I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
*Fair Warning: This chapter is rated 'M' and extremely unpleasant but I cannot apologize for it.*
Dachau
"Good morning, Mr. Harrison. My name is Huck. Huck Finnigan. I'm a nurse here."
The patient does not react, does not look, does not speak.
"Is it alright if I sit down?"
Huck hadn't really expected him to.
So he sits down anyway.
Nice and easy and calm.
Right across from him.
Full face on.
And waits.
The patient, sitting in a chair, is facing the window.
Serene vista of green grass and blue sky and distant ocean spread before him.
And Huck is sure he sees none of it at all.
Martin Harrison.
Wrapped warmly in a sweater over his hospital pajamas.
Blanket over his lap.
Socks and slippers on his feet.
Breathing in, breathing out.
Silent and still, just like Peter.
But, . . .
"Beautiful day. Would you like to go outside?"
. . . in Huck's humble opinion, . . .
"Fresh air might be nice."
. . . also decidedly not.
And the man does not speak.
And so Huck . . .
I'm not going away.
. . . waits.
It takes a full forty-six minutes.
But it being Huck's day off . . .
"-here, Huck?"
"Oh, just checking in on a patient."
"On your day off? Aren't you just a doll?"
"No, Agnes, not really. Just doin' my job."
. . . he has all the time in the world.
And so . . .
"Wh-"
. . . he has waited.
And has been . . .
"Wh-what happened to your face?"
. . . rewarded.
"What, this? Same as you. The War."
No reaction.
"Yeah. Not really minding my surroundings, I guess. Nazi scumbag got the drop on me."
He's speaking casually but it will always be an effort to tell this tale.
"Put his Colt 1911 right up to my temple."
An effort. But necessary.
"The gun jammed."
At least in this instance.
"Then a mortar blew him to hell and took half my face with it."
And then he's quiet.
The man across from him does not speak, eyes returning to stare miles and miles out the window.
And Huck lets him be.
They sit.
Another long while passes and the light moves.
But Huck doesn't.
Not yet.
Not q-
"The smell of the bodies was the worst thing. At least that's what I thought at the time."
Martin Harrison's voice is raspy and low.
"I was wrong."
Huck imagines it must have been some time since he has used it so much.
"We got into the camp and the stink was worse. So much worse. The bodies. The excrement."
The man speaks slowly, haltingly.
"I got to thinking I might get sick."
As if every word, every syllable, is a crushing, strangling effort for him.
"And then I saw them."
Maybe it is.
"The people."
And Huck does not move, does not breathe.
"They looked like skeletons, they were so thin. I didn't know how they could still be standing."
For fear of breaking the spell.
"The guards saw us, saw our guns, our forces. They saw our faces. Some of them tried to fight. Some tried to run. Some dropped their guns and begged for mercy."
He only watches and listens.
"We killed as many as we could. Just shot them to pieces for what they'd done."
With his one good eye and his one ear.
"I think the OCs saved a few to interrogate later."
And his entire scarred and shredded heart and soul.
"The people. They were so thin. I didn't know how they were still alive, they must be so hungry."
Even though it hurts, it hurts, it hurts so damn much.
"And there was this . . . little boy standing by himself. He was filthy, his cheekbones stood out like shrapnel trying to cut out against his flesh. No shoes. No hat. No coat. It was cold. Too cold for him to be in such thin clothing."
But he must listen. He must.
"I went over to him. Dropped my gun, my rucksack, everything."
Because this, this right now, is the very most important thing.
"I took off my coat, put it on him. He just looked at me the whole time with these big, dark, empty eyes."
Of all the important things.
"It was, it was like he didn't know I was real."
And the thin man continues . . .
"People were talking, people were screaming and crying and wailing. People were wandering lost. People were kicking at the dead bodies of the soldiers, calling out for their loved ones."
. . . to slowly, painfully talk.
"But this little boy was just standing there, all alone."
Huck doesn't want him to continue, doesn't want to hear it.
"And I thought it was all too big, too awful, too much. I couldn't fix it all. I could fix any of it. But I could help him."
But this is what he came here for.
"I took a, a candy bar out of my rucksack, unwrapped it. Baby Ruth."
And he hopes it is exactly what needs to happen.
"He just stared at it like he didn't know what it was. He never moved."
For this man to reach out in the black pit of his despair.
"I took a nibble to show him how good it was, that it was . . . safe to eat. I think I was crying but I was smiling too so he would know I was a friendly and wouldn't hurt him."
And find a hand willing . . .
"I offered it to him, this little boy with his head too big and his body too small from starvation."
. . . to reach back.
"I broke off a piece and put it in his mouth. He closed it and just stood there."
People don't want to hear these darker stories of war. They are unpleasant.
"Then he opened it again and I handed him the candy bar. He just, he just shoved the entire thing in his mouth and closed it and just started chewing it up."
They don't want to hear of the struggles, the pain, the anguish.
"Just, just staring at me with those big, empty, dark eyes."
The rage, the soul-decimating moments.
"When he opened his mouth again, his tongue and all his little rotten teeth were covered in chocolate and he looked like one of my little nephews at Christmas."
They only want to hear of the bravery, the nobility.
"I, I thought he might like some more chocolate and I would give him everything in my rucksack if he would just be okay-"
The righteous glorified victory.
"And then he just sort of . . . seized up. His entire little body went rigid and his eyes rolled up in his head and he just sort tilted over."
The things that, for lack of a better term, so much easier to stomach.
"I went to catch him and his hands were like claws and his body was shaking like it was trying to tear itself apart. He was making this weird 'guh guh guh' sound in his throat."
And so they mean well, they do.
"I started screaming for help, calling out to anyone. But everyone was screaming and crying and yelling and calling and I sounded just like everyone else . . ."
But they reject. They isolate.
"He died in my arms. Right there in the same mud and shit and filth that we had been trying to save them from . . ."
They demand more than the survivors, any of them, should be asked to bear.
"He died. And I lived."
The horrors. The devastations. Alone.
"And I can't . . . I just can't . . ."
In silence.
"I don't deserve . . ."
And then the man who killed the little boy stops talking.
And Huck Finnigan . . .
I just got my half face burned off.
That wasn't nothing.
. . . can't think of a single damn thing to say.
"Thank you. For talking to me, Martin. Mr. Harrison."
That doesn't sound like total bullshit.
I wrote this chapter and the previous and the following in a two hour block one afternoon.
I just wrote and wrote and wrote.
And then I found I couldn't touch it or even look at it for a solid month afterward it upset me so much.
I say this to relate that I did not just write this for shock value. It actually means something. It's actually about human beings. It's actually about their pain and loss and regret and survival.
Just so you know.
Anyway, thank you to DinahRay for previously reviewing.
