There was a throbbing that didn't go away and sense of always being watched. Pietro lay on the top bunk in the crowded room, shivering as he attempted to get some rest. There was too much cold and not enough blanket to sleep. So many people never woke up because of the cold and when the patrols went by outside, he held his breath, fearing the vapours escaping his mouth or the chattering of his teeth might warrant inspection . . .
There was darkness everywhere, even during the day and it was always cold.
He was hungry too, starving. Though he remembered consuming something that resembled a hamburger before boarding the bus, he had never felt so ravenous in his life. When had he last ate? Days, weeks? Many people never woke up because they were hungry too.
Pietro curled up as small as possible on the little bed. The springs squeaked and each time his heart threatened to explode out of his chest. Would they hear? It was past curfew . . . time to sleep. He closed his eyes.
~
They walked like zombies, and maybe they were. People couldn't be that thin, that skeletal and still live, could they? The suits gave one a false sense of security, this wasn't prison . . . this was a grey hell. So many of them walked passed sharing the same face. Eyes that only saw the muddy ground. Many people never woke up because they were dead.
~
Coughing. A horse, dry sputter lifted Pietro from his faint sleep. It was night out still. Moonlight and searchlights illuminated the bunker just enough so he could make out the figure on the other side of the room. The man sat up, attempting to smother his cough in his hands. When he wasn't coughing he was sleeping.
The searchlights swept through Pietro's side, blinding him momentarily as if caught unexpectedly staring at the sun. He remembered the sun, but like a worn photograph touched by reminiscent hands one too many times, the memory was blurred and scattered. Warmth was just a word.
Was it early morning, or evening still? He had traded his watch for the thin blanket he had himself wrapped in. How long had he been here? Or could one actually quantify this? He shivered as a frigid breeze raced through the cracks of the bunker and down the aisles of stacked beds. He was so alone. The man across the room settled back in again and so did he.
~
When there wasn't coughing, there was screaming and shooting. One gunshot could mean hours of empty silence waiting, waiting for another or a banging on the door. There had been crying, but tears were a costly business. Now, there was just silence and waiting.
~
Pietro's eyes shot open as he heard the marching outside. His legs were twitching to move, but he didn't dare. There was no movement, only hanging stillness and he would have suffocated but fear dumbed his senses. He forgot how to move without thinking. You always had to think.
The troupe stomped by, the tops of their heads only slightly visible through the tiny window Pietro peered out of. As the last pair trotted by, his eyes subconsciously darted back to the corner of the bed he had previously been staring at. They would beat you for staring. A cloud of vapour erupted in front of his face as he let out the breath he had been holding. So exhausted and so hungry. Finally, sleep found him.
And there he lay, the boy who spoke of a world where Nazis and Hitler only existed in a textbook while he slept.
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