[ immortal verse 00? ]: learn to live again
Warning: Graphic descriptions of Holocaust related subject matter. If that makes anyone uncomfortable then this log should be skipped/not read.
He couldn't even remember the beating itself that had led to his father laying here, lifeless on his bed. Even while he had been right underneath it while it happened. He had been told, that no matter what, he should stay hidden and silent, stay safe. And he had.
Now he couldn't even make out his father's face; it had beaten so hard it had caved in, leaving blood, flesh, and bone in a distorted, unrecognizable, seeping mass, the upper part of the mattress soaked in dark red.
Arthur could tell by his hands, though. Even as they were so thin - and yet still so heavy in his small hands - he could still recognize them. He held them for a long time, watching his father's chest for any indication of a rise, not wanting to look at his face again. (Or at least where one was suppose to be.)
The rest of the camp around him had grown quiet. So very quiet. There had been sirens and frantic yelling by the Germans and other loud noises Arthur couldn't recognize, but he stayed under the bed, arms over his head, eyes squeezed shut, willing himself to not move or make a sound.
When it had gone quiet, he wasn't exactly sure. He had opened his eyes again and just noticed it. Then, hearing a few of the other prisoners still in the barracks with him shifting slightly in their hiding places (three other children like himself -- extremely rare in the camps) and others coughing, too sick to move from their beds, Arthur finally moved out from under the bed. As he got to his feet, he coughed, trying to work his voice after not using it for nearly two days. He had called out to his "papa", looked closely at his face before jerking back, realizing what had happened.
He didn't cry, though. He grabbed his father's nearest hand and hugged it to his chest as he trembled, eyes staring at his chest, expectant, but after so long... Arthur gently set the hand back down to the bed, small hands covering one he knew so well.
Tiny fingers now softly tapped along the knuckles, pretending to play piano like his papa like he had so many times before and it had made his father smile so.
He'd never get to see that smile again. Nor his mother's. She had died on the train to this camp.
It was the cool gust of wind from the outside that sent him moving towards the doorway. It... had been so long since he'd felt wind like that. It looked so bright... The sky was blue...
He slowly limped his way to the door, feeling numb inside while his injured leg (cut it open after trying to get under his father's bed too quickly two days ago; his father had tried to clean and wrap it as best he could) throbbed every time that foot hit the ground.
Arthur wanted to go outside. He wanted to see why it was so quiet. He wasn't too afraid to. Not anymore. He didn't feel anything at that moment.
Upon reaching the doorway, he had to shield his eyes from the sun, the light far too bright. He was so used to hiding in dark places that to breathe in the air deeply and step out into the sunlight... He was shaking again.
But he took that first step out. And then the other. And then the other.
Never had he felt so small - and alone - than at that moment in that seemingly barren camp.
What was he going to do now?
He couldn't even remember the beating itself that had led to his father laying here, lifeless on his bed. Even while he had been right underneath it while it happened. He had been told, that no matter what, he should stay hidden and silent, stay safe. And he had.
Now he couldn't even make out his father's face; it had beaten so hard it had caved in, leaving blood, flesh, and bone in a distorted, unrecognizable, seeping mass, the upper part of the mattress soaked in dark red.
Arthur could tell by his hands, though. Even as they were so thin - and yet still so heavy in his small hands - he could still recognize them. He held them for a long time, watching his father's chest for any indication of a rise, not wanting to look at his face again. (Or at least where one was suppose to be.)
The rest of the camp around him had grown quiet. So very quiet. There had been sirens and frantic yelling by the Germans and other loud noises Arthur couldn't recognize, but he stayed under the bed, arms over his head, eyes squeezed shut, willing himself to not move or make a sound.
When it had gone quiet, he wasn't exactly sure. He had opened his eyes again and just noticed it. Then, hearing a few of the other prisoners still in the barracks with him shifting slightly in their hiding places (three other children like himself -- extremely rare in the camps) and others coughing, too sick to move from their beds, Arthur finally moved out from under the bed. As he got to his feet, he coughed, trying to work his voice after not using it for nearly two days. He had called out to his "papa", looked closely at his face before jerking back, realizing what had happened.
He didn't cry, though. He grabbed his father's nearest hand and hugged it to his chest as he trembled, eyes staring at his chest, expectant, but after so long... Arthur gently set the hand back down to the bed, small hands covering one he knew so well.
Tiny fingers now softly tapped along the knuckles, pretending to play piano like his papa like he had so many times before and it had made his father smile so.
He'd never get to see that smile again. Nor his mother's. She had died on the train to this camp.
It was the cool gust of wind from the outside that sent him moving towards the doorway. It... had been so long since he'd felt wind like that. It looked so bright... The sky was blue...
He slowly limped his way to the door, feeling numb inside while his injured leg (cut it open after trying to get under his father's bed too quickly two days ago; his father had tried to clean and wrap it as best he could) throbbed every time that foot hit the ground.
Arthur wanted to go outside. He wanted to see why it was so quiet. He wasn't too afraid to. Not anymore. He didn't feel anything at that moment.
Upon reaching the doorway, he had to shield his eyes from the sun, the light far too bright. He was so used to hiding in dark places that to breathe in the air deeply and step out into the sunlight... He was shaking again.
But he took that first step out. And then the other. And then the other.
Never had he felt so small - and alone - than at that moment in that seemingly barren camp.
What was he going to do now?