Hi Muchachos !

I wrote this fic in French a few days ago and today I decided to translate it as best I can for you to enjoy.

I'll post soon because my story is over but I do not post all at the same time for you to enjoy more.

I'm sorry for grammatical mistake, but I do not have beta so if someone wants to offer me coriger, I thank him and make me sign by PM.

So thank you to be indulgent and try to focus on the story. Or if you prefer I post in French, you see ;)

Human wickedness escapes me.

Many things on earth beyond my limited understanding, but this surpass everything else.

How can a person take as much pleasure to see another suffer? It always amazes me.

May God forgive their souls which are surely lost a long time ago, probably at the beginning of this war.

And me, how could I even speak of the creator while I'm there, hands tied at the wrists with rope already abused rough cutting my circulation, kneeling in the mud, no part of my body untouched by abuse that has become my daily, the sunlight flirting with my wounds attracting insects.

A toy for some, meal for others, an empty shell for myself.

I wait my turn by setting right in front of me.

I hear the enemy laughing when a man prays his mom and then I do not know why, I think that BA, he showed me a picture once.

Obviously I cannot think mine did not even know what she looks like.

But Mom Braracus, according to some stories that guy had shared these words seemed as strong as his son.

Oh make no mistake; I'm not talking about physical strength, but that they were both at the bottom of them.

BA always taken care of me in his own way and even more so since we are here in this hell, this bitch POW camp. Simply by being there.

He calls me his little brother despite our differences, and I must say I love it.

Yet he himself would need moral support no doubt, despite his impressive muscle mass that is lost with the passing days.

It is in poor condition itself.

We all really.

Whether physically, mentally, see both, whatever, we are all on the ropes.

But some had long since given up. They were left to die, or a semblance of attempted escape just for the privilege of final bullet in the back. Their escape in their own way. Another form of suicide.

Being educated on how hardline Catholic, although at the moment I do not think anything really, suicide is not an option.

Then I must be strong for the rest of the team.

Why you ask? Because I have always done with all those around me as if I had to prove something, not necessarily to them but to myself.

Since my childhood I hide my unease, I do not really know why. Maybe because nobody really had the time and inclination to worry about me or simply because I did not deserve this right especially after realizing that my own mother had abandoned me.

So I do.

Yes I am worried for them and try to make their captivity more bearable, as if that was possible.

I smiled at them from time to time to reassure them, as soon as the opportunity presents itself anyway.

I try not to cry when it's my turn to an examination to ensure that they are too scared.

I watch over their sleep to bring them back to reality when needs and to assure them that all is well, or will be fine.

I play my rogue seducer card for a little more water or food for their well-being, I managed to get drugs once. . .

Yes. I do it for the others showing no emotions of my own but it is exhausting.

I do not really have the strength. I lose more.

Hannibal, my Colonel, is stronger than me, most probably related to professional grade and age. Moreover, he calls me Kid. He says I'm still a baby's skin and he is probably right in since I am one of the few that does not, or very little, have facial hair. He says I have a face like that and also with my smile I can get everything I want, then he plays, I play, everyone does.

Face became my name.

Face!

For what remains.

TBC or not ?