Half Sick of Shadows » Band of Brothers [2]

04: Some Lurid Third Interval

"I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end." - Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

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The hauptsturmführer would like to know why I write about myself in the third person in my confessions. The hauptsturmführer can go fuck himself. I write that way because he has killed Juliette Chevalier. He has murdered her. I thought she was gone before but I was wrong. The time of death of Juliette Chevalier is interchangeable with her moment of capture. The girl in my confessions does not deserve to be referred to as though she is me. I put that girl to shame.

My arms have been tied above my head for three days. I can't remember what the last thing I wrote was but it must not have been terribly important. Hauptsturmführer Becker hadn't been pleased with it, in any case. I'm exhausted, but even now I'm desperate to write again. I want to live in my memories again for a little while.

How wretched. My only moments of peace come from confessing everything I can remember about the past year. Juliette Chevalier, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I have failed you and, in turn, everyone you love.

Even if they don't kill me here - which they will - I will be shot. On British soil, or on French, or on American. I will be labelled as a collaborator and I will be shot.

How had I ever hated the girl I was back then? I was so naïve. I thought I had it so hard. I thought the world was against me. The tiniest of things could make me cry. How frivolous, to waste tears on dead babysitters and children's books. Juliette Chevalier was a better person than I am, but Juliette Chevalier was weak.

Maybe I do still have a little bit of her left in me, after all.

When the hauptsturmführer enters my cell he demands the two guards cut me down. I slam into the floor, the full weight of my exhaustion and my aching bones crashing down upon me. I couldn't move even if I wanted to. If I'm honest, I don't even bother to try.

When I am dragged back to my chair there is half a cup of water on the table, fresh sheets of paper, my usual pencil, and a small bowl of whatever horrible food they decided they didn't want to eat. I feel as though I'm going to be sick but I eat it anyway, and drink all of the water too. Because I am starving and because I am desperate.

When I reach for the pencil the hauptsturmführer grasps my hand tightly around the wrist, and I peer up at him with all of the ferocity of a terrified bunny rabbit.

"You will tell us about the Normandy invasion," he says, all sharp teeth and piercing eyes. "What you call D-Day. If you waste my paper, you will suffer the consequences. Two minutes per wasted page. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

He grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head down as close to the desk as he can get it without having me actually touch it. I close my eyes against the threat of slamming into the dark wood.

"I will be checking your progress."

As always.

"Happy writing."

Fuck you.