Footsteps in the mud

Content Warning:

This story contains graphic descriptions of physical suffering, war, violence, death, PTSD, and emotional distress.

'I couldn't think straight.'

He said looking down at his hands. I said nothing back but could feel that he had to justify himself. 'If you were in my shoes, you wouldn't have either,' I said nothing, for he was probably right.

.***

'I couldn't think straight,' the journalist's gaze shifted down to my hands. 'I was numbed, with the cold and with the fear...' I swallowed, the metallic taste of saliva rolling down my throat. 'I can still feel the cold now,' I felt my fingers going numb.

***

'I can still see it all so clearly,' he said. His gaze drifted to the old clock hanging on the wall behind me. 'The rhythmic ticking seems louder tonight,' he said, gulping. His eyes flickered to mine before floating back to the clock, almost as if seeking comfort in its steady, unchanging motion.

***

The journalist looked confused by my looking at the clock but the ticking provided a strange solace for me, a constant reminder that time moved forward, even when my memories felt trapped in that harrowing moment. The faint light from a nearby lamp casted shadows that danced on the wall, reminding me of the events leading up to that day.

***

He began his story again. I adjusted my laptop on my knees. 'I think I should start from the beginning,' he said, his hands trembling slightly, fingers interlacing nervously. 'It was 1945 and me and my squad were taken prisoner by German soldiers. We were put in a basement, with little food or water for seven days. I remember the light bulb above me would flicker, casting fleeting shadows on the wall across from me.' He took a deep breath, his voice faltering momentarily, before continuing.

'The air was thick with the musty scent of dampness and my spine pressed against the wet basement wall. The clamminess of it sent cold shivers down my skin. Distant artillery sounds mingled with the whispers among the prisoners beside me—fifteen souls, former soldiers, now shackled and huddled in the darkness. But the lack of food or water wasn't the worst part,’ he said, almost choking on his words. 'It was the cold. Not exactly ice-cold. It, it started with a tingle, like pins and needles, almost harmless,’ he said whilst looking down at his hands. ‘At least that’s what I told myself. I told myself it was temporary, a fleeting discomfort. But the hours dragged on, and the tingle turned to a burn, a fierce, unyielding flame beneath my skin. I couldn't think of anyone else. I could hardly see anyone else.' he shifted in his seat.

'I tried to ignore it, to keep moving. Up and down the room. Though the pain grew unbearable. My toes, once pliant and responsive, became stiff and lifeless. It was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. I felt the bones inside my feet grinding together, a sickening crunch that resonated through my whole body. The flesh around them swelled, stretching tight and taut, threatening to burst open. My toes still curl whenever I think about it,’ he confessed.

‘My boots, once a refuge from the cold, became prisons of torment. Then came the numbness. At first, it was a relief—a merciful break from the pain. But it was deceptive. My feet were dying, nerves giving their final gasps before surrendering to the cold. I couldn't feel the ground beneath me anymore. I would stumble, tripping over invisible obstacles. My skin turned from red to purple, then a ghastly white. The line between life and death blurred on my flesh. When I finally removed my boots on the seventh day, the sight was worse than the pain. Blisters, large and fluid-filled, covered my toes. Some had burst, leaving raw, weeping wounds,' he stopped for a second, his hands going over his mouth, almost like he was trying to stop himself from choking.

'Sorry,' he said.

***

'Don't apologise,' the journalist said to me, but I could tell from his eyes that he was disgusted. Still, I continued my story.

'My skin was mottled, a patchwork of sickly colours. Black spots hinted at necrosis, the flesh rotting whilst it still attached to my body. I remember trying to inspect them, the stench of decay filling my nostrils, a nauseating smell. But then, the church bell reverberated through the walls, something which had not happened before. Accompanied by a clammer of footsteps above us. I looked at the men around me, their faces as utterly bewildered as I'm sure mine was.' I smiled, trying to find some light in that part of my story.

***

He smiled, as if amused by himself. 'And for a moment, I completely forgot my feet were rotting,' he let out a small chuckle which quickly dropped. 'Though before I knew it, a masked guard seized my hands, pulling me up a narrow staircase, to the courtyard above. I remember the back of my ankles roughly hitting against the hard steps. The sun pierced my eyes and the of smell decay, mocked us, telling us that would be our fates soon. The mud melded with the wet leaves beneath our feet, making squishing sounds that made my stomach turn.’ He paused.

***

I shifted in my seat, not daring to look at the journalist across from me.

This is the hard part, I told myself.

 ‘I glanced to my right to behold my brother's frail figure being dragged upward. I had been so enveloped in my own pain I hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t beside me. Rain started to fall. The small droplets, hitting my already cold skin. I was numbed, with the cold and with the fear. They attempted to prop him against the broken building, the rain cascading down his back, a chilling baptism. But his knees buckled before him, landing him in a puddle of mud. The guards, uncaring of his struggle, forced him to stand, the cold stone biting into his bare, bruised feet.’

***

He stopped talking. His eyes lost all light. His gaze shifted downward, unfocused, as if looking into a void only he could see. ‘There was silence,’ he said, the corners of his mouth, which had been slightly upturned, pulled downwards, forming a tight, thin line. ‘We all waited. Just waited for something to happen,’ his brows knitted together, creating deep furrows on his forehead. ‘My eyes never once shifted from my brother,’ he said, his cheeks losing colour, becoming paler, almost as if the blood retreated in response to the emotional toll of the recollection.

‘Never once,’ he repeated, his voice tremored with his lower lip, a brief, almost imperceptible quiver. His jaw tightened, the muscles clenching as he struggled to maintain composure, but the effort only accentuated the tension etched into his face. ‘But I lost all composure,’ he said. ‘The world before me merged into a blurry landscape.’

***

‘What are you going to do? I remember shouting. What are you going to do to my brother? I remember the words tore from my throat, my vocal cords straining.’ I said, surprised I could still remember it all so clearly.

***

‘My vocal chords straining,’ he said, he looked surprised by his own words before continuing. ‘Everything around me disappeared into the chaos. Blurred faces turned towards me, some blank with shock, others contorted with fear or anger. I remember my hands shaking violently, the tremors coursing through my entire body. My tears felt hot on my cheeks, mingling with the sweat of my panic. My brother's form was the only constant in the maelstrom, his face completely pale and eyes wide, mirroring my own terror. He looked so weak, so vulnerable. I couldn't bear it. I remember the world turning upside down on its axis. Literally upside down. I remember stumbling forward, my feet slipping from the mud beneath me, driven by a primal need to reach him, to protect him from whatever horror was unfolding.’ He looked back up to the clock, staring into it, as if he could see it happening before him, like a movie.

‘But then, as I moved, everything exploded. The noises, the movement. There was shouting all around me, a chorus of voices blending into an indistinguishable roar. I remember my own screams piercing in my ears. It was a desperate plea that seemed to fall on deaf ears. But someone grabbed me, their grip harsh and unyielding, dragging me back. I fought against them, digging my nails into their flesh, thrashing my body. I had to get to him. I had to stop whatever was happening. The panic in my heart was a living thing, a beast that gnawed at my insides, leaving nothing but raw, bleeding fear.’ The energy in the room changed, growing heavier, as the gravity of his story settled. I felt myself shift in my chair, yearning to know more.

‘But I was struck down,’ he said his jaw tightening. ‘I fell into the cold mud. My head hit the ground but I felt no pain, I was beyond that.’

He closed his eyes. 'Two hands pulled me upwards, forcing me to stare into my brother's eyes. I couldn't look away, no matter how much I wanted to. His eyes, which were usually so full of life, were now hollow and glazed over with fear. I felt my breath hitch in my throat, each inhale was more difficult than the last. The guards were barking orders, trying to control the chaos, their voices harsh and guttural, but the words were lost on me. All I could focus on was my brother, standing there, trembling and soaked to the bone.’

‘Then,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper, ‘one of the officers stepped forward, I remember his boots crunching loudly on the gravel before me. I had never been more scared. He looked at me, then at my brother, and back to me. And then he said it.’

‘The officer's voice cut everything like a knife. Choose, he told me. His eyes locked onto mine the entire time. One of you will die. The other will be set free. Choose. The words didn't register at first. They floated in the air, they felt nonsensical and impossible. My mind struggled to process them, to make sense of the situation. But they sank in, hitting me with the force of a tidal wave. The world seemed to narrow down to just the officer and my brother, everything else fading into a distant blur.’

‘I couldn't breathe,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘I couldn't think. How could I choose? How could anyone choose? My brother and I had been through so much together. We had survived so much, clung to each other when there was nothing else. How could I condemn him to death? How could I let him die?’ A tear escaped his eye.

‘The officer's impatience was palpable. He stepped closer, the stench of his sweat and leather invading my senses. Choose! I

remember him barking at me, his hand reaching for his pistol. Or I will kill you both.’

‘I wanted to say something, to beg for mercy, to find some way out of this nightmare,’ he continued. ‘But no words came. My throat was dry, my tongue like sandpaper. I looked at my brother, his eyes wide with terror, and I knew I couldn't do it. I couldn't choose. I didn’t want to die.’

‘I remember the officer’s cruel smile,’ he said, his voice dropping to a haunted whisper. ‘He knew he had broken me. He relished in

it. But then, everything changed. My brother, he stepped forward,’ he let out a haunting sob.

‘You can stop,’ I said quickly, but he cut me off.

‘No! Not now,’ he replied in broken sobs, ‘I’ve said too much. My brother took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked the officer in the eye. I choose myself, my brother said, his voice steady despite the fear that must have been coursing through him. Let my brother go. And in that moment I hated myself. More than I ever thought possible. The officer chuckled, a low, menacing sound that I still remember to this day. So be it, he said, raising his pistol.’

‘I fought,’ he said, his hands shaking as he relived the memory. ‘I fought with everything I had. I kicked, I screamed, I begged. But it was no use. The officer had made up his mind. The guards held me back, their grips like iron. I watched, helpless, as the officer aimed his gun at my brother. I watched as he pulled the trigger. And I watched as my brother fell, crumpling to the ground like a rag doll.’

‘I remember the sound of the shot, the way it echoed through the courtyard,’ he said, tears streaming down his face. ‘The sound of the gunfire shattered the chaos, and the courtyard became a painting of horror. I watched as my brother's lifeless body joined a pool of blood and wet leaves. I remember the way my brother's body jerked, the way his eyes went blank. And I remember the cold, the terrible, biting cold. It was over. It was all over. The rain, it did not care, it continued to fall, and I was dragged by my heels to the basement below.’

He fell silent, the weight of his story hanging in the air like a dark cloud. I didn't know what to say. What could I say? The horror of it all was too much to comprehend. I reached out, my hand trembling, and placed it on his. He looked at me, his eyes red and raw with tears.

‘I didn't take his place,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘I couldn't do it. And I'll never forgive myself for that.’