"I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank."
- Langston Hughes, Life is Fine
-
I've washed and I've changed and now I have to knock myself unconscious. The final hope. I am all out of time and all out of second chances. I need this to work.
The clothes they've given me are a nurse's uniform. A Red Cross nurse's uniform. That seems like some cruel sort of karma; I told the paratrooper replacements I was a nurse for the Red Cross and now I suppose I am one. I hate this. I hate it all.
I'm sitting at the small desk in my cell and I have cried and screamed and clawed at this desk so many times but now all I want is to carry on writing. Only now can I remember a million more conversations I could've transcribed, a million more hugs from Tom or smiles from Gene or laughs from Will or eye rolls from Martin or jokes from George. But it's done. I've finished and they won't let me add anything more because as far as they're concerned I've confessed everything I know. My pile of confessions sits just out of reach of my left hand and now I want nothing more than to tear it all to shreds just to spite them.
The guards are talking behind me, just like they always do. They're cackling at the thought that they'll have a new prisoner to taunt tomorrow - someone else will occupy this cell, not because I'll be dead or free but because I'll be in a KZ. It's worse than death. It's worse than anything I can imagine. How have I been so unlucky that both of my number one fears have come true?
Afraid to grow old. That was one of my original fears. How fucking arrogant I was. How stupid. I would give absolutely anything to grow old. Anything and everything. I want to grow old so badly I can't even tell you. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.
I keep trying to hold my breath and it's not working. My body won't let me hold it for long enough. With my heavy exhales after each attempt the guards will work it out soon enough. No time, no time, no time. Think, Juliette. How else can you do it?
Provoke one of the guards? Get him to knock me out cold? No. They're too cruel. They'd make sure to keep me conscious. Smash my head against the end of the table? Don't think I'd be able to do it hard enough.
I'm all out of chances. All out of hope. All out of prayers. I've prayed and prayed and prayed, just like my mum always told me to do when I needed help, and all my prayers have been met with is indifference. A whole lot of stone cold nothing. Nothing but more torture.
One final attempt. One last chance.
I inhale a tiny amount of air as opposed to the large gulps I've been taking. I'm banking on the hope that this will speed up the process. All there is to do now is wait.
Hold it.
But it burns.
Hold it.
But I need air.
Hold it.
But my head really hurts.
Hold it.
But my lungs are screaming.
Hold it.
Hold it.
Hold it.
What comes next will be worse.
Hold it.
Hold it.
Hold it.
Ho