The Crucible

[Moritz Erichsen]

On the seafront of Burnham of Sea stood the parish church of Saint Andrew. Andrew the Apostle, brother of Peter, born in Bethsaida in the Sea of Galilee, and who along with his brother had been a fisherman of trade, called by Jesus as ‘fishers of men’ should they follow him. Through the Testament one may find that Andrew was a disciple of John the Baptist, whose declaration initially conducted him and John the Evangelist to follow Jesus. Andrew was at the end had been martyred by crucifixion at Patras, in Achaea, Greece. The church, built as early as 1316, enclosed constituent divisions of a singular piece initially designed by Inigo Jones and carved by Grinling Gibbons, having been commissioned by James the Second for the Chapel of Whitehall Palace (with its two vestries, as the plan of 1670 displays). The antecedent piece encompassed a representation of cherubs, bordered by two angels mounted on pedestals, and afterward moved to Westminster Abbey, where it was placed behind the High Alter. It would remain there until 1820 when the Bishop of Rochester, who also served duties as the vicar of Burnham, attained it and utilized fragments to decorate the Chancel of Saint Andrews. The sculptures were presently disbursed over an assortment of parts of the interior of the building, including the nave windows and behind the alter. The leaning tower of the church was prone to emanate commentary and observations and it was commonly alleged that should a plumb line be dropped from the top of the tower on the north side it would land some feet away from the base. Near the church stood the house named Tregunter, built on the site of an old farmhouse, once owned by the Roper family, the sons of which fought at the Battle of Sedgemoor and were deported to America by Judge Jeffries. The house was bought by John Gunter, a chef to King George the Third in 1760, and lived there for sixty years. The house that now stood was rebuilt in 1826 and the original cellars of the house were reported to be associated by secret vestibules to the Church and the Old Vicarage for smuggling purposes and if indeed this was the case, they have long since been obstructed by sand.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.

Skulking about under cover of darkness, Moritz turned right on the narrow and dunk passageway, carefully managing to stay away from the yellow light cast by the streetlamps and walking quickly in the shadows, bearing the burden of the now unconscious woman upon his strong arms; though to him she possessed no identity, she had nevertheless steered a strange interest and fascination in him as rarely happened in the genuine sense. Moritz was not certain on a conscious level as to the reasons of these actions, but he was nonetheless a man who hardly meditated on aspects for more than a second, and thus was now heading towards the place he had previously spotted on a the map he had supervised thoroughly during the long hours of his journey (not from his natural curiosity in becoming further acquainted with the place but having to face the next dull hours with endless ennui and inaction, which, for a soldier, was utterly loathsome, not to mention unusual), in his memory the routes and pathways to finding the place carved automatically, as developed through years of living in the streets and military training and combat. She was not a light burden to carry, but as his large hands were holding her from her feet and back he could certainly feel her strong ribs, enough to make him realize she had worked in the inn as a form of security; on some level this highly amused him, for to have a woman in such a place was to him not only laughable but downright ridiculous and obtuse; then again, it only made perfect sense. The way she had reacted to his forwarding an attack, her controlled and natural tone in calmly requesting of him to put a halt to a one-sided brawl, her behaviour during his command of hers as he had pinned her against the wall not one of panic-induced screeching and beseeching of release but of persistent counter-action in fighting him back, which he unconsciously admired. Just like an infant which was possessed on the initial outlook of a new toy, purchased under courtesy of a favoured relative, and which was to pre-occupied on the shiny object for several weeks to come, finding interesting the curves and crescents, the sharp points and impressionable commands.

He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul. 

He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name’s sake.

He could finally see Saint Andrew’s Church in the near distance, and the rest of the moments needed to reach the vicinity passed quickly, him circumspectly looking around lest there should be a copper who had been alerted of ruckus having taken place in some pub or other, crossing the streets quickly and always remaining in the cover of shadows (otherwise it would look more than delightfully suspicious as to why this soldier was carrying an unconscious woman on his arms, raising allegations on abduction and then having to report to his superior, Tyler Brentwood; this would cause no predicament, however, as he imagined Tyler would most probably have a good laugh at this); he became a shadow himself, a ghostly shadow with no spirit or a willing to abide by the rules and regulations of society and everyday life. He finally reached the church, and stared at the leaning tower overhead, which in turn stared back at him with an imposing glare. Moritz did not respond to this audacity, but merely walked across the gravel pathway and several minutes later he found a locked shelter which gave access to the sensory pergola garden. While holding her tightly and securely on his arms, he used his right foot to knock the door, which swung open with a loud thud and a simultaneous creak. He slowly entered the small shelter of concrete and stacks of grain, possibly saved by the priests in times of plague such as this was, washed in absolute darkness and dust. A number of variously-themed objects were to be found everywhere around; his boots echoed across the wooden floor, and then he dropped the woman on a spot in which lay a velvet red sheet, and upon which she was dropped with a large whooping noise.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff, 
 they comfort me.

Cigarette. Chair. Light. He grabbed a wooden chair he found at the very corner of the room, making it creak as he was dragging it to where she lay and then placed it several inches away from her, sitting himself down complacently. He groped his pockets for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and seconds afterward he lit one up, instantly filling his face with light and warmth. Amidst the darkness that enveloped the rest of his body, a pair of black and abyssal eyes stared down at the woman who was beginning to gain consciousness from the fall. He took a deep drag from the cigarette, enjoying the very essence of the fumes entering his oesophagus and piercing through his lungs mercilessly, shortly surrounding himself in a cloud of smoke, his long and thin fingers looped around the ghostly white length of the Bolshevik cigarette. Thunderstruck was heard from outdoors suddenly, and his eyes flickered. No smile was to be observed adorning or distorting his facial features, as he maintained a decisively inscrutable expression on his face – though one could carefully witness through those black eyes and perceive through that infantile heart the pitch of excitement which run through the veins and channelled in his blood throughout the body. He smoked again and blew the fumes into the air, exhaling smoke from his nose and dissolving into the room’s atmosphere, eyes transfixed at her.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

[Leeroy Atherton]

It was one thing to be in the wrong place at the right time. Such situations, as presented in storytelling and the rumours of the day, usually led to good things - fame, fortune, heroism and incredible strokes of luck to name a few. Being in the right place at the wrong time, however, sent people like Leeroy to the other end of the scale, where they ended up beaten, mugged and all manner of unwelcome things, the worst of these being death. Did Leeroy fear death? Maybe, maybe not. It was a question she had always found uncomfortable, pushed to the back of her mind for later reflection, focusing herself instead at the task at hand. In her opinion, unnecessary thoughts that made one unnecessarily uncomfortable were best to be ignored for the most part.

But there always comes a time when questions are thrown in one's face, forced to be answered to progress forward. The right-place-wrong-time scenario had played out for her, although she couldn't remember much of it as she first stirred. All that Leeroy registered at that moment was the smell of smoke, dust tickling her nose, and an aching head that made her wonder if her brain was throbbing. A faint, orange-ish light was cast over her surroundings, slowly fading into view as some sort of storage area. The feel of velvet, covering some sort of hard surface, made Leeroy wonder if she was on the ground. Lifting her head after a few moments, she looked down and around, and saw that she was, indeed, lying face-first upon the floor of her unknown surroundings.

Instinct kicked in. Leeroy tensed, and abruptly looked behind her, feeling her blood chill when she saw someone's smoking silhouette. Despite how much it pained her afterward, she whirled around, and, despite feeling dizzy yet again, fumbled for something on her leg. Managing to find the sheath of one of her hunting knives - strapped to her leg beneath her skirt, over the trousers that helped keep the blood warm and circulating - Leeroy grabbed the hilt. With a small shwick, she ripped the weapon from its hiding place, holding it in front of her, pointed at what she thought was the figure. Her vision had gone double, so she breathed deep, trying to steady herself and stop the pain in her head from getting worse. Perhaps listening to Monty would have been a good idea; the still-healing concussion was certainly making things harder for her, her body trembling slightly from exertion because of it, and she feared going unconscious again. She had had knocks to the head before, and knew it could make one weak...but she was a strong girl, and had had time to heal - why were her efforts so pathetic, even though she had rested? Hadn't the doctor said it was a mild one, nothing to be worried about...?

"Who...bizt...ye?" the Romanichal finally managed to say after several minutes of effort. "Ye...bizt...better...zayin'...where...I...and 'ee...bizt...."

She managed to focus her brownish-hazel eyes into a glare towards his way.

"Now...zir."

[Moritz Erichsen]

Why had Moritz chosen such a religious place to take the woman to, especially since he was such an unreligious man himself? There was no answer to this question, however, and even if there were it would be immediately obliterated by the very absurdity of its nature. In any case, the fact was that at this moment they were to be found in a shelter by the church of Saint Andrew. Once again she fascinated him, and he could not help but laugh quietly inside his throat, as he took another drag from the cigarette, feeding the surrounding atmosphere with additional fume. She was not scared – she did not seem to be scared whatsoever – but instead she only appeared to be demanding and durable with an interesting touch of stoutness in her voice and appearance as would suggest that his game had reached a whole new level. She was not his vulnerable, weakened creature but a struggling lioness that had raised the barrier of his expectations unpredictably high. He cherished in that. “Ye bizt Moritz Erichsen,” he mocked her in her accent, and smoked, a nasty smile etched across the thin lines of his lips as he was staring at her most attentively.

It was strange, how this evening had turned out despite his former expectations; it just served to prove to him again and again that life indeed was unpredictable. He already bore such knowledge throughout life and during military training, of course, but to observe this in action was something quite different. While he had expected to get wasted and spend his time with prostitutes, he had instead picked up a brawl with a low-life loser and then witnessed an almost shocking attitude from a woman whose identity was still kept a mystery. It must have been around midnight, but then again he did not have his watch with him; he had at this moment absolutely no clue as to where it could be. The way she moved about, her tone, her attitude and manner of speech, it was nothing such as he had been accustomed to observe so far, and thus like a child could not help but be absorbed into this sort of growing ‘acquaintance’, as he would certainly refer to in his usual mocking tone. It did not matter that he knew not her name nor where she came from; she was there now, and he would make certain she would not escape the shelter until proper ‘introduction’ had been made.

“ ‘Ee and I bizt somewhere the shit can’t find us,” he continued in the same tone, and then looked at her with burning curiosity in his eyes. “You have some spunk, wanting to attack me – so I suppose you can’t blame me for what I did. You beat up a dog, it bites,” he told her, but the last words were only taunting, naturally, for little did he care about blame or not. But before she could excuse herself by accusing him of forwarding an attack at the old man, he smoked again, and said, “Nothing that he didn’t deserve. People like him are useless and filled with shit. Like those sodding birds that never know how to zip their holes …” He paused, and looked at her, his coal-black eyes piercing unto her own hazel ones. “But you?” he rasped in a quiet tone, exhaling fume from his nose, which dissolved into the room’s thick air. “You’re one feisty little bitch, aren’t you? You’ve got nerve to fight a Lieutenant and think you can take me over. I knew women were stupid but …” – he smoked – “you’ve set a new record.” There she was, lying on the carmine velvet material upon the floor, her features demanding and aggressive in an almost proud way. She was glaring back at him, and he could not help but feel a heat of both rage and hungry anticipation rush throughout the veins of his body. “Who bizt ye?” he returned her question.

[Leeroy Atherton]

And 'ee are nothin' but ztupid, Leeroy thought as the man - Moritz Erichsen - ended his monologue. Despite him acting ever-so-casual, simply smoking away between sentences, the Romanichal did not lower her knife, nor did she try to voice the insult that played out in her head. His tone and choice of words portrayed a man not to be trifled with - or at least, that was the image he wanted to put across. The way Moritz had acted back at the Traveller was proof enough he would also act upon this image of his.

Taking a moment to study Moritz's features, Leeroy cleared her throat, attempting to sound professional despite the circumstances. As frightening and dangerous as the situation was, Leeroy was a proud woman, and would certainly attempt to refute the man's claims of her being "stupid". She had acted out of reflex, and of protectiveness of her bar; the Traveller was her second home. Anyone that tried to disrupt the usual peacefulness of the establishment would have to face Leeroy - even if she was smaller, weaker and less experienced than they.

"My name...be Leeroy," said the Romanichal. Now that she was focusing again, the room wasn't spinning as much, and she could think a little more clearly. "An' I be appreciatin' yer viewz on vemale ztupidity, zir; we 'birdz' can bizt annoyin', now can't we? Mozt juzt be needin' to be zhapin' up, now the men be gone; many be not coddled by their gentz anymore, zo they 'ave to let go zometime. An' I be gettin' what I wanted - 'ee ztop attackin' anything that be movin', avorementioned annoyin' vemales be goin', and 'ee be not in my inn anymore."

Insult or retort? It depended on how one looked at the words. On one hand, Leeroy's tone clearly showed that she didn't care what the man thought about her gender. She sounded as if she was taking it all in stride, as if to secretly say, "Are you done yet?" On the other hand, though, perhaps her concussion was making her feel cocky, and she wanted to come up with something witty-sounding. Either way, one could argue Leeroy was not that stupid, and that she was simply carrying on the conversation - if not a little irritably.

"An' ye bizt callin' yerself...what? Lieutenant? A zoldier?" asked Leeroy. "An' I zincerely 'ope I a-didzt not a-anger 'ee too much back there - please be knowin', it bizt buzinezz as uzual vor me. Bezides, I be not wantin' to look ztupid like the rezt o' them be, them be a-gawkin' and a-ztarin wide-eyed."

[Moritz Erichsen]

And he continued smoking. Through the enveloping darkness that sufficed to drown them both into an abyss, a twisted smile flickered behind the lighter, and then he put it back on the pocket of his military greatcoat. She surprised him in so many ways. She did not appear to be one of those weak, feeble and useless female creatures he had come to meet and savour throughout the years of his sordid and miserable life, but her ability in fighting and defending herself by proving almost fearless in the face of prominent death or anguish interested him with such genuine fashion as was enough to exercise the slightest control upon his fierce, animalistic nature. She was holding her knife intensely, and he bore no doubts whatsoever that she was capable not only of using it but also removing a chunk of his skin if so she must, if thus she needed to act in order to escape from his infecting fangs. He stared at the knife for many moments. With its highly-polished metal tip, the engraving on both sides of the ricasso, the diamond cut end, the nickel coating and the round ball end, the exquisitely crafted commando knife had been issued to every soldier fighting for King and country. “Fairburn Sykes ‘Second Pattern’, good choice,” he told her in a hoarse rasp, the twisted smile still etched across the corner of his lips as he was staring at it, from the metal tip to the corner of her pale thin fingers. “With a 7’’ blade cut and a 11.75’’ overall, it can bring death in twelve seconds once you slash the wretched carotid at a one-and-a-half inches depth. Three seconds for the precious heart. Three-and-a-half depth,” he told her with a sick smile, the breathing of self-satisfaction at such sadism dissolving into the room’s atmosphere and threatening to pervade her.

And then, with a smooth move, he reached out his hand and grabbed hers from below, not stirring from his position other than slightly curving his back forwards so that he could have a better view looking down at her, for he was her master and she was but a mere plaything. His thin, long and pale fingers looped around her own, the touch intimate as it was nauseating for both of them, but his grasp was iron and from which she could not escape. Parts of his skin could touch the cold blade of the knife. Her hands were cold, too. “But you see, lass,” he told her in a quieter rasp while his black eyes stared directly into her own fiercely and unfathomably, “I don’t think that’s good for you. When you choose a knife, you choose it because of its balance and precision. You should make sure the hilt fits in your hand,” he said, stirring his fingers sideways, all the while maintaining an unblinking eye contact, and moved her fingers around, connecting the tip of the pommel against the palm of her hand, “and you should not have a loose grasp of the hilt because the heavy blade is dragging it away from your fingers,” he continued, and slightly leaned more forwards, and now moved closed her grip around the hilt with a precise, sharp movement, feeling the coldness of her touch as his fingers pressed against her own, “… Leeroy.” It sounded like a boy’s name, but he much questioned the fact her parents named her so on purpose; from the little he had observed of her, he could tell she wanted not to appear defenseless in the face of men who could be of potential danger to her. It was strange, pronouncing her name and the way it echoed around the room. It flowed down his filthy mouth like dilated liquid, and though it bore a certain German accent to it, the rhotic essence of the word could not be escaped through roots he once knew not he had.

And then he rasped with laughter. “Why the hell are you explaining yourself to me?” he said, and then took a deep drag from his cigarette, feeling the fumes consuming him once more. “And I thought you had some spunk and didn’t care about it,” he mocked her openly, instantly releasing her hand sharply and tilting back against the wooden chair. He chuckled nastily. “So you work in that pub as a door supervisor? You?” he asked her, and smiled. He found it almost ludicrous of a woman holding such a position, but then again had she not proved to him several times in that day already how she was no ordinary woman? At this point he imagined (with a streak of mean pleasure surfacing in the coarse lines of his battle-wound face) the coppers to have arrived at the inn and be questioning the proprietor on his call, furious at having been called upon a case in which there was neither victim nor victimizer. Stealth, rapidity and precision were one of the qualities which characterized the soldier, and which were emphasized during training in military schools, as appropriate. And now, hidden from the world as they were, who would be able to interrupt them in the god-forsaken shelter of a church? Who would be able to erase what was happening? “What other interesting facts do you have to share with me?” he said, enjoying himself the most. If this continued at this rate, it would prove to be a fascinating night indeed. Even better than those dancers.

[Leeroy Atherton]

"Fairburn Sykes 'Second Pattern', good choice. With a 7’’ blade cut and a 11.75’’ overall, it can bring death in twelve seconds once you slash the wretched carotid at a one-and-a-half inches depth. Three seconds for the precious heart. Three-and-a-half depth."

Leeroy could feel a chill winding down her spine as the Lieutenant spoke. His tone of voice was disturbing, almost dream-like as he described how it could be used to kill someone. The cold sensation in her back wound up in her stomach, and it twisted in dread; why was he saying that? Was he complimenting her? Or giving her a glimpse of her eventual fate, perhaps? Either way, he suddenly reached for her, and before Leeroy's reflexes could kick in, had her hand and wrist in an iron grip.

"Let go!" Leeroy barked, tugging backwards as hard as she could. Moritz did not listen, and instead, held firm, his fingers icy as they wrapped around hers like rope. Her skin crawled at the feel of his rough, callused palm and fingers; what was he doing now? Going to take the knife from her? No...he was...lecturing her? And the Lieutenant said the blade wasn't right for her, either. She could only watch with a slightly dumbfounded look as Moritz maneuvered her fingers, telling her should she make sure the hilt could fit in her hand properly. Moritz also said that she was holding the hilt too loosely, and that the blade was "dragging it away from her fingers". Leeroy nodded, surprised at how much better the knife seemed to feel in her hand now that it was adjusted properly.

He laughed, bringing the Romanichal out of her reverie. She blinked in surprise, turning a glare upon him, and snapped, "What?"

"Why the hell are you explaining yourself to me?" said the man, before taking time to enjoy his cigarette. "And I thought you had some spunk and didn’t care about it." He then released her hand, and Leeroy pulled it back abruptly, the woman jerking away from the man. She was still wary of Moritz, and frankly, she didn't want to give him a chance to get a hold of her again. Her actions produced a chuckle from the soldier, who leaned back in his chair casually, as if the situation was nothing more than an informal chat in one's kitchen. From what Leeroy could see, it seemed as if Moritz was used to the kind of current situation he was in - and that disturbed the Romanichal deeply, although she did not show it.

"So you work in that pub as a door supervisor? You?" he said, amused and clearly mocking her. Leeroy was quite tempted to spit at him, but years of working the doors had taught her that self-control was key. So far, she had not said anything that seemed to have angered the man, and as long as she could keep it that way, there was a still a chance she could get away unharmed. She just needed to keep buying time, and keep on her toes.

So, to his question, she said simply, "Yez. And I be proud to be doin' zo." There was no arrogance to her voice, no mocking or attempts to throw anything back in his face; it was a single, honest answer. "And ye, zir? Ye not be tellin' me anything about 'ee yet, other than that 'ee be a zoldier. Anything be intereztin' about 'ee, now?"

[Moritz Erichsen]

“Yeah, I bet you are,” Moritz muttered, once the young woman informed him she was proud of her profession; he was certain she was, she seemed to be quite proud a woman, and yet not in a negative essence as possessed him. She simply defended in a natural and expected manner her own personality, her identity, her very own being, whereas he wished to humiliate people or he would otherwise feel himself as being ‘inferior’ and ‘unworthy’. It was one of his vastest complexes and one which would never fade away. He smiled at her question, but his smile was not twisted anymore. It was only bitter. “What you need to know, you’ll find out soon enough.” And he unexpectedly jumped up from the chair, kicked it aside and dropped the cigarette on the floor, extinguishing it with his heavy boot, thus drowning them once more in absolute pitch-blackness. The only thing that seemed to violate this was the dangerous glint of his black eyes. Click! Dim light surrounded them as he clicked open the lighter and went to stand next to her down on the red velvet material, several inches away from her and yet making certain he was not touching her, not even remotely.

He then suddenly grabbed her hand again, this time fiercely, pulling it closer towards him, his right hand holding the lighter pressed so that he could see the wonderful combination of shock and anger in her pretty eyes, as he guided forcefully – almost violently – her hand against his, the tip of the knife she was holding dangerously near the veins of his wrist, a cruel and cold smile gracing the length of his lips, desirous to watch her mentally harm herself with thoughts pertaining to this very moment, assured she was far from the kind of person who would resort to such abominable actions and yet relishing in the action of watching her suffer like this, for she was in his mind innocent and with a pure heart, which quality however he wished not to taint with his own crimes and sins but only challenge. He intended to drive her to the extreme, for people could only be judged and further analyzed only when observed to their extremity. Though Moritz was not one to think through outside the military sphere, he unconsciously at times analyzed factors and people to such an extent as often gave him an advantage in terms of knowledge and foresight. Many times, however, he only got himself into dangerous situations due to his insufferable obstinacy and dismissiveness of other people’s advice or thoughts.

Now as he was pointing the blade against his skin, he could almost feel her determination to pull her hand away from him, but he would not let go. “You’re a feisty bird, yah? Then prove it!” he hissed at her with a cold laugh, looking through her hazel eyes with combined interest and expectation. “There’s no reason to carry the knife when you don’t intend to use it, lass,” he informed her in the same tone, forcing her hand to drive the blade to his skin and pierce through the wrist, droplets of blood appearing on the surface at the miniscule hole and trickling down his hand and on the velvet rug they were sat upon. It did not hurt, but he was certain it had hurt her. His fingers were still strongly pressed against hers, making certain her hand would not drift away from the hilt, allowing her one second’s pause to belief his sick game had finished, until he pierced through his skin with a sharper, brisker move, deeper through his arm. “Downwards and inwards,” he instructed her, curving her hand in order to cut with a 45-angle difference than the previous time, and more blood surrounded the small wound, at which point he simply laughed. He bore too many scars and marks throughout his body to care, he had endured to much excruciating and numb-rendering pain in the military to care of a small cut – but did she care? He was certain she did. She was a woman, after all, and every woman had her sensitivities, as was expected.

[Leeroy Atherton]

Her instincts were on fire as the cigarette went out, and the chair was kicked back, made thunder in the darkness by the tension of the air. Within seconds, the sadistic Lieutenant was before her, and Leeroy lashed out with the knife, snarling, "Get back!" She was not defenseless, and would not cower in the corner like the frightened woman he probably expected her to be. However, her aim was off, reflexes shaky as her concussion reminded her that it was there; it was easy for the man to grab her arm once more.

Leeroy struggled, pulling back from his strong grip, shaking her head in an attempt to clear it. For a moment, she was worried he was about to disarm her, but was shocked to find Moritz guiding the knife toward his own wrist. He was smiling, looking at her with daring eyes that were touched with sadism, just as his face was laced with it. It was disgusting, and if he thought he could manipulate Leeroy into breaking down, he was wrong. The Lieutenant's little test of her will was no different than those like and before him, who had dared Leeroy to hurt them - who thought a woman was too overtly sensitive to spill blood or cause someone to cry out in pain.

"You’re a feisty bird, yah? Then prove it!" he said in a serpent's hiss, laughing at her with venom in his voice. "There’s no reason to carry the knife when you don’t intend to use it, lass."

And then, he forced the blade into his flesh, grinning as he did so. But Leeroy grinned back at him, matching the look herself; she drove deeper, and actually lunged forward, opening her mouth like a dog ready to snap. If she got close enough, she'd bite Moritz on the nose - something she had wanted to do back at the inn, when he had her by the throat - and cut downwards and inward herself. She would end up slashing up to near his elbow, but would not cut along the major veins, instead pulling away so that she sliced down the side of his underarm onto part of his arm's top.

"Now be listenin' 'ere, 'ee!" Leeroy barked. If she had surprised Moritz, she would imprint the look of his face into her own mind, much as he would have had things gone differently. "I be none o' the lazzez who juzt be zittin' by in cowardize! You want to be try be mucking with me 'ead, you'll bizt gettin' what you want right manana!"

Her hazel eyes gave him a heated glare, and she pulled back, grunting, before trying to swing around and shove the man into the nearest wall. Whether she succeeded or not, she would still add in a snap, "And 'ee bizt knowin' what? I only 'urt when there be needin' to 'urt, becauze I 'ave zomething that I bizt believin' 'ee lack - zelv control. What bizt your problem, zir? Got nothin' better to bizt doin'? 'Urtin' people an' be tryin' to mezz with me 'cause that all 'ee can do?"

She would not break eye contact. If the tough guy wanted to see her so-called "feistiness", then so be it.

"Anzwer me, baztard! 'Ee bizt wantin' zomethin' from I, now I bizt givin' it to 'ee! TALK! Or are 'ee the coward now?!"

[Moritz Erichsen]

The look on her face, he would have given anything to take a picture of it at that very moment and look at it for amusement from time to time, but he had carved it inside his head at any rate, assured he was never to forget it. “Can’t do it?” he mocked her openly, but to his surprise she did not back away from him, did not even so much as flinch or blink, but instead she shockingly enough pressed the knife into his skin, carving her own little mark inside him, a mark he knew right at that moment, however unconsciously, was never going to leave him. She scarred him furthermore, dragging the silver and sharp blade across his already scarred skin, creating an anomalous line of perverse upon the flesh that knew such physical pleasures and other perversities. The pain was there, but he hardly felt the sheer magnitude of it, for what he had been accustomed to was larger than this – however, he felt the anger in her glinting eyes, the sheer force with which she forced the blade to cut against his skin, the perfectly controlled expression upon her face, which had at that moment taken him by such surprise as he had not expected of her to do. It was enough to meet such a strong and feisty young woman, let alone expect she was going to react in such a way. Indeed, it was almost invigourating to him. Was she a woman or some other dark spirit he had not heard of before? For he was the devil himself, and thus him she could not be. She certainly bore the physique of someone who was not to be treated with lightly, and yet he had openly mocked and abused her. It had been a sick game to him, but at this moment she had paused being the toy and became a rather valuable and impressionable player.

The vein in his neck popped out, and the muscles in his face were stiff and tautened, as he stared at her cruelly, hungrily even, expecting – perhaps on some level – wishing of her to continue, wanting to see how far she would go, to what extremities she would condone herself to reach in order to see the agony in his face, agony that was for the time being non-existent. It was his own test, his twisted test in watching her do this, despite the fact it was against himself. That did not matter, his body was already scarred, burned, morphed into something that war had created. Scars were memories of the past, and though someone like Moritz did not think of such things, he unconsciously wanted to connect himself with the past, lest he should grow old and useless. He loathed death. Death was the only thing in life to terrify him. She barked at him, the sound piercing through his length, she barked words that would be ringing inside his head for months to come, perhaps even years. If he lived so long. No, one thing he knew, and that was that she was no coward. She possessed fire inside her soul, her very spirit, a very different and undying kind of fire that could not and would not be extinguished by the likes of him. She suddenly pulled back the knife and shoved him against the wall, but he did not care. He watched her curiously, almost with a renewed and eager interest that bordered unconscious adoration.

“Yeah, then you’re a dog, too,” he spoke slowly, and then a small smile formed in his lips, the blood oozing from his hand but he ignored it. Yes, in his mind she was a dog just like him; dogs that attacked only when necessary, only when provoked; the only difference was that she had been trained, whereas he was rabid. “I guess we’re made of the same pottery, then,” he added in a cruel whisper, and then laughed with a sharp and short laugh. “The same rotten, suppurating pottery,” he sneered, and then instantly stood up, carelessly brushing his other hand across the bleeding one, staining it thus, and with disinterest moving towards the side table against the table to dry it on the dirty and dusty tablecloth. He did not even look at it, or her. He only approached the window and violently opened the drapes, looking outside. It seemed to be so quiet, and so cold. There was nobody to be found this time in the night around the church gardens, and the priests would have all gone to bed like happy little girls, he was assured. The night sky was dark blue and velvety, that sky which had but a year ago been mercilessly violated by the enemy. He then turned to face her. “All that self-control, how admirable,” he clearly mocked her. “Does that mean you are going to watch me bleed like this? Can your woman’s heart bear watching me bleed? You know … your conscience …” he hissed at her with the coiled precision of a serpent, “… can it forgive you for it?”

[Leeroy Atherton]

"I guess we’re made of the same pottery, then. The same rotten, suppurating - "

"Oh, bizt zhuttin' the 'ell up, 'ee!" Leeroy snapped, attempting to backhand the soldier for his words with a loud WHAP! Was he that thick-headed that he did not realize how irritated Leeroy was? Did Moritz honestly think that she was about to be pushed around, mocked and made the brunt of his twisted sense of humour? And he wasn't even scaring her any more. He was just a pain, much like a wasp's sting would be, or a small cut from a shard of glass - nothing permanently damaging, nothing that couldn't be ignored.

Her personal space had been intruded upon long enough. She stepped back, allowing him to go and wipe his bleeding arm on the tablecloth - covered with a plethora of who knew what - that could cause infection in the Lieutenant's new wound. Then, he opened a window, not bothering to glance at her, and dim light flooded in from the outside, allowing Leeroy to see Moritz better than before. If he tried anything, then there was at least a chance she could better predict what the soldier was about to do.

But the sudden rush of light was as much of a curse as it was a blessing. Leeroy's head suddenly throbbed, and she faltered, one hand rising to her head wound as her eyes screwed shut. She held that wound, feeling the still-healing bruise throb, and the slight crust of the scab where her head had split open slightly. Leeroy swallowed, taking a few breaths, but upon realizing her show of weakness, her breathing hitched. Adrenaline that had been fading away pumped rapidly through her veins again, her brownish-hazel eyes snapping open, and she looked at Moritz with slight dizziness.

"All that self-control, how admirable," he said in mocking. "Does that mean you are going to watch me bleed like this? Can your woman’s heart bear watching me bleed? You know…your conscience…an it forgive you for it?"

"Pfft. Waz your vather...a-stupid az 'ee?"

The retort came out of nowhere, filled with as much mocking as Moritz had thrown at her. Leeroy had not yet thrown the metaphorical gloves off, but they were definitely slipping off the wrists. If he wanted to throws words that would try to dig into her, she would do the same. It was a game played with countless bullies, unruly bar patrons and other unsavoury folk - and it was one of the best ways to crack someone. If Leeroy's hunch was right, the man was attempting to put himself in a power of control, much as he had through physical violence back at the inn; thankfully, things had not yet gone that far.

She chuckled unpleasantly. "Or maybe 'ee be gettin' it from...the mother?" Leeroy added with a sneer. Once again, she made full eye contact with him. "You bizt zoundin'...like nothing more then zome little boy...who not bizt gettin' 'iz way. You...be done yet, Moritz Erichzen? Or that bizt...not your real name? What about...Tweedle Dum?"

And with that final sentence, cheerier than the rest to add to the sting, Leeroy awaited any sort of verbal parry, or better yet, for the words to strike some nerve or another.

[Moritz Erichsen]

And then it hit him like a punch against his stomach.

“Mamma, guarda che la piccola mendicante per strada! Guardate gli stracci che indossa, che stupido vecchio cappello tedesco! Non è divertente, mamma? Ma perché è lui che ci guardava in modo strano? Vorrei sapere la risposta a questo, è un po ‘paura. Oh, voi! Sei un bastardo! Non guardare a noi, non meritano di guardare a noi, non sai da dove veniamo? Ciò che un povero bastardo! Vai via, bastardo! Io non ti darà i soldi!”

The thirteen-year-old Italian aristocrat laughed harshly at the boy wearing rags, standing opposite the grey street with his emaciated hands shoved through his pockets, his face sullen and gloomy, but with a glint of menace, obstinacy and fierce pride carved with redundant enthusiasm throughout his facial features, refined yet distorted by that hateful glare he was throwing at the wealthy boy, the fancy clothes he was clad in and the well-polished bicycle standing next to him. The Italian boy, a spoiled child whose family belonged to the circles of high society (indeed, an aristocrat!), continued looking at him with a pitiful scorn, his unintelligent and hopeless mother simply frowning at the impoverished child whose identity and purpose in life was yet unknown. Moritz was seven years old, his mud-soaked knees were scraped and bloody, his hands were filthy and his hat was torn apart in pieces, which he instinctively removed from his head once he understood the Italian boy to be laughing at him because of it, not from speaking the language but from the aristocrat pointing his finger at it and pulling the rim of his mother’s dress persistently in order to show her this disgrace of a human being. It hurt Moritz’s soul, who scowled and grumbled in his throat an indistinct sound, which would one day grow to become an animalistic sound for every sin and crime he was to commit.

Bastard.

How could he ever forget the wretched word? It had been carved inside his sensitive heart and would forever linger in the most profound corners of his mind, that container of human misery and anguish, unconscious guilt and developing, almost engulfing hunger for cruelty and submission. To have lived his life like an anonymous piece of flesh wandering the earth for all that it was worth, to have been downtrodden, beaten, harassed and laughed at were the only memories he was bearing, ugly remembrances of an ugly past, a young boy with a meaningless name, with no beings to provide a shelter during hardship or laughter during want. Children were not innocent, no, not to him. Children were cruel. Hundreds of them he had come across, and all of them had called him that abominable word which had initially threatened to further develop such a crisis of identity, as had already been established, as likewise offended him in a way which no other heavier insult would. Bastard? It had been painfully and inextricably sewn into his heart in such a horrifying manner and traumatizing method as had hindered him from becoming a fully-fledged man. Though he would be strong and seemingly invulnerable, in reality he was a cripple. He would learn what it feels like to possess no heart or soul, feelings ravaged and replaced with rage and hatred, impatience and viciousness.

Moritz growled at him, but did not attack him. Though young and faulty, skinny and filthy, he knew the dark ways of the underground, and from thieving around he had learned how to attack properly. When to catch the victim off guard. And when was the time to chew from its limbs.

But one night when the Italian boy had distracted his mother and ran away from her, instead preferring to strut towards the river and go fishing all by himself, Moritz had closely followed him, and the encounter that followed was critical for both of their lives. For the first, it ended it; for the latter, it created the path towards a world of darkness and apathy. The Italian boy’s body was found, drowned in the river, several days later while Moritz had fled from the town.

While he had fled from humanity.

Those black eyes widened, his nostrils flared in the darkness, his knuckles cracked, and the vein popped against his neck, as he instantly turned around on having just registered the wretched word; he had ignored it previously, exhilarated as he had been by the display of almost shocking womanly persistence and the fact she had not cowardly cowered away in fear, that his mind had unconsciously jumped over this small yet critical moment during which her mouth uttered it, but it had hit him on his chest at this very moment. Whatever she spat at him, he did not hear, did not care to find out. Even her mentioning his wretched parents did not bear such an effect on him, only because ‘bastard’ was interlocked with the subject of parents – he stormed away from the window, his boots creaking with a horrible sound against the wooden floor, and reached for him, yanking her hair mercilessly and pushing her towards him, only so that he could cast a single hateful glare at her repulsive face, with three steps flying her unto the table against the wall instantly. A great thump! echoed throughout the room and a disgusting sound was heard as he crushed the side of her head against the wooden surface, taking pleasure at the sounds of pain this single action drew from her.

His teeth gritted, his fists clenched tightly against her head and his thin, pale face almost monstrously distorted from that animalistic force which drove him into these inhumane actions, he crushed her head against the table again and again, growling and grumbling, the veins popping out across both of his arms, his knuckles whitening from the pressure he was putting on the beating, the table creaking dangerously to the point of it seemingly coming apart from its centre column, now using both of his hands in forcefully directing her head to its destined crushing point. There were some many words he wished to utter, insults, several rounds of sick profanity, and yet his throat constricted, him being incapacitated of voicing the remotest sound from the emotions of the moment – the stormy waves of frenzy and abhorrence rising up inside his throat and preventing him from screaming, instead only allowing the remotest grumbling sounds of a bolted animal escaping from his lips. He punched the back of her head and then crushed it against the wall this time; once he drew her backwards, he could clearly see red marks on the plaster and stains of blood running down her forehead and soaking his own arms. He grimaced, which only served to enhance the ugliness of soul and atrocity of facial features, and then pushed both of her hands from behind her back, interlocking them, and then giving her the final beating by letting her whole body pound against the wall and collapse. His chest was heaving up and down quickly, his heart rate rapidly moving at the moment’s adrenaline and pleasure; watching her wail like a fish out of water, like a dying little bird. By this time his breathing was heavier, and he felt his throat burning, though still constricted. He would crush her. Crush her like a piece of paper.


Translation

Mummy, look at that little beggar on the street! Look at the rags he is wearing, that stupid old German hat! Isn’t it funny, Mummy? But why is he looking at us so strangely? I wish I knew the answer to that, he is a bit scary. Oh, you! You bastard! Don’t look at us, you don’t deserve to look at us, don’t you know where we come from? What a poor bastard! Go away, bastard! I won’t give you any money!

[Leeroy Atherton]

A moment of cockiness proved to be her undoing. She saw the rage in his eyes for the briefest instant, but her skills of analysis allowed her to see something deeper - pain. Fear. Memory. Something breaking like a twig, releasing such an outpouring of anger, he could not control himself. There was a mental marker there, that at the right moment, at the most subtle trigger, would make itself known, and make him snap. Leeroy's thoughts, however, were scattered by the sudden pulling of her braid, of being thrown back into the table, and then having her head bashed against said table.

Now, Leeroy was no weakling, with a high pain tolerance and much strength because of her fight-ridden past and her line of work. She was only human, though, and having her head smashed so powerfully by the enraged Lieutenant immediately knocked her senseless. The small, thin wound along her head reopened, growing larger with each blow, wet warmth covering the side of her face with each strike against the hard surfaces Moritz chose to slam her against. By the time everything was over, she couldn't think straight, and was breathing heavily, nothing more but a limp heap on the floor.

Minutes passed, filled with heavy silence. Her head was pounding, and Leeroy felt faint. Everything seemed more blurry and far away, her hearing dulled save for a ringing from the second concussion she had been given. By the time she got out of there - if she got out of there - she would probably be off work for a while. Which, of course, was very annoying.

Through her double vision, Leeroy managed to focus on Moritz, albeit weakly. Her hazel-brownish eyes were distant, only weakly locking with the pits of blackness that were the soldier's own eyes. Swallowing hard, she took a few breaths to calm herself, trying to re-orient herself, so that she could get one last word in. It was not a quip this time, though - there had been enough of that. She had got what she wanted; she had won, in a sense. Moritz Erichsen might have beaten her senseless, thinking he would have finally made her crack, thinking he was the top dog...but he wasn't. He was nothing more than an extremely flawed human being, who obviously used anger and brawn to get his way, because that was all he could do. Oh yes indeed - Leeroy was very familiar with his type.

"Heh..." she muttered weakly. "Think...I cry...? Nah...n'ztupid.... Zorry 'bout that. D'not treat me...like that.... I treat you...zame...iv 'ee...do...."

With that, she succumbed to unconsciousness, leaving Moritz to fume in silence.

[Moritz Erichsen]

There are people who live alone, like the neglected corn; the world around be an empty field - and they be in loneliness’s daze, like the forgotten corn. Lonely people.

He watched her fall unconscious on the floor, fuming, his veins popping out in the muscles of his arm and across his neck, on which his Adam’s apple moved up and down at least two times consecutively as he swallowed down his rage and hatred for the words she had so daringly and thoughtlessly spoken.

There are people who live alone, like the rocks of seas; the world be a spreading sea, and they be silent, bowed and alone, wind-swept rocks, lonely people.

He remembered how he had lived under cover of darkness, skulking about like a shadow that had come to haunt and startle; these at first had been far from his intentions but at a tender age he had discovered and embraced the power in his hands given from such dark and sinister qualities; and such was his innermost reaction that nothing whatsoever could ever make him possessed in a way that extinguished the fire – certainly diminished, constrained, and fading, but hardly at all extinguished the fire that was inside his mind and which consumed him completely, controlling his anger and conduct, controlling him altogether. Inextricably attached to something he could hardly understand himself, something ominous and dark-spirited, there was slow and painful recognition of what lay in the future, but uncertain up to a point and, perhaps, even indifferent. Lest the torments of years linger on him, he had unconsciously allowed himself to flee Germany before he was consumed of them permanently; and little did he know he had utterly succumbed to those weaknesses from which he had been running away from, a long time ago. He refused to be haunted by eternal regret; it was a rather complicated sensation, something even worse than love or hatred.

Lonely people like broken dry branches, like desolated churches, forgotten.

There was the past, and there was the future; the former was static, the latter promised movement. He was standing in the very middle, static, cautious, and ever so tentative, as little did he allow himself to move an inch, or he would feel discomfort. There was a choice to be made, and he could hardly bring himself up to it, let alone go all the way. The future, he had a glimpse of it, and only that – there was a glint of fear, and then silence. Absolute silence. His eyes were unmoving – what lay behind those walls of black stones? An abyss, that would never be explored, never understood, or forgiven. A static mind, corrupt, thus dangerous, but unpredictable, and perilous. Because he had many fears, he was fearless. Because he bore the image of someone having no soul, he had one, but it was vague and abstract, and could not be felt, it had no voice, and spoke no words of decency. There was no light, but no darkness either – it was very grey, and static. He knew he had to make a movement to signify his choice. The ultimate check mate. But what kind of choice? He was a part of this war, now, and forever, until he would be shot down, until he would explode into a thousands pieces by grenades, until those pieces turned to dust and were carried away by the autumn wind, until his voice would be heard no more. There was confusion, frustration, distress, and anguish; a man who would age at the end of his twenties, a man who would learn of human weakness before the time came.

He opened his eyes and looked at her unconscious body. It was cold in the shelter, and one rat suddenly appeared behind a sack of corn, making tiny noises, and then vanishing quickly back into its hole; that was the only thing to assure him he was not dead yet, that even managed to maintain a balance in his mind, and control his chain of thoughts. Every day he had to make certain he was not dead. He cleared his throat, and the echo around the tunnel that devoured him was enormous, and choked him. He was choked by his own self, and did not blame him; he even felt he deserved it, and only stood there with his eyes wide open, waiting for it. His hands were frozen, and all the pores of his body were open from the coldness surrounding the shelter, and his back hurt as he rested against the rough stone wall; it was in a dark grey colour, and seemed to sink him, even though he was standing on rough ground steadily. Yet he knew he would fall, like a butterfly had the clarity of demise one second before crashing against the windmill.

He tilted his head backwards, and waited – for nothing. An enormous cloud of fume came from his mouth and nose, and surrounded him as he smoked from yet another cigarette; he needed that to warm him, warm his heart if he had one, warm his soul if it was still there. He had his eyes closed, and his fists clenched. Until he opened them abruptly, and looked at her. Without realizing so, his fingers touched the wooden surface of the floor, closing his eyes while smoking, the fume and the wooden touch stimulating the nerves of his body and giving another enigma for his senses not to explore, but feel entirely – feel to the core of his bone, feel until he melted with it, and feel alongside a pattern of insecurity mixed with sadistic pleasure. His thin, cold fingers traced the wood, moving alongside the surface, then falling at a short gap, and rising again, slowly, like in a trance; like never wanting to be awoken from it. Then, he opened his eyes finally, and they were fierce, suddenly moving, as he stopped being static amidst his static position. It was his thoughts, those passionate thoughts, angry and bitter thoughts that prevented him from being static. His breathing was sharp.

“My name is Moritz Erichsen,” he spoke in a low rasp, staring at what his sick mind imagined as a carcass rotting on the floor. It was an unconscious inner desire to express his true identity, since after all she had shown such ridiculous disbelief towards the verity of that name, by even proceeding to mock him with that preposterous suggestion of a name. The cigarette burned in his mouth, in the same way his eyes burned in the sockets. “I grew up in the suburbs of Kaarst, Germany, and roamed the country with Evert Schering and some other boys. My objective is to kill. I grew up without a mother … or father … and learned to survive ever since I was born. The first child I killed was,” he said and paused, thinking, as he took a deep drag from the cigarette, “an unimportant fancy boy who called me a bastard in front of his mother and peers. They laughed at me and pointed at me with their little fingers before throwing stones at my face,” and as he spoke as such, the muscles in his face tautened, distorted into a hateful glare while stealing a glance at the ceiling, memories washing through his mind, but then he returned his glance back on her.

Nobody knew he had been there as a child, living underground, right under their feet, right under their noses, a scum, a nobody, but somebody who felt something, even in all is vagueness and abstraction. It was a child, and screamed. It was an adult, and screamed. It was an elder, and screamed. But he would not forget, and he would certainly not neglect.

“Why did I kill so many people? I don’t know,” he spoke softly in his harsh voice, “but I know there are many.” His eyes were cold and glassy, and something glinted in there, something bordering bitterness and sadness, as he uttered, “I know I can never be free. And … it begins to dawn on me that this is what I always wanted – to feel alive. I have been afraid of death. This is why I joined the British army, this is why I’m fighting. Sometimes I think I have no conscience, because I can sleep at night. I sleep heavily.” He took another drag. “Those people’s thoughts don’t frustrate me at night. They don’t come and haunt me, they never complain I killed them. Some even thank me,” he said, and a sharp laugh escaped his throat momentarily. “Night loves me, and I love her too. She is the only thing I love, the only thing that never betrays me. As for death, it is a mystery to watch their bodies decompose, and observe the last breath leave them, as they all go to hell, one right after the other,” he added with gritted teeth, his facial features recomposed to that of a hateful, angry glare. “They came to haunt me in other ways. It turned into a chain that never ended; one died and fell on my feet, and I would kick them aside. It was curious, how from living people they turned to cold stones, their bones melting underground.”

Those words uttered from his mouth seemed to have a most peculiar effect on him, as he came into realization that he shuddering which had enveloped his insides came from the first confession he had ever had. But what was painted in those dark eyes? It could not have been regret, certainly. He stared at her endlessly, and a smile was formed across his thin lips. “The look in your eyes now – I would want to see it. I would want to know what you’d think of me, what words would first reach your mouth. What would you say to me? I am very curious, but I will never know. You see, I killed because it made me feel alive. I watched them all die, and I heard my pulse still dancing in my veins. I watched them fall on my feet in corpses, and knew I was still standing up, strong, invincible. I felt alive!” he hissed at her, the vein popping out again in his neck, at how fiercely he proclaimed these words.

“There is almost nothing I care for anymore. I am tired. Tired of people, tired of tasks and orders, tired of breathing like a monster that needs to be slaughtered, tired of women. Tired of life.Is there anything to expect?” he asked her, not looking at her anymore but at the close window across the room. The window was closed; he was a beast in a cage, could he open the window, any window, and escape? Was there absolution for him? Could that escape give him peace? “I am beginning to doubt it, but I seek no help. I want nobody to help me. I must do this on my own or fail. I will fail, I am beginning to sense it. I am sick of everything, sick of waiting and taking away. I give very little, nothing at all, that won’t change. I like that, but it has stopped satisfying me as it once did. Few things satisfy me now; maybe nothing. I haven’t heard laughter in a long time. I don’t remember when. It was a long time ago. Maybe I never did. Maybe it belongs to my imagination, an illusion, maybe it never happened at all. I hate hearing laughter, it makes me sick, it makes me vomit. I vomit a lot, vomit and think. I envy these people’s laughter, their minds are free. I realise now that in my attempt to be free I put myself in a cage, and I can never be free,” he said thoughtfully in a slow, low tone, his eyebrows furrowed and his forehead creased. “Fuck,” he spat, and then took a deep drag from the cigarette, feeling the fume piercing at his shrieking lungs. “I did a bloody stupid thing.”

He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and when he opened them, they were burning with fiery impatience. “I don’t regret it. I don’t regret anything, as I can’t change anything, so what’s the point in regretting? Just fucking move along. There are few things I can think in this shelter, it is dark and cold. But I try to think, keep myself alive. Sometimes I forget to breathe, and then a rat runs, tries to jump over the water and drowns, and I wake up, knowing I am alive. I remember when I was eight years old, I went up in the evening when it was dark, stole some food. There was an old man and looked at me strangely. Like he knew me, like he knew who I was, and what I had done. He was sitting on a bench and talked to me as if he knew me. He even smiled at me, and told me he wanted to tell me a story. I left him there, maybe he tells the story to himself.”

Lonely people like broken dry branches, like desolated churches, like you.

“You know, I never saw my mother. She’s not even a memory to me. She simply never existed. My father, he was a sorry excuse of a human being. Just like me. Just like all of us. I met him when I was eighteen, he was proud and arrogant, and barked a lot. I only met him once, but that was all I needed. He told me many things, but there is only one thing that haunts me when I sleep, and I can never get it out of my mind. Even if I don’t think about it, it’s in the corner of my head, and pains me. I have a lot of headaches lately, and I can’t sleep.” He took a deep breath, feeling his forehead ablaze. “He told me: Erichsen, there’s only one thing worse than being one time’s mistake, and that is being a mistake that serves no purpose – no purpose at all.”

Then, he turned to look at her one final time, his eyes glinting with clarity of purpose, crystal recognition and the pain of eternity.

“So my name is Moritz Erichsen,” he whispered hoarsely. “And I feel guilty for being alive.”

Like me.

[Nathan Whyte]

Closure

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Well done, Ladies.

Moritz Seven posts, all above and beyond the call. Some of them were noticably longer than Addie's, so a wee bit extra for that (I'm not going to go line-for-line, but I could just see that) - 13CP
Atherton Six posts, all up to your usual brilliant standard - 11CP

JT or Dan should issue the CP soon-ish[/color]