Ashes to Burn (Work In Progress)

Ashes to Burn - Chapter Seven

***This story is intended for mature audiences, as it contains graphic violence, gore, coarse language and some sexual content. Viewer discretion is strongly advised. 

December 13th, 2015

03:30 hours

Starker's Shaft, Russia

There was a separate room in the cabin, so I grabbed the first aid kit in the corner and lead Rachel in. The bed was rusty and some of the coils had sprung up through the dusty mattress. I saw Rachel take one more glance out of the door at her brother lying on the table, before I shut it. I beckoned for her to come closer to me. She stepped with caution. Right now, she looked roughed up and hurt, unlike a few hours ago, where she had us all at gunpoint.

“Take your jacket off, please.” I said softly. The water in the bathroom sink was a bit clouded, but came out nevertheless. I filled some in a basin I found in the bathroom and returned to where Rachel was sitting on the bed. I sat down next to her, lightly putting my hand on her un-grazed shoulder. She relaxed a bit at my touch, but her eyes still didn’t move. 

As if she was paralyzed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked gently. She shook her head. I nodded, understanding, and brought the kit closer to me.

“Do you need help taking your jacket off?” I prodded. She looked at me. The fire I saw her amber eyes before was gone, replaced by a dull brown shade. I waited as she slowly took off her jacket. She winced as she tried to get her arm out of the left sleeve.

“Here.” I murmured, lifting the sleeve through her arm. She let out a soft moan when it came off. I put the jacket on the floor and looked at her bloodstained shirt.

It was probably white before, but now it was grey and red, black in some areas. Around her neck were her tags. 

Lt.02 Rachel Ann Shaw - 2000.

She was fifteen. 

At first I couldn't believe it, that people her age, and Martin's age for that matter, were out here fighting. She was only a teenager, why the hell would she be out here? I swallowed hard and opened the kit. She looked up at me, her bottom lip caked in dry blood. I turned my gaze back to her shoulder. I instructed her to take her shirt off. 

As it came off, I could see countless scars and burn marks. I felt my heart sink as I traced my hand over her rough, scarred skin. I dipped a cloth in water and wiped it over her shoulder wound. The minute my towel touched her skin, she flinched away.

“It’s gonna hurt. Just think, the quicker we do this, the better.” I said supportively. She resisted my touch again, but then she clenched her teeth and allowed me to do my work. As I ran the cloth over her skin, I noticed a burn scar that stood out. On her right shoulder, was a baby angel; a cherub. It had two shotguns slung over its shoulders and had a cigar in its mouth. That wasn’t what attracted me to it, though. It was the marking on the helmet that got me. It was a Swastika.

The burn scar of a Nazi concentration camp. 

I stopped wiping. I put the towel back into the crimson water and ran my fingers over the scar, and immediately she flinched. It must have been recent, because the scar was red and it was deep.

“Where did you get this?” I asked softly. She stayed silent for awhile. I went back to her shoulder wound, trying to see if she would break the silence. I cleaned the wound and then turned to face her.

“It’s best if I know.” I said. She looked at me, and I saw something flash in her eyes. She took a deep breath and looked down at the wooden floor.