The Condemned | ✔️

1

To Frank, each tear he shed was a waterfall.

Each droplet that cascaded from his bloodshot eyes evolved from a rivulet to a roaring tide that flowed down his cheeks and splattered onto the grimy floor.

But no amount of fluid that escaped could cleanse him from the horrors he was immersed in.

Instead, they just drowned him.

The day had started with a sense of rising euphoria. Everyone claimed the War was coming to an end.

The allies - including his platoon - had breached Germany and were slowly emptying each town of traitors and claiming each establishment as their own.

The process trudged, yet each day the horizon had seemed to glow with a more promising light.

And with each passing day the laughter had swelled and increased, his hygiene had improved, and the amount of sleep he had obtained rapidly grew to the extent the shadows under his eyes had been scared away.

Frank hadn't seen his family in two years.

In a month or two he would be plunged back into the mundane rituals of everyday life. And despite the desolate normality the aftermath would bring, he would cherish each moment of it.

Alas, everything had changed the moment he saw the glint of wire through the undergrowth; the first few tendrils of stench.

Everything had shifted the moment he strayed away from his patrol to check out this paranoid fixation that had grabbed his attention.

He didn't have time to call back to his buddies before rapid German had softly entered his ears. Being the translator for his company, he was fluent in the language. He didn't know whether this was a blessing or a curse.

"We have information from the village: the allies have breached the town. Soon, they will be coming this way," a German voice warbled. From behind the undergrowth, Frank crouched down, listening with attentive horror. "Lock all the prisoners in. We need to leave immediately."

The fluctuating variety of feelings caused Frank's heart to pound. From his vantage point, he could see the German who spoke was addressing a collection of six Krauts.

His thoughts were stars he could not fathom into constellations. He didn't know who these prisoners were, or what purpose they served in whatever facility this was, all he knew was it was another problem created by the Germans.

Damn Germans. Why can't they all be gone? They've dragged my arse halfway round the world and for what? What is it all for? Why the fuck am I here? Why the fuck is this war even happening?

And so it was that his thoughts accumulated into anger and he felt a scream rise in his throat, the agitation he was experiencing a mere fraction of all the bottled vexation.

His thoughts were forming constellations - galaxies of fervent frustration and hate that burned his mind and ravaged his soul, rendering him charred, helpless.

As soon as this had arisen it died down again, to be replaced with despair. His fingers found the picture of his wife and child he kept in his pocket, feeling the crevices and creases it sported due to immense observation.

She's a beauty. All his mates would say with jovial banter. Wouldn't mind doing her. You're one lucky son of a bitch, you know that right?

Lucky... What did lucky mean these days? Lucky that he didn't even know whether his wife had forgotten him? Lucky he couldn't hold his son? Lucky he was alive yet so many other men weren't?

It was the whimper that escaped his throat that alerted the Germans to his presence.

Looking back, he understood what had overcome him.

He was tired. Tired of the War, tired of fighting, tired of seeing the dead and they dying. He just wanted to go home. But Hitler insisted on unleashing Hell, and here he was, doing the country's dirty work.

He felt numb as he was dragged away.

Numb as he was stripped and hastily put into a striped uniform.

Numb as he was prodded and poked.

Numb as he saw someone rip up the picture.

Numb as his head was shaved.

Numb as he was dumped into some barracks and all light was extinguished, including his hope.