I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
The Thin Man
There's a man here, a new patient.
Tall. Dark.
And extremely, extremely thin.
Gaunt.
Emaciated.
His name is Martin.
Martin Harrison.
He doesn't talk.
He doesn't interact.
He doesn't sleep.
He doesn't eat.
And it shows.
His mother has brought him here.
A roundish, petite woman, probably a touch older than Huck's own dear mother.
". . . know, he just . . ."
And very, very . . .
". . . never the same . . ."
. . . worried for her son.
". . . him? Please. I just . . . I just don't know what else to do . . ."
She has collected every penny she has.
In the hopes that this place of healing people have been talking about, so different from so many others, can finally, finally help him.
Her only son.
And she . . .
". . . back, just . . . different . . . please, please . . ."
. . . is begging for help.
". . . help him?"
And, yes . . .
". . . our best . . ."
. . . of course, . . .
". . . promise anything, mind you . . ."
. . . they'll try.
"Oh, I know but . . . I've heard so many wonderful things about this place and well, . . . this is the first hospital I've ever seen run by a woman before, Doctor Bucket."
"Nurse. But, yes, it is a new day, you know, and we'll do what we can."
"Thank you, oh, thank you-"
And she, Mrs. Carl Harrison, grabs Betsy Bucket's hands, squeezes them so tight that Huck, standing at attention to the side, handsome side of his face presented, sees the uniformed woman wince.
"Thank you so much-"
And try . . .
"Yes. Well. There, there."
. . . to deal with this rather distraught and emotional . . .
"There, there."
. . . human being.
The preliminary intake is complete.
Thirty-three year old male.
Six foot, one inch.
One hundred twenty pounds.
Heartbeat, thirty-seven beats per minute.
Blood pressure, seventy over thirty.
Brittle nails, brittle hair. Dry skin.
Near constant shivering.
Prone to fainting spells, mental confusion, according to his mother.
Also, according to his mother, extreme lethargic and fatigued.
And yet refuses to sleep.
"-Harrison, Mr. Harrison, can you hear me? Can you tell me what day it is?"
And, as mentioned, speak.
"-son?"
Huck watches all this with a careful, studious eye.
And says . . .
"-room and make him comfortable. And double portions at supper."
"Yes, Nurse Bucket."
. . . nothing.
"Did you see the new patient?"
"Yes. I heard he was skinny. Really thin."
"He is. He's the thinnest person I've ever seen."
"Well, what's the problem with that, then? Just tell him to eat."
"I know. I mean, I wish I could be thin. Everything I eat goes straight to my hips."
"What hips, Gladys? You've got a great figure."
"Only because I eat like a bird. Paul eats like a pig and nothing ever goes to his hips."
"Well, Paul is really a pig so-"
"Gladys!"
"What, he is. You say all the time he grunts when he-"
"Ladies."
"Oh. Head Nurse Finnigan. Hello."
"Gladys. Bernadette. Let's keep the personal conversation confined to the break room please. Our patients are people too."
"Yes, Head Nurse Finnigan. Sorry."
He has looked through the paperwork.
Not exactly sure what he was looking for.
But finding it . . .
Oh god.
. . . anyway.
War veteran.
The man is a war veteran.
The War.
Huck's . . .
"-vate Finnigan, reporting for duty."
. . . war.
Oh god.
U.S. Seventh Army's 45th Infantry Division.
Liberators of Dachau.
Dachau.
Huck, whilst laying in a hospital bed, medicinal cloths over his mangled face, had heard the whispers, murmurs, desperate confessions of hurting, dying soldiers.
Work camps, they called them.
Hell on earth.
The abandoned railroad cars filled with putrefying corpses.
Thick, foul smoke hanging in the sky over the crematory chimneys.
The unfathomable conditions in the camps.
The sick, churning rage of the American soldiers.
The subsequent merciless slaughter of the German guards.
And the prisoners, oh, the prisoners.
Walking, emaciated skeletons of men and women.
Somehow still walking, still talking, still breathing and moving and surviving.
Among the piles and piles and piles refuse, of rotting, stinking corpses.
Discarded piles of clothes, suitcases, personal effects.
Haphazardly tossed here and there near the end, when things had started going so very badly for them all, prisoners and guards alike.
And the American soldiers.
Appalled, dismayed, desperate to help the living dead.
So much so that they gave these walking skeletons the entireties of their own meager, tasteless food rations.
Pressed it upon them, insisted.
Begged.
And succeeded.
Won.
And some of the prisoners, systems shocked after so long without any real sustenance, had dropped dead where they stood.
Freed. Saved.
Liberated from the black, rolling machine of Nazi death and destruction.
Only to be accidently killed by those very same saviors.
Before they even stepped foot outside the camp to which they have been sent to die.
And Huck . . .
Oh god.
. . . thinks he might know.
"-k? Are you okay? Is something on your mind?"
Grace's gentle voice comes to him from across the miles, the leagues, the long distances from here.
All the way to broken, wasted land of the former Third Reich.
And Huck Finnigan somehow manages to find a smile for her nevertheless.
"Yes. I'm fine."
It's not a good smile.
"You're not eating your lunch. Would you like some of mine?"
But it's the only one he's got, that smile.
"No. Thank you. It's fine. I'm just not feeling very hungry."
And she seems to take it.
"Oh. Well, alright then."
Even if she doesn't really seem to believe in the sincerity of it.
If you need a visual reference point for Martin's physical condition, think Christian Bale in The Machinist.
And like that movie, there will be some dark content ahead in coming chapters.
But I have to respect this fictional character and the real people he is based on.
So please bear with me and it will get better in time.
Thanks to DinahRay, Conbird, and LittleBabyFox (seriously, cutest name ever) for so graciously reviewing the previous chapter. You are very kind. :)
