The Body in the Shed
Misleading title, perhaps. But this story is based off the second world war and the atrocities of the Holocaust. If you are one of the few who believe it did not occur, then I strongly recommend you leave this story immediately. This is rated where it is because of abuse, death, torture, mentions of rape and sexual assault, mental trauma, and references, innuendos, or similarities to historical tragedies. So unfortunately for all those looking for it, this story does not contain any scenes of smut or lemons as they are often known.
If you are sensitive to topics like these, I suggest you stop reading at this point.
If you've ignored me and become offended, then it's on you. Sorry, but I did warn you.
The Body in the Shed
The sky was grey and the air was cold, just like any other day. The war raged on, as it had for months- bombs being reported having destroyed entire villages in enemy territories, deaths being listed as routinely as victories in games of chess, hundreds being slaughtered for their views and racial standings. It was just like any other day- smoke billowed from the army base, from the fires at the execution camps, from the chimneys of those living peacefully while their sons fought for their lives.
Pitch Black had grown used to the normalcy of chaos. Seeing soldiers drag innocent young girls away to be raped, beaten, and killed at the camps, hearing the screams of the people as they died, smelling the rotting stench of decay on everyone on the streets. It had become second nature.
One of the lucky young men to not be taken off to his death, and too old to be taken to war, Pitch Black was a hardened veteran to battle. His years of service had left him with severe breathing difficulties and nearly constant pains. The nightmares and guilt were not diagnosed by a doctor, but they were always there. His physical limitations left him as simply another mind to discuss battle strategy. A general of some sorts. He was lucky. He never forgot that, and never took that for granted.
When he went out of his house, young wives and mothers would sob upon seeing him. Why is such a young man still here but mine was taken away, they would cry. Why… He never had a real answer. He just tried to get by and prayed not to feel sorrow.
More often than not, he never felt anything. In some ways, he reveled in the insanity. He adored the blind stampeding through the streets, the shouts of men who knew not why they were shouting in the first place, the very lowest examples of human nature. It brought him back to his ancestors- all the humanity they had to face- and it made him nostalgic more than anything. It was his life, and this was theirs.
Snow had just recently fallen. It left the otherwise grey town a shimmering canvas of blank: soon to be splattered with red and black by the brush of guns and smoke. The snow looked most beautiful this way- pure, untouched by man. Much like those being taken to die… They were most beautiful before the soldiers got a hold of them and broke them- they were innocent, they were pure. All the bodies were defiled by cruel men who blindly followed orders.
As he stood on his porch, wrapped tight in his black pea coat, Pitch sighed sorrowfully at the horror. An old beggar woman was nestled at the edge of his fence- nearly frozen to death. Retreating back inside, he searched for a blanket and brought it to her. He gave her money as well, hoping that she could find a way to survive.
Times had fallen. Times were hard. Even Pitch, once a rather wealthy man, was reduced to barely a middle-class standing. He was one of the lucky ones. So many others were so much worse off. And often times they turned to him, pleading for help, for food, for clothes, for anything he could provide. He would provide only when there were no soldiers to be seen and he was not likely to hear from them during that time. He could do nothing when the men with their guns marched down the road and made camp in his home to discuss attack strategies. He could only sit and watch as the people who turned to him turned and ran instead.
Standing, watching the old woman wander to a stand to buy food, Pitch let his gaze fall to the snowy earth. What world was this? Not the one he was born in… No…
Slowly his eyes began to trail across his small yard. Rabbit tracks…squirrel tracks… twigs from the trees. It was odd to find animal tracks, now that everything was being killed for food, but his eyes noticed another oddity that was more pressing. Footprints… Bare footprints…
Moving slowly through the white powder, Pitch stared down at the imprints in the snow. Yes, they were bare footprints- who would be walking through the snow without any protection for their feet?
Someone who has no choice…
Carefully, his eyes trailed after the prints- landing at the front of his small brown shed. Furrowing his brow, Pitch glanced carefully over his shoulders, both left and right, and seeing no sign of soldiers, he made his way toward the small hut.
Reaching a hand out slowly, he pulled the key from within the hollowed tree beside the shed, and made to unlock the door. He paused at the shouts from the street- soldiers were marching down the road. He turned his head to watch, making sure they would not stop at his home, but the men simply marched through, shoving stragglers out of their way and barking orders at bystanders.
Still he waited. He waited until he could no longer hear the stomp of their boots. Carefully he turned the key, noting that it was already unlocked, and pulled open the door of the shed.
Light flooded into the dark space hungrily, exposing the tiny movement behind his pile of boxes to his eyes. He reached a hand up carefully and took a flashlight from one shelf before closing the door to the shed and flicking it on.
The artificial light had a more yellow glow, but it still illuminated what he needed to see. Walking slowly, Pitch approached the boxes and inched around them, pointing the light directly onto the figure curled there.
Wide blue eyes blinked up at him- eyes filled with sheer terror- and Pitch quickly felt any thoughts of attacking the intruder slip from his mind. It was a boy. He looked to be no older than eighteen. His stark white hair had an unnatural hue to it, as did those blue eyes he blinked. The boy held his hands in fists close to his chest; a natural reflex to make a sort of wall between them, and he shivered with fear as he stared up at Pitch. His pants were brown with ratty and brown with mud, and the pathetic fragments of his shirt were flimsy shreds hanging loosely over his thin frame.
Pitch could see how malnourished the boy was- ribs prominently shone in the light- and he felt pity for his suffering.
Kneeling down, Pitch held out a hand to the boy, who only glanced at it quickly and returned to staring at him like a cornered animal. He offered the child a tender smile, whispering softly, "Don't be frightened… I won't hurt you…"
The boy's lips quivered before he spoke. And when he did his whole body trembled with the effort. A weak, but deep, voice said, "I need to find my sister…"
"And how old is she?" Pitch asked, going along with the boy in hopes that he could gain some of his trust.
"Ten," the boy replied. Inwardly Pitch knew that there was very little hope for her. The youngest were killed as quickly as possible.
But, he nodded silently and asked in a gentle coo, "And what does she look like…?"
Touching his hair, the boy said, "She has brown hair… Past her shoulders…" Shivering, he touched his cheek and whispered, "B... Brown eyes…"
Pitch nodded slowly, watching the boy show him. Smiling a little, he said, "Well, I'm an acquaintance of one of the men who runs the camp nearby… Is that where she is…?" The boy nodded with a quiet whimper.
"I'll head there as soon as I can to look for her, kay…?" he whispered, smiling warmly at the boy. The boy smiled a little and nodded. Offering him his hand again, Pitch asked, "Would you like to come inside with me…? It's much warmer there, and I'm sure you'd be more comfortable… How long have you been out here…?"
"Last night…" the boy said, glancing from Pitch's eyes to his hand and back, "I ran away last night…"
"What happened to you…?" Pitch asked, "Your hair and your eyes… They don't look like yours…"
The boy whimpered quietly, curling in on himself as he said, "Th… They ran tests… Wanted to see if my hair and eyes could change if they used chemicals… They… they wanted to test my sister, but I asked for it to be me… Couldn't let them hurt her… Couldn't… I couldn't…"
Carefully, slowly, Pitch moved to touch the boy. The shivering child gasped softly in worry, but Pitch's hands moved to gently pull him into an embrace. He seemed grateful for the warmth of another body; quickly the boy melted into his arms, sobbing quietly and trying to nuzzle into his warm, foggy breath.
"I'm going to take you inside now, alright…?" Pitch whispered, adjusting his arms to lift the boy up. The boy nodded weakly and Pitch began walking him to his home. Not risking being seen by anyone, let alone soldiers, he went in through the back and took the child right to his living room, setting him by the fireplace.
Quickly the boy relaxed in the warmth. His shivers subsided and he seemed to liquefy on the couch. Pitch placed a blanket over him and asked if he was hungry.
"Very, yes," the boy whispered, pulling the blanket up to his chin. Pitch nodded and brought food out to him. Unsure of what the boy wanted, Pitch simply brought him a small bundle of everything. Meat, fruits, vegetables, and desserts. Most all were warm.
He set a tray out before the boy, whose eyes seemed to glow with wonder at the sight. With a light flush to his cheeks, he thanked Pitch and lifted some of the meat to his mouth. He ate rather fast, and Pitch, at one point, had to place his hand upon the boy's leg and say, "Easy now, you'll get sick if you eat so fast…"
The boy nodded and slowed his pace. After he had eaten a fairly large amount, Pitch decided he could ask him a question. The first was basic.
"What's your name?" he asked, gently rubbing his hand up and down the boy's leg.
Swallowing, he said quietly, "Jack. My name's Jack…"
"Jack…" Pitch repeated quietly. "I see… And, Jack, what's your sister's name…?"
"Emma," Jack replied, with a quiet swallow, "Emma… Emma Frost…"
"Frost…" Pitch repeated, nodding slowly. "Very good…" Jack ate his full, and leaned back with a satisfied smile. The smile faded, however, at the sounds of soldiers shouting out on the street. A look of fear replaced that happy smile.
Swallowing, Jack tried to hide himself in that blanket. Pitch rubbed his back tenderly before saying, "Jack, listen to me." He looked at him with his unnatural blue eyes and Pitch said, "I'm going to go find your-… Emma," he corrected himself, now knowing the girl's name, "I'll go now, and I want you to stay right here until I get back… Don't walk to another room, don't move to a different chair, don't answer the door for any reason, do you understand?" Jack nodded and Pitch continued, "If you disobey I can't guarantee you won't be found out and harmed…"
Again, Jack nodded. And with one nod of his own, Pitch got up and headed out to find Jack's little sister. He brought with him a big huge bag filled with potatoes, in case he needed a way of transporting the little girl. His feet crunched in the snow as he walked.