Henri Narr stood inside a carriage. The sound of the wheels of the train sounding out. The tempest of the wind as it passes by. The wind smashed on the window panel. Cold air seeped through the cracks and into his pores. The wind howls continuously without forgiveness. The clock on the wall the same as always. Pain crashed through him and he had knelt. It tormented him. Oh God, he thought, squirming, saliva dripping down his neck.
Who do I live again?
No answers. He stood and forced his body up. The months of torture still pained him. His body burned as if the wounds never went away. The feeling of the cold prickling the tips of his fingers were lessened. Phantom pains were all over him and he didn’t know whether he should scream or he should not.
Why am I back in this single point in time again? Why?
He reached for a pen inside his coat. He took the cover and stabbed it straight to his heart, blood pouring out of his chest, painting his shirt red. He laid on his pool of blood. Please, let me sleep, he thought.
The sound of wheels crashing through cold metal sounded. The gust of snow startled him away. He looked down and saw that there was no pool of blood. The pain that riddled his heart seared him. The clock on the wall stayed the same. The luggage he had felt heavy. The train sounded out. Metals were clanking together as they rolled through metal.
Why do I live again, Henri said, pleading. Tell me. Why am I still alive again?
The world didn’t give him answers. The pain of torture and the stab to the heart remained. He walked to the door and locked it. He blocked it with the furniture, the oak chair, and the four-legged square metal table, blocking the way. He slumped on the bed with his luggage on the floor. He watched the floor intensely as if hoping for answers. No answers. Only the gunfire that rang through the carriage walls. The rails screeched and the train was driven to a sudden halt. He was almost thrown away, only his legs planted, that he had stopped. The lights on the side of the flickered and the room turned dark. The snow howled louder without the billowing smoke and the barked of the wheels.
Gunfire sounded and screams of the Cadets rang out. There were bashing on the doors and his door was hit loudly. There was another sudden kick and yet the barricade didn’t budge. He heard gunshots as the fringes were opened. It won’t work. He had blocked the door tightly and he made sure of it. The knocking of the door continued and it didn’t end. The drums inside his head sounded out louder, a roar of a predator mocking his head.
“Open up!” The voice bellowed. “Or you will be shot!”
He turned his eyes to the door again. Only for a bit and he went back to the floor. The door continued to be smashed and smashed until the furniture was pushed, and a gap allowed them to pry the door open. The masked soldier hurried, grabbing his shoulder. He glowered at the soldier, pulling the soldier’s wrist, and twisting it with one single motion. Then, he pushed the back of the head, of the soldier, forward on the bed. The masked man resisted before he limped unmovingly.
He took the rifle, pistol, vest, and shoved the soldier out of the bed. He went to the side of the wall and aimed at the door, his knees acting as a brace, allowing him to shot anyone without missing. He stared at the sights and zeroed in without thinking. No thoughts. No nothing at all. He just aimed and waited while the events outside happened. He waited, and waited, and waited, until a soldier came in, only to be knocked unconscious by a rubber bullet pushing his throat, making him limp on the floor.
The shouting and the screaming died out. The trained moved again and he still did nothing. Still staring at the door with the rifle pointed to whoever enters.
A figure strode in, his hand with a rifle, and yet he couldn’t see the rubber bullet coming for his throat, the downed man on the floor was too much of a distraction, and he twisted on the floor, writhing in pain, before knocked out by a rubber bullet to the side of the head.
The train halted and there were noises in the front of the carriages. The sound was not doused until he heard a conductor’s shout. Boots smacked the metal floor and gasped were heard behind the wall. They hurried in, turned to Henri Narr, and looked at the Instructors who had unmasked themselves.
“Son, lower that rifle,” he said. “The test is over.”
Henri Narr threw the rifles and leaned on the wall. His eyes still looking through the Men. His thoughts were lost and he couldn’t care. He couldn’t start his mind, as if a quagmire was swallowing it, disabling him his head. Why bother? Why? The men settled him and locked his arms, escorting him outside, his luggage held by an officer. He was stowed to the front of the station, eyes still blank, and unmoving.
“Recruit!” The voice barked. “Give me fifty you deaf!”
Henri Narr gave the voice a straight right hook. The owner of the voice kneeled, falling on his back. He still stared at the floor, unmoving, uncaring about the gasped and the hushes of those around him. Then, he felt the weight of a man, pushing him down, face planted on the stoned floor.
“The test is over, Cadet! What the fuck are you doing?”
No words came out of his mouth. The voice clicked his tongue and he was listed up, eyes pointed at the floor. He heard the clink of metal as his hands were forcibly bounded behind his back. More talked from somewhere and there were dagger-staring eyes pointed at him. He didn’t work his legs and let the arms stole him away from the station.
Why do I live again?