Gases -- A Short Story

Chapter 3

1915

"What is this?" Clara dropped a stack of papers before her husband as he rested before the fireplace.

"Clara, I'm tired right now -- I just came back from field tests. Can it wait?"

She paced the floor and snarled, "No, it cannot wait. Why are you still testing those foul atrocities?"

The man jumped up, hot with anger, "They are not atrocities! They will help save hundreds of lives!"

"And take thousands! I tell you, I will not help you kill! We don't have the right!" She screamed, her hair snaking out of its bun as she shook with passion.

The man fought to compose himself. With a voice stiff with repressed fury, the man tried to reason with his wife. "Clara, our country requires this of me. Of us. I want the boys and the girls on the front to come home, to escape that hell in France, as much as you do. It is my duty to shorten this war with whatever knowledge I may have. If I have the ability to make Britain, France and their allies weaker and the war end sooner, I will. I will use all my gifts to help end this madness."

Clara shuddered, her form twisting in disgust away from her husband. "You must enjoy it."

"What?" The man looked at her angry form. She turned to face him, filled with defiance and her voice grew louder with every word.

"You must like it. Like watching poor, innocent people breathe in your little creations. You must enjoy watching them die cloaked in gases burrowed in those horrid trenches; watching their lungs liquefy and blood come spitting out, watching their skin blister and burn. You must like it. You are a demon of a man, a sadist, a un-Godly, unholy --"

A ringing slap interrupted her. Her gasping breaths filled the new silence. Clara's hand quivered as she raised it to her red hot cheek. Her gaze was filled with shock -- he looked down upon her bent form, waiting to see what she would do. The silence grew until her husband shattered it with his measured words.

"I will pretend that you have said nothing tonight. I will pretend that you did not doubt me or insult me. I will pretend that you are still my wife. But know that your insolence has destroyed this marriage."

He turned away. "Be sure to have my things packed -- I leave tomorrow for France."

The man marched away and the front door slammed behind him but still Clara did not move. For a veritable age, she seemed frozen and unwilling to move. Suddenly, her breaths grew more measured and she straightened herself. There was a determined gleam in her eye as she walked through the apartment to her husband's chambers.

Reaching deep within his wardrobe, she withdrew the battered suitcase and packed some haphazardly chosen clothes into the case. Snapping it shut with a abrupt movement, she turned her attention away from the suitcase and back to the wardrobe as a new and terrifying thought dawned upon her.

Clara's entire being shook with emotion as she confronted the old-fashion wooden wardrobe. It was as if the large garderobe had suddenly morphed into a vicious monster, hell-bent on devouring her soul. With  hands shaking with fear and conviction, Clara threw back the doors.

There hung her goal and terror -- her husband's military uniform. It was dark green and ironed to perfection. With a shuddering breath, she reached for the hidden flap of brown leather on the belt. Pressing cold steel into her palm, Clara withdrew the pistol. It was heavier than she expected and gleamed with sinister intent.

Watching the light dance on the silvery frame for a moment, Clara then stared at the uniform before her with loathing. The blood of many innocent lives was on that spotless dark green fabric. Eyes riveted to the spick-and-span tunic before her, she pressed the nose of the pistol  painfully into her sternum.

"Goodbye, dear."

Her finger squeezed the trigger. A resounding bang echoed in the apartment.

"Mama?"

The boy ran into the room, just glimpsing his mother crumple. Hermann clutched at his mother's gasping body, trying to push the blood back into its violating wound to no avail. Weeping, the boy clutched and pleaded with the earthly remains of Clara long after she had left the world of the living.

Hermann had lost track of time when a voice called his name from the doorway. He turned his tear-streaked face to his father's blank one. Though his voice was hoarse from mourning, he still tried to tell his father.

"Papa..."

His father threw an arm up, halting the boy's croaking speech. The man took two giant strides and was at his wife's side. Before Hermann knew it, he had been yanked upwards powerfully.

"Go to bed, Hermann."

Incomprehension slacked the boy's weary face.

"Go to bed." The man pulled the boy's numb fingers away from his mother's corpse and dragged him to the bathroom next door. "Wash then go to bed. Tomorrow will be very busy."

The man watched his son's blundering fingers grab a bar of soap. Making sure for a moment that Hermann would do as commanded, the man nodded and returned to his bed chamber.

Hermann could hear his father speaking in a low voice as he splashed water and scrubbed soap in a half-hearted attempt to remove the rusty stains all over his body.

"Oh, Clara. Why did you have to do it? What stupid thing for such a intelligent woman to do... You  know I can't stop now." The sound of a suitcase snapping open then shut and footsteps permeated through the apartment from the open door that his father forgot to close. "At least you packed my things."

The man grabbed his suitcase off of his bed, side stepping his wife's splayed corpse, her eyes gazing unseeingly at her husband. As he left his bedchamber to sleep elsewhere for the night, he shot a sardonic smile at Clara's immobile face.

"I suppose we'll both meet the British soldiers on the front tomorrow."