Weird mood - Story time.
When I was fourteen I started writing stories about a bunch of soldiers in a future civil war. By the time I was nineteen it was a novel and my father had helped me turn it into an actual story (y’know, with plot and the like) instead of a handful of random melodramatic adventures.
I haven’t read it for (6? 7? 9?) many years. Since I’d mentioned it to someone I went back to read it again. It was pretty much as terrible as I’d feared it was. However, it was also a hell of a lot better too. I’d read a paragraph and scowl, then I’d read the next line and laugh in surprise because that line was actually good.
Anyway. If I wrote it now... I’m not sure I could, actually. But if I did, I’d write it differently. The violence would be less convenient, more nasty. The conversation would be less ‘witty’ and more realistic. And there’d be more description, more internal thought.
I read some fanfic with an interrogation scene. (I can’t afford books. Fanfic, for all its many *many* faults, at least is free.) My irritation at how it was written, coupled with my old stories, resulted in this. It’s not pleasant, but I’d like to think it has a certain note of realism that the fanfic (and my 14year-old stories) lacked.
You don’t think of it when you’re fine. When you’re walking through your everyday life, hurrying on some errand or other, maybe trying to remember not to hunch your shoulders so much against the weight of the bag you carry, or maybe wrapping your arms against the cold. You’re so utterly used to inhabiting your body, so sealed in to being you, that you have no idea what it’s like when it becomes a prison. How could you?
She closed her eyes. Maybe someone like Ben (don’t think that name - don’t think that name - that name does not belong here) a medic, would know. All that knowledge of anatomy, drawn out in fine ink in text books. All that hideous intimacy of patching bullet holes, re-setting shattered limbs and trying to put back peoples’ guts - like some morbid game of pass the parcel in reverse. The familiarity with such frailty, such... biological mess...
She turned her head and spat onto the floor, eyes veiled because she didn’t want to know whether it was blood or bile or a mix of the two.
The human body isn’t well designed. It doesn’t possess armour plating. There’s no poison to spray, no venom to inject, no spikes to ward off danger, no sting in the tail.
And when someone is punching you, there are so many damn places to try to protect, so many weak spots for the bastards to exploit.
Toes to stamp on until they splinter. Shins to kick until they turn black with bruises and oxidizing bone. Kneecaps - one solid strike from above or the far side will sheer the whole lump of gristle right off and then your leg’s fucked - permanently. And what of the torso?
At least you’re not male - jeezus - you don’t have to watch out for your jewels... The voice was rough in her head, growling with a slight whine at the end as it always was when Kris bitched.
She laughed, a strange gurgling and choked noise - ah fuck, that hurt. Trust him... and then she closed her eyes tighter because although he was a far cry from (don’t think his name don’t think his name) she couldn’t afford to remember that shit-head either. She continued with her list.
So. No balls - chalk one up to her. After that came stomach, kidneys, liver, intestines various. She’d never imagined she’d be able to place her internal organs by how much they hurt nor what reaction the strike produced. Punch to the stomach made her retch. Diaphragm made her choke and gasp for breath. Kidneys were agony. Then there were those lower ribs not fused to her breastbone - they snapped after two good kicks. The other ribs took between four and six depending on the force and whether the boots were steel-capped. Beyond that there was the neck. They had more sense than to kick her in the neck but they’d punched her there a few times; she’d blacked out and spent the next three days barely able to swallow.
She caught the snigger from Kris in her head and the worried and slightly horrified look from Jonathan’s miss-matched eyes. It took her a moment to tag that the boys’ minds had both veered towards the thought - unbidden or otherwise - of ‘donkeypunch’. (Andre was blank as usual, a dark skinned wraith at the back of her mind who only ever gave advice when the guards were beating her. If she got back - when she got - if she... Cat stamped down on the spiralling thread of thought, correcting it and making it a bland statement of neither hope nor despair: She’d made a note to thank him for that.) If she turned her inward gaze to (don’t think his name) the right, then she knew she’d meet the steady and green-glass glare of the one she was trying so hard to forget. In this instance she was relieved to discover he was as blank-faced as Andre.
“Fuck you,” she rasped to no one in particular. “Beatings first, rape after - they don’t have the motor skills for both at once.”
The heap of bloody rags and bones at her feet shifted and inhaled with a crooked wheeze. “Cat?” it mumbled weakly. “Wha’s goin’ on?”
With an effort she reached out her left hand - her right was still held numb and awkward up across her chest - and touched her fingers to his head, ignoring his involuntary flinch. “S’okay, s’nothin’,” she slurred. “Go sleep.”
The broken heap that had once been a soldier subsided back onto the floor.
Cat returned to her list.
Where had she got to? Ah, neck. After that - skull. The brain, CPU of the body entire, wrapped in jelly, floating in fluid, encased in skull... and one steady right hook could fuck you for days. And that was without bringing in to consideration such things as spine or face (nose, eyes -
A knife glinted silver. Harsh faces looked at her. “For the last time, Lieutenant. Where are the engineering plans for the Skysharks?”
She did not reply.
They grabbed Luke’s hair and pulled his head back. The blade came closer. He began to scream in anticipation of what was to come. He looked at her desperately calling to her that one and only time. “Cat - for the love of God!”
The knife destroyed his eyes in two swift strokes.
They dragged away the whimpering mess.
The face and bloodied blade loomed close. “Next time, that will be you....”
- jaw, ears, teeth...) Too many weak spots.
Cat let her head loll again and tried to spit, although since she lacked the stamina the gob of blood and bile dripped from her chin onto the remains of her jacket. She hated this...
The green eyes in her head were shadowed momentarily in the furrowing of brows and (don’t) the medic showed clear his confusion and disbelief.
She smiled, although no one who saw the expression would have termed it as such.
It’s simple, she explained, looking at Andre because he was neither her Captain nor her lover and therefore easier to bear. When they beat you, it’s not frightening. It hurts - of course it fucking hurts - hurts like dear god you can’t imagine. But it’s immediate, y’know? In the moment. All that’s in your head is - ow, ow, fuck, argh, curl up, protect yourself, ow, fuck, kebb, fuck, please stop please god stop...
A second smile, worse than the first distorted her lips.
It’s next morning, she explained to Kris - to Jonathan - to Andre - and to her green eyed (Captain - lover) Medic she refused to name. Next morning when you still can’t breathe. When your arm’s still numb. When - she spat - when you’re pissing blood and it feels like something inside is torn and every time you swallow you want to retch and you can’t stop gobbing up something you’re pretty sure is bile... That’s worse, she told them all. That’s worse because you’re still alive and you want to live and...
The green eyes in her head showed a pity she couldn’t stand, glazed bright, and then closed in pain.
She uttered a bleak strangled bark of laughter, salt and heat burning her eyes. “An’ we don’t always get what we want. Yeah.” And she turned her head to the wall and tried to sleep.
I haven’t read it for (6? 7? 9?) many years. Since I’d mentioned it to someone I went back to read it again. It was pretty much as terrible as I’d feared it was. However, it was also a hell of a lot better too. I’d read a paragraph and scowl, then I’d read the next line and laugh in surprise because that line was actually good.
Anyway. If I wrote it now... I’m not sure I could, actually. But if I did, I’d write it differently. The violence would be less convenient, more nasty. The conversation would be less ‘witty’ and more realistic. And there’d be more description, more internal thought.
I read some fanfic with an interrogation scene. (I can’t afford books. Fanfic, for all its many *many* faults, at least is free.) My irritation at how it was written, coupled with my old stories, resulted in this. It’s not pleasant, but I’d like to think it has a certain note of realism that the fanfic (and my 14year-old stories) lacked.
You don’t think of it when you’re fine. When you’re walking through your everyday life, hurrying on some errand or other, maybe trying to remember not to hunch your shoulders so much against the weight of the bag you carry, or maybe wrapping your arms against the cold. You’re so utterly used to inhabiting your body, so sealed in to being you, that you have no idea what it’s like when it becomes a prison. How could you?
She closed her eyes. Maybe someone like Ben (don’t think that name - don’t think that name - that name does not belong here) a medic, would know. All that knowledge of anatomy, drawn out in fine ink in text books. All that hideous intimacy of patching bullet holes, re-setting shattered limbs and trying to put back peoples’ guts - like some morbid game of pass the parcel in reverse. The familiarity with such frailty, such... biological mess...
She turned her head and spat onto the floor, eyes veiled because she didn’t want to know whether it was blood or bile or a mix of the two.
The human body isn’t well designed. It doesn’t possess armour plating. There’s no poison to spray, no venom to inject, no spikes to ward off danger, no sting in the tail.
And when someone is punching you, there are so many damn places to try to protect, so many weak spots for the bastards to exploit.
Toes to stamp on until they splinter. Shins to kick until they turn black with bruises and oxidizing bone. Kneecaps - one solid strike from above or the far side will sheer the whole lump of gristle right off and then your leg’s fucked - permanently. And what of the torso?
At least you’re not male - jeezus - you don’t have to watch out for your jewels... The voice was rough in her head, growling with a slight whine at the end as it always was when Kris bitched.
She laughed, a strange gurgling and choked noise - ah fuck, that hurt. Trust him... and then she closed her eyes tighter because although he was a far cry from (don’t think his name don’t think his name) she couldn’t afford to remember that shit-head either. She continued with her list.
So. No balls - chalk one up to her. After that came stomach, kidneys, liver, intestines various. She’d never imagined she’d be able to place her internal organs by how much they hurt nor what reaction the strike produced. Punch to the stomach made her retch. Diaphragm made her choke and gasp for breath. Kidneys were agony. Then there were those lower ribs not fused to her breastbone - they snapped after two good kicks. The other ribs took between four and six depending on the force and whether the boots were steel-capped. Beyond that there was the neck. They had more sense than to kick her in the neck but they’d punched her there a few times; she’d blacked out and spent the next three days barely able to swallow.
She caught the snigger from Kris in her head and the worried and slightly horrified look from Jonathan’s miss-matched eyes. It took her a moment to tag that the boys’ minds had both veered towards the thought - unbidden or otherwise - of ‘donkeypunch’. (Andre was blank as usual, a dark skinned wraith at the back of her mind who only ever gave advice when the guards were beating her. If she got back - when she got - if she... Cat stamped down on the spiralling thread of thought, correcting it and making it a bland statement of neither hope nor despair: She’d made a note to thank him for that.) If she turned her inward gaze to (don’t think his name) the right, then she knew she’d meet the steady and green-glass glare of the one she was trying so hard to forget. In this instance she was relieved to discover he was as blank-faced as Andre.
“Fuck you,” she rasped to no one in particular. “Beatings first, rape after - they don’t have the motor skills for both at once.”
The heap of bloody rags and bones at her feet shifted and inhaled with a crooked wheeze. “Cat?” it mumbled weakly. “Wha’s goin’ on?”
With an effort she reached out her left hand - her right was still held numb and awkward up across her chest - and touched her fingers to his head, ignoring his involuntary flinch. “S’okay, s’nothin’,” she slurred. “Go sleep.”
The broken heap that had once been a soldier subsided back onto the floor.
Cat returned to her list.
Where had she got to? Ah, neck. After that - skull. The brain, CPU of the body entire, wrapped in jelly, floating in fluid, encased in skull... and one steady right hook could fuck you for days. And that was without bringing in to consideration such things as spine or face (nose, eyes -
A knife glinted silver. Harsh faces looked at her. “For the last time, Lieutenant. Where are the engineering plans for the Skysharks?”
She did not reply.
They grabbed Luke’s hair and pulled his head back. The blade came closer. He began to scream in anticipation of what was to come. He looked at her desperately calling to her that one and only time. “Cat - for the love of God!”
The knife destroyed his eyes in two swift strokes.
They dragged away the whimpering mess.
The face and bloodied blade loomed close. “Next time, that will be you....”
- jaw, ears, teeth...) Too many weak spots.
Cat let her head loll again and tried to spit, although since she lacked the stamina the gob of blood and bile dripped from her chin onto the remains of her jacket. She hated this...
The green eyes in her head were shadowed momentarily in the furrowing of brows and (don’t) the medic showed clear his confusion and disbelief.
She smiled, although no one who saw the expression would have termed it as such.
It’s simple, she explained, looking at Andre because he was neither her Captain nor her lover and therefore easier to bear. When they beat you, it’s not frightening. It hurts - of course it fucking hurts - hurts like dear god you can’t imagine. But it’s immediate, y’know? In the moment. All that’s in your head is - ow, ow, fuck, argh, curl up, protect yourself, ow, fuck, kebb, fuck, please stop please god stop...
A second smile, worse than the first distorted her lips.
It’s next morning, she explained to Kris - to Jonathan - to Andre - and to her green eyed (Captain - lover) Medic she refused to name. Next morning when you still can’t breathe. When your arm’s still numb. When - she spat - when you’re pissing blood and it feels like something inside is torn and every time you swallow you want to retch and you can’t stop gobbing up something you’re pretty sure is bile... That’s worse, she told them all. That’s worse because you’re still alive and you want to live and...
The green eyes in her head showed a pity she couldn’t stand, glazed bright, and then closed in pain.
She uttered a bleak strangled bark of laughter, salt and heat burning her eyes. “An’ we don’t always get what we want. Yeah.” And she turned her head to the wall and tried to sleep.