Warning: This chapter has violent parts toward the end, so just a fair warning.
Estelle's words cycled through Francis' mind over and over while he carried her to the hospital as quickly as he could. It was only a few blocks away, but the journey felt miles long. Every second that passed felt like an eternity, and the sound of his boots slamming against the stone street echoed eerily into the darkness that pressed around them both. It was a darkness so thick and heavy and silent that Francis could have sworn that it would reach its cold, dead fingers into his mouth, down his throat, and fill his lungs, suffocating him.
They were the only ones on the street at this ungodly hour. The only ones awake. Two bodies: One filled with fear, despair, and shock; but the other? Completely devoid of anything. She was empty. There was nothing.
-x-x-x-
When Francis threw open the doors to the hospital, everything happened too quickly for him to attempt to process. Nurses came out of nowhere, asking questions, yelling things, sliding metal carts, drawing curtains. They drug Francis to one end of the room and down a white hallway, then into a small room where there was a row of beds that were separated by curtains on either side. Nurses told him to lay her on the bed. He did. They asked him what happened. He said he didn't know, just that he walked in and saw her like this. They asked him who she was. He told them.
"She's my sister. Her name's Estelle, Estelle Bonnefoy." His voice was shaking, and tears were streaming down his cheeks. "Please, can someone please tell me-"
A nurse, whose gray hair was pulled up into a severe-looking bun and whose face was hard and unfeeling pulled him aside and said, "Sir, I'm going to need you to step out and go to the waiting room. Someone will be out shortly to update you on her condition." Before he even realized it, he was standing in the hallway, and the nurse had slammed the door.
"Hey!" Francis yelled through the glass at the nurse, who didn't let on that she could hear him. The other nurses did the same. Estelle had not moved a muscle.
He tried the door handle, but it wouldn't budge. "Hey!" Francis banged on the door with his fists, trying to make as much racket as possible. "Let me in there! That's my sister, I need to be in there-get your hands off of me!" Two other men had grabbed Francis by his arms so hard that it hurt and begun to drag him away from the door, back toward the waiting room and the front entrance. "No, stop! Get off me, you swine! Estelle!" Francis fought with everything that he had in him, but both men were larger than he, and their grips were firm. They had almost dragged him completely down the hallway. "Estelle!" Francis was now screaming. The words ripped through his throat, and his voice dripped with sheer and utter desperation. The door to Estelle's room was nearly out of sight. Only a couple of feet left until he would be in the waiting room, cut off. The words spilled out of his mouth and tumbled onto the floor, shattering against the white tile like broken crystal. Spittle mingled with salt water.
"Estelle! Je suis désolé! Dieu me pardonne! Je suis désolé!"
The door shut.
-x-x-x-
When the sun rose, its soft pink and gold light pushed its way through a hospital window, revealing specks of dust that floated freely all around. It cascaded down over a beige armchair that had clearly seen better days, and it bathed the miserable man sitting in that miserable chair. The man's blonde hair was a mess. His face was pale. Dark circles were drawn under his eyes, which were normally as blue as the sky but today were cloudy with lack of sleep and despair. His fingernails had been chewed down to the quick, and a couple of his fingers were caked with dried crimson. He fiddled with a hole in the cushion of the left arm of the chair, sticking his fingers in the hole, pulling out the stuffing, then cramming it back in, only to remove it and replace it again. Someone had brought him a cup of coffee sometime close to three or four o'clock in the morning, and it was still sitting where it was originally placed on the table to his right, untouched and cold. Thoughts raced through his mind, each one more awful than the last.
This is all my fault.
If I hadn't gone out on that stupid flight, then none of this would have happened.
If I had come home earlier, then Estell would be alright.
Why did I have to leave her alone?
Why couldn't I have said "No" to the flight, then we wouldn't be here.
This is all my fault.
Who could have done this?
Why?
I don't understand.
When I find out who did this, I'm going to kill them.
This is all my fault.
A door on the opposite side of the waiting room squeaked open, sharp and clear, and Francis jerked his head up and jumped to his feet. The nurse that stood in the doorway beckoned another person who was waiting, and Francis sat back down slowly and dejectedly. He sighed and rubbed his face with his palms, then rubbed his hands together absentmindedly. How long they were going to make him wait there, he didn't know, and every second that he sat there, he felt more and more helpless.
The door's piercing squeal brought Francis back to the moment, and he scrambled to his feet. Surely they would call him back to see Estelle now.
The nurse didn't even glance in his direction, but headed to the nurse's desk to hand off a clipboard of papers to the nurse behind the counter. She walked back through the squeaky door again, oblivious to Francis.
Francis slumped back into the chair, frustrated and tired. When is Adeline going to get here?
Within seconds, the door opened again, its squeak cutting through the near silence of the waiting room. After being disappointed twice, Francis looked up at the door again, expecting to be let down once more. In the door stood Adeline, her long blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail, in a pristine white nurse's uniform.
"Francis."
Her voice, saying his name, nearly sent Francis over the edge. He stood up shakily, gripping the arm of the chair for support. "C… Can I…"
Adeline nodded, then stood aside from the door, beckoning him into the hall. Francis strode quickly across the waiting room and through the door, and Adeline swung the door closed behind him. The click of the door closing echoed loudly down the brightly lit hallway. Francis dared to ask the dreaded question.
"How is-"
"She's asleep right now. We gave her something to help her sleep, she's been through a lot. After the beating she recieved, she's lucky to be alive." They were now standing in front of the door to Estelle's room. "I'm not even supposed to be doing this, but I'm going to let you in there for a minute. When I say come out, you have to come out, or I could lose my job. Got it?" Francis nodded. "Alright, go. The charge nurse shouldn't be back for a couple of minutes at most, I told her I would hold down the fort while she got something to eat. I'll knock on the door when you need to go." Francis nodded again, and Adaline opened the door to usher Francis in.
There she was. Oh sweet Estelle…
The only sounds in that room were the sounds of the machines beeping, Estelle's ragged and shallow breathing, and Francis' own pounding heart. He walked slowly to the side of the bed. His footfalls were entirely too loud and were out of place in that room.
As he stood over Estelle as she lay asleep on the bed, his tears began to flow down his cheeks anew. His lip quivered, and he sank down to his knees at her side. Ever so gently, he took up her slender hand in his and kissed it tenderly. He had no words for her, and he was glad that she was asleep. He didn't know how long he sat there watching her sleep. Looking at her in this state tore at his heart. He wished that he could take it all away from her. He wanted to take her pain. Oh, what he would do to switch places with her. His beautiful sister, reduced to this…
A quietly urgent knocking sounded from behind him. Francis pursed his lips and stood to his feet. He placed Estelle's limp hand back down on the bed at her side before leaning over the railing and kissing her forehead, which was dampened with sweat. He rested his forehead against hers as he whispered, "Je t'aime, Estelle."
Francis straightened up and quickly left the room, but not before glancing back one last time. Estelle had not stirred from her drugged sleep. Her broken and bandaged body lay undisturbed upon the sheets.
-x-x-x-
Francis and Adeline stood together in a corner of the waiting room.
"You need to go home and get some sleep."
Francis shook his head. "You didn't see what the house looked like. I'm not going back there."
"Okay, don't go back home. I don't care where you go, get a hotel, go to a friend's place, go to my house for all I care, just sleep." Adeline put a hand in Francis'. "Please. For me. You need to rest."
Francis glanced down at Adeline's hand in his and, after a moment, he looked into her eyes and nodded. "Okay," he whispered, his voice strangled with grief. "Okay."
Adeline smiled grimly. "Alright. If there's anything I can do, please tell me."
Francis put his hands up to cup her face tenderly. "You've already done it."
-x-x-x-
Francis left the hospital, and, not knowing where else he could go, walked slowly back home. A light drizzle had started, and soon his disheveled hair and eyelashes were coated in a layer of shimmering silver. Only a few people were on the street, but they were going about their business, not bothering to notice a miserable man walking down the street with his head down and hands in his pockets.
While he walked, Francis thought. He thought about Estelle, he thought about Adeline, he thought about what he was doing for the Resistance. He only thought about Estelle for a moment before redirecting his thoughts to Adeline. Thinking about his sister right now hurt him too much. So, he thought about Adeline. She had become something all her own to him over the past few months, different from any other relationship he had ever had with anyone else. She was unique. She made him happy, and with her, he could never imagine being with anyone else. No one else mattered when he held her, and the rest of the world melted away with her kiss. She was something he had never seen before, and such a rare thing that he knew that if he ever let her go, he would never find her equal, even if he spent the rest of his life searching.
Entirely too soon, Francis stood in front of the door to his house. It took an entire minute to work up the courage to open the door, and then another after that to step into the entryway. The destruction of the living room greeted him, and by now, he was completely numb. He walked in slowly, the wooden floor creaking with each step, until stood in the middle of the living room. He stayed there for probably ten minutes before seeing something by the sofa. It was silver, and glinted in the morning light. Puzzled, Francis strode over, stooped down, and picked it up. As he drew the silver thing up to his face to examine it, he turned it in his hand. A German Death's Head lay in his hand. Its empty black eye sockets stared up at him mockingly.
The rage that ignited in Francis' chest was unlike any that he had ever felt in his life. He began to shake. He tried to breathe, but couldn't. He couldn't think. He could only burn with rage.
A rage unlike any other.
A rage that drives men to kill.
-x-x-x-
Francis found himself in a Resistance safe house forty-five minutes later. With the Death's Head resting on the wooden table before him, he explained everything that had happened to Estelle to his fellow fighters, not leaving out a single excruciating detail. "She said 'There were five', and those five left evidence." He pointed to the Death's Head that was on the table, a clear look of disgust on his face.
For a moment, no one said anything, until one man, a dark-haired Frenchman that went by the name of Jean Canou, pushed his chair back and stood. "Well, me and a couple of guys got our hands on something you might be interested in."
Francis turned to look at him. "I'm listening."
Jean glanced at the men to his left, almost as if he were asking for approval, before turning back to meet Francis' gaze.
"We have someone we need to interrogate, but I think you'll want this one."
Francis sat up straight in his chair. "Who?"
"German. Officer. Name's Helmut Kämpfe."
"How far?"
"Three and a half hour drive."
Francis grinned. "I'll take it."
Jean grinned widely in response. "I had a feeling you'd say that. We'll leave in five."
-x-x-x-
Francis walked into the house about nine, followed by three other men, one of whom was Jean. A tall man with slicked back chocolate hair greeted them. He appeared to be in his early thirties.
"Georges Guingouin," Jean said, "meet my friend, Francis Bonnefoy."
He extended his hand for Francis to shake, and his smile was genuine, but Francis decided there was something off about him. He just couldn't exactly tell what it was.
"Heard you have Kämpfe here," Jean remarked.
Guingouin nodded. "You heard right."
"You interrogated him yet?"
"Some, but we haven't gotten anything out of him so far."
"Well, Bonnefoy here has a certain knack for extracting information."
Guingouin raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Really?"
In reality, Francis was no better than any other man when it came to interrogating, but he figured he'd get farther if he just went along with Jean's plan. "Oui, monsieur."
Guingouin gestured toward a door behind him. "See what you can get out of him."
-x-x-x-
Helmut Kämpfe was in bad shape. He was already bloodied and bruised all over his body, and his throat burned from thirst. The rope used to tie his hands behind his back was tight enough to draw blood if he fought it too much, and his stomach gnawed on itself. He didn't move when the door opened. He only shut his eyes against the light that streamed in from the open doorway. A light was turned on above his head. Mein Gott, here we go again.
Francis sighed as he opened the door. The odors of blood, vomit, urine, and feces assaulted his nose, and he paused before closing the door behind him and Jean. He turned to Jean, who nodded, before starting.
Francis strode over to the hunched shape in the middle of the small room. He stood before him, silent, for a moment before opening his mouth.
"I know exactly who you are, but I want you to tell me for yourself."
Kämpfe didn't react.
Francis waited three seconds before sending his foot forward, connecting with Kämpfe's skull with enough force to crack bone. Jean flinched. Kämpfe yelled and fell to the side, but said nothing. A steady stream of crimson flowed from a gash on Kämpfe's temple.
"I said," Francis repeated calmly, "I want you to tell me who you are for yourself."
Kämpfe looked up at Francis from the concrete floor just as calmly. He sneered. "Kommen in die Hölle, Französisch schweine."
Francis' German wasn't perfect, but he knew what exactly what that meant, and it gave him an idea. "I see we understand each other then." Francis smiled. Without breaking eye contact with Kämpfe, Francis spoke to Jean. "Tell Guingouin that we have an uncooperative prisoner."
Jean turned to leave, but Francis stopped him first. "Tell him I can take care of this one." Jean nodded and left. He returned a moment later, accompanied by two other Resistance members. "Guingouin says take him out back for it." Francis nodded and left. The two men that came with Jean hauled Kämpfe to his feet and dragged him out the door. Francis glanced at the pools of human misery on the concrete at his feet before turning and following the men out.
-x-x-x-
Outside, it was only Francis, Jean, Kämpfe, and the singing birds in the trees. Kämpfe was standing as steadily as he could in the grass, facing Francis and Jean.
In Francis' hand, he held his pistol.
Kämpfe tried to face Francis with no emotion, but his legs shook ever so slightly under his soiled trousers. He had been in this position many times before, but he had always been on the other side of the barrel. Facing death now, he was afraid. Francis could see the fear in his eyes. He could practically smell it on him. It made him smile. How ironic, Francis thought. Quite poetic, actually.
Kämpfe tried to bargain with the two Frenchmen. He knew it was humiliating, but he decided that it would be better to make it out of here alive and humiliated than to lie dead on the ground with pride intact. "You don't understand," he said, a slight tremor in his voice. "I am a very important man. You must know that."
Francis was not impressed. "I know just how important you are. And frankly, I don't care."
Kämpfe was legitimately shocked. That avenue's shot. Plan B then…
"I am a wealthy man back in Germany. I have money, property, women, you name it and it's yours."
Francis laughed out loud. This was getting to be quite funny. "I don't want your money, I don't want your things, I don't want your bloody women." He raised his pistol so it was level with Kämpfe's head. "What I want is you dead."
"No, please, just be reasonable for one second, I beg you-"
"Shut up."
Kämpfe was now shaking uncontrollably. "For the love of God-"
"Don't insult my god by saying his name."
Tears were now streaming down Kämpfe's face. "Please… Don't…"
"Why should I show you mercy? You never did."
Francis cocked the pistol.
"See you in Hell."
He pulled the trigger.
The crack of the gun echoed through the safe house and over the green hills surrounding it.
Kämpfe fell to the ground. His eyes were glazed over, wide open, terrified. Dead.
Francis lowered his pistol and handed it to Jean, who didn't speak.
The birds stopped their singing.
Everything was silent.
Francis felt nothing.
Oh Francis... Dear Francis...
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