuil just grins at this and gives a raspy little laugh that scrapes through his throat. An idea suddenly lights up inside his brain and he pauses. "Ah... Does that mean you'd steal drugs for a different occasion, then?"
Curiosity replaces irritation as Bridgette turns to him, an eyebrow quirked.
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With an uncanny kind of grace he's never felt before, Aramuil slips through the shadows of the bunker. All those days of trotting on hard earth and freezing tile with no shoes turns out to be an advantage, for his bare feet make not a sound. Every nerve in his body is twitchy and trying so hard to pick up the sounds of a Nazi's gun adjusting or hard shoes on the ground. It's such a relief (although it shouldn't be) to hear quiet sobbing in the back of the bunker, even when he knows he's not in the clear yet.
There's almost no light to guide him, so Aramuil must go slowly with feather-light touches on the metal beds guiding him. The restrained sobs become closer and closer... Finally, they're right in front of him. Aramuil squints his eyes, barely able to see the shapes in the gloom, and carefully kneels down. The smell of blood and sickness creeps up his nose, and he's momentarily thankful that he can't see. At least he knows he's at the right place.
"Hey," he whispers, and instantly one of the sobbing people stifles themselves. A woman's voice flutters through the darkness, trying to hush the crying twins. "No, no, it's alright," he reassures her, and reaches out to lay his hand on what he hopes is her arm. Hesitantly, a pair of dirt-covered, rough hands slides up his stick of an arm. They roll over the boney ball that is his shoulder, and up his neck. Perhaps the hollowness of his cheeks reassures her that he's not a Nazi, that he won't punish her. Her rough hands fall away, only for Aramuil to grab a hold of one sharp wrist. Quickly, he presses some pills into her palm and then closes her fingers over them. They've been hidden in his shirt all day, waiting for this chance. "If you want to end your children's pain, then feed them these." Aramuil pauses before he finally decides he has to be sure... Feeling tense, he quickly reaches down. The tips of his fingers first find dirty rough skin not too different to his own before they are wet with pus and blood. Aramuil's stomach twists in nausea as he feels the stitches and he quickly pulls away. Not hearing the mother's words, he gets onto his feet and tries to wipe the blood onto his sleeves while fighting back the urge to vomit. Off in the distance, some one coughs, and Aramuil jumps in nervousness. Then, like an assassin, he slips back into the darkness, back to his own uncomfortable bed where hopefully no nightmares will wait for him.
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Stars and lights burst behind his eyes and Aramuil cries out in pain at the agonizing burning sensation in his arm. It feels as though some one's stuck a red-hot blade right into his very bone. Despite the fact that he knows fighting back will only make the situation worse, Aramuil none the less tries to scramble away from the wall he was thrown at. It's no use; Doctor Vogel's hand latches onto his shirt, and drags him forward. "You little b*****d!" the scientists creams, his spit flying onto Aramuil's face. "Do you know what you've cost me!? I know it was you who stole those pills, don't try to deny it!"
Aramuil isn't even bothering to try, probably because of the pain in his arm and the war drum in his head. Perhaps his worst mistake, however, is the bitter glare he sends at the vicious, enraged doctor. The next thin he knows, he's thrown into a metal table which crashes to the ground. A gasp flutters out of his throat and for a moment, Aramuil can only lay there, head whirling while something drips out from his other arm. Freezing metal digs into his back and through the painful haze, he can hear the doctor still yelling at him.
"They were the perfect specimens! Now! Now, they are dead!" Harsh kicks begin to rain down on him, and Aramuil weakly curls up. "The experiment is ruined-"
"The experiment was a failure in the first place," Bridgette cuts in, the emotion in her voice unrecognizable. The doctor, however, just ignores her.
"The mother was in tears, did you know that, you little murderer?" Aramuil only gurgles in response, his vision fading while the doctor's voice beings to fall into static. As if form a great distance, he hears Bridgette's voice.
"Doctor! Doctor, stop, stop! His arm is broken; he's bleeding onto the floor! Doctor-"
Then everything disappears into darkness and white noise.
-----------
The pillow underneath his head is hard, but welcoming and warm. With a deep sigh that sounds more like a gasp, Aramuil struggles to open his eyes. The room he's in is dark, but not completely black. Hunched over him is Bridgette, and a large bruise has blossomed on one side of her face. Aramuil's mind trudges slowly through his thoughts, and it takes him a while to notice the sling which holds one arm and the bandage wrapped tight over the other. It takes even longer, for some inane reason, to realize that the pillow is not a pillow but Bridgette's lap. He tries to draw up memories of what happened, yet only disconnected feelings and pain bubble up. He groans lightly as a heavy headache begins anew inside his skull, and Bridgette's eyes flicker open.
By now, he really should know better than to expect any sympathy from her. Bridgette's eyes darken and she jabs a finger into his chest. "You idiot!" she hisses. "Why I went along with such a ridiculous scheme, I'll never know! For one who claims he'll survive, you seem abnormally suicidal!" Aramuil simply closes his eyes and let's her angry words wash over him. The camps must really have driven him crazy if he finds this sort of verbal abuse comforting. "I refuse to listen to any of your requests from now on. In fact, the next time you ask for something, I'll shove some of those pills down your throat. Are you smiling!?"
"I have no idea why you'd think that," he rasps, grinning feebly. He opens his eyes and reaches up to run the back of his fingers over one of her cheeks. "You know, I've never seen you this worried before. Why, Bridgette, are you falling in love with me?"
Bridgette smacks his hand away with an incredulous snort. "I make it a point not to fall for fools. Now go back to sleep."
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Prisoners are not allowed to rest, even if they're injured. Hell, especially if they're injured. His cleaning duties are increased by triple of what they were, and Aramuil feels himself getting weaker by the day. The cut he has on one arm is a simple thing for Bridgette to take care of. It's his broken arm that causes him misery. It's next to worthless and that damn doctor refuses to let Bridgette do anything other than a simple splint. b*****d.
The grating sound of the brush against the floor stops, and Aramuil straightens with a wince. Blood cakes the bristles of the brush and the skin on his hand. It's his own blood, to boot, rubbing more salt in the wound, so to speak. A dribble of sweat slips down his neck, and shaking fingers set the brush down. For a brief second, the world seems to tilt, and Aramuil squeezes his eyes shut with a curse. s**t. Damn. Of all the times for Vogel to drag Bridgette off to some whatever-the-hell meeting... Even with his eyes closed, it feels as if some one is continuously whipping the very floor out from underneath him. Lacking any elegance, he leans back and falls flat on his a** with his legs spread and bent. A sour taste is in the back of his throat and he quickly places his head between his legs. That's... That's what Bridgette said to do if he's nauseous, right? Aramuil closes his eyes again and tries to curse the ill-feeling away.
Suddenly, the door clicks open, yet Aramuil can't even move to pretend that he's still working. With a sinking feeling, he waits for the inevitable...
An awkward silence ensues before a voice speaks up, timid and hesitant. "Excuse me, but I have some coffee for Doctor Vogel...” Confused, Aramuil raises his head and makes out the short, chubby form of a nurse. True to her word, she's holding a tray with a steaming cup of coffee on it. "Is he out?" When Aramuil gives a dull nod, she bites her lip nervously. "Oh. I see. Well, I'll just leave this here, then." She quickly trots over to the recently sterilized metal table and leaves the tray there. Aramuil completely expects her to leave right then and there, but, oddly enough, she doesn't. Instead, she glances around nervously before she scurries over to him. He barely has time to blink before an apple is shoved into his hand. Bewildered, Aramuil watches as the chubby nurse darts out of the room. As the door snaps shut once more, Aramuil's gaze slowly switches to the apple. Finally, he asks it, "What the hell?"
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"Oh, that would be Hannah, then."
"Really," Aramuil replies noncommittally as he sits, cross-legged on Bridgette's bed. The girl's influence with the soldiers and scientists here never ceases to surprise him. Instead of bunking with the two dozen (ore more undoubtedly) other prisoners, she's somehow managed to relocate him to her room. Well, to be honest, it's not so much her room, since it's shared by a dozen other younger girls. It's perhaps the only time so far that the pink triangle on his sleeve has brought something good. Aramuil has a feeling that if he was straight, he'd still be on a freezing metal shelf than a rather lumpy, uncomfortable mattress that's falling apart at the seams.
Across from him is Bridgette, whose body mimics his own in the way she sits. "She probably has an infatuation with you," Bridgette comments lightly. "In fact, many of the nurses here almost pity you. Did you know that?"
The apple spins through the air, a dark sphere in the dim room, before it lands once more in Aramuil's open palm. "I'm gay," he replies with the same light tone as her. The comment about pity is pointedly ignored. "Hasn't that shot down her hopes yet?"
"Clearly not, if that apple is anything to go by." Her eyes follow its ascent before she gives an aggravated sigh. "In most cultures, fruit is eaten," she points out as the apple plops into his hand again, "not toyed with."
Aramuil pauses and his gaze flickers over to her. Without hesitation, he holds it out to Bridgette. "Do you want to share?"
Again, she only glares at him. "You're the sick one," Bridgette says simply. "You need the food more than I do. Don't be an imbecile."
"I feel fine," he insists, even though his skin feels as though it's been dipped in ice water. "Besides, you're the one who keeps me alive here. If not for you, I'd be ashes by now."
"You wouldn't need my help if you weren't so stupid and stubborn," she counters, although her voice lacks its usual bite. "Fine, I'll take your apple." The fruit changes hands constantly over the night as they tear into it, and when it's finally nothing more than the core, they hide it away under the bed. That's not the end of it, however- with an impish smile, Aramuil digs the seeds out from their little cell.
Bridgette will be sure to murder him when she discovers the new sprouts.
-----------
"What's-unf-gotten up their-ow-a**?" Aramuil pauses, taking in a deep breath as he wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm. Exhaustion and sickness are taking their toll on his already weak body, and he's not sure for how much longer he'll last. Who knows how long he's been struggling to survive, and now...
"I overhead them last night," Bridgette informs him, sweat dripping down her own neck as they shovel more paperwork into the incinerator. Rarely is she called to do physical grunt work, so Aramuil takes this as a sign that all hell's about to break loose. "Supposedly, the United Nations' troops are getting closer by the hour."
"United Nations?" Aramuil echoes, blinking as the world splits into two for a brief second.
"America, Britain, Russia, you know," Bridgette explains patiently. Even as she heaves more papers to be destroyed, her eyes watch Aramuil sharply. Completely disregarding the subject at hand, she demands, "You haven't been sleeping again, have you?"
"We share the same room," Aramuil says, closing his eyes. He feels his body sway from side to side, and can't be sure if it's real or an illusion. "Wouldn't you know, Brid?" However, she's hit the nail right on the head. With the sickness come the nightmares. They're not just memories, now, but twisted dreams which keep him up in a cold sweat.
Avoiding the question, however, just makes it worse. Bridgette gives a frustrated growl and stomps her foot. "It's easy to fake sleep. However, the bags underneath your eyes- Aramuil?" Her voice changes from sharp to gentle in record time. "Aramuil, what's wrong?"
Why is she asking that? His eyes open to a spinning world of blurs that flips his stomach. He takes a stumble back while his hand goes up to his head. "Bri-" he starts, and his voice sounds much too loud for his own ears. "I...I don't..."
In an instant, he feels Bridgette's fingers wrap around his arm and then he's being tugged outside. All the while, she hisses curses under her breath. Aramuil can barely pay it much mind and merely let's his eyes slide shut. When he opens them a second later, the two of them are outside, and he's facing the sky. The air feels cool, good, and he closes his eyes with a sigh. Disconnectedly, he is aware that here are still papers in one of his hands and that Bridgette’s fingers are running themselves through his hair.
That action. He knows that action. It's the same, rare, repeating action the girl always does when she's nervous. But what could get her so worked up? Aramuil forces his eyes to open again, and absently notices that the sky has turned from bloody evening to secretive night. Above him, Bridgette is as tense as a rabbit. Her eyes are focused elsewhere, and Aramuil would ask why. The only thing that obstructs him is the fact that his voice seems to have mysteriously vanished. All he can do is listen as Bridgette whispers to herself, unaware of his awakening.
"They weren't supposed to have gotten here so quickly... Maybe the reports were flawed? Tch, they can't even do the reports properly, those-
Her words flicker and fade to static once more, and his eyelids can no longer stay open. Consciousness is elusive, taking away all of time's meanings. Decades could pass, and Aramuil figures he'd never realize...
Save for the cool flesh of the sprout that presses against his hand.
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