A. S. Field: Strangers

They just threw him to the ground like a rag, then closed the door again. I crouch in the corner like a beaten dog, not daring to look out from under my arms, which I use to cover my head. My nose is swollen, I can barely see out of one eye, and every muscle in my body aches from the many blows and kicks. He is silent for a long time, I don't even know if he is alive; I can't hear him breathing. I have been locked in the chamber for three days, during which time he is the fifth person brought in, beaten unconscious. The others died within a few hours without regaining consciousness. One of them only lived for twenty minutes. It will soon be light. A little light is filtering in through the high window. It is not light, but rather a thinning of the dense darkness. I crawl over to the broken body, feel his pulse and feel the weak pulsation under my fingers. He is alive, but for how long? I feel his body and head, nothing is broken, but he is covered in bruises and blood. He is strong, if he has no internal injuries, he might get away. I straighten his body, straighten his limbs, let the blood flow through them. He moans very softly, almost in a whisper, but he doesn't come to. I spread the sweatshirt over him that I took off from the one after he died. I remember that the injured are not supposed to get cold, but I can't remember whether to wrap his feet or not, so I prefer not to. I snuggle up to him so that neither of us gets cold in the early morning cold.

The thick fog covering my brain feels good, dulling the pain. It feels like a small, weak hand is grabbing me, caressing me, and then there's only darkness. Suddenly I sense light, I try to open my eyes, but I can only barely manage it. Someone whispers softly in my ear to tell me not to move, but I can't. My limbs feel like they're made of lead, and everything hurts terribly. I'm shivering from the cold and the shock, which I don't even remember, but somewhere deep in my brain I know that something terrible has happened to me, which is why my body can't move. Something is clinging to me. I don't know what it is, I just feel it wrapping itself around me. I'm terrified of it, and then I feel it keeping me warm. They're splashing water on my face, but I still can't move. Someone whispers, wiping my face. I'm cold. They're clinging to me. They're dripping water into my mouth, but I can't swallow it. My tongue is swollen, I can't open my cracked lips. Through my eyelids I can feel the light and darkness alternating between two faints. Water drips again. Fingers run over my mouth. They tear it apart. Water drips. Darkness. Light. Water. He presses against me.

Maybe he's strong enough and wants to live. He's breathing more evenly, but he doesn't move and hasn't regained consciousness once. He doesn't even moan. It's scary how still he lies. Half-dead, barely alive.

Whisper. Water. Light. Human whispers. Whispering fingers. Rubbing. He presses against me. Whisper. Water. Crying. Rubbing.

He won't survive. He's been unconscious for too long. He'll dry out, get cold, die.

Whisper. Water. Salty tears. Caressing my face, rubbing my body. She leans against me, whispers in my ear to live, to want to live, not to leave myself, come on, come on, come to your senses. She shakes my body. She jerks. She rubs. She whispers. She drips water. She washes my face.

He comes to his senses so suddenly that I'm scared. I look at his broken, swollen face; mine couldn't be any different. He's breathing hard, he's not feverish, he's not shivering. He tries to move, but he can't; I help him, I move his stiff limbs. Finally I kneel by his head, his back resting on my thigh, I hold his head with one hand, with the other I slowly pour water into his mouth. He can swallow, that's a good sign. By now the water has run out of the corner of his mouth.

The water is almost burning my parched throat. I'm not shaking anymore. I try to move my fingers first, then my arms, my legs. Little by little, I move every part of my body. I'm one. I have control over my body and pretty much my mind too. My eyes open a little, but I can't see anything. Panic suddenly hits me. I'm blind. I'm panting. I'm thrashing. I'm holding back. I'm fainting. Water. Rocking. Light. I'm not blind after all. I blink weakly.

He's still alive. It's almost unbelievable. As is the fact that nothing is broken. I help him sit up. I give him water to drink. I talk to him. He's beaten, but he's alive and well. I stuff a piece of bread in his mouth, I encourage him to eat. He doesn't chew it, he just swallows it. I give him small bites, sometimes I pour water into his mouth.

I feel the cold wall behind me. I am weak. This was unknown to me until now. I have always cared for my body, I have never abandoned myself. And now a stranger is feeding me and giving me water, like a helpless baby or a patient waiting to die. And whispering. She keeps whispering that I need to get stronger, to eat, drink, and move my body. Her impatient demands, her violence annoy me, but I know she means well. But I just want to sleep. She slaps. Feeds. Slaps. Shakes. Feeds. Drinks.

I have to give him life. Maybe with his help I can get out of here. I hope he is a decent person. Or at least he appreciates that I saved his life. That I didn't let him get cold, dry out, or starve to death. He is tall and muscular, maybe handsome, but it is hard to tell from his distorted, swollen, blackened face. The important thing is to have the strength to throw it out the window.

It's a woman. Thin, long-haired. Her face is distorted. She's been beaten too. Her face is bloody, bruised, and puffy. She whispers from a window have to climb out of. I turn toward the light, I see that it's high up. We're in a tiny room. It's not even a room, more like a chamber. It's only a few steps long, barely more than a meter wide. I turn from my sitting position to all fours, I try to stand up. The woman helps me, but she can't really handle it. I'm too big, and she's too small. I lean against the wall, my whole body shaking from the effort. I'm panting, sweating. I stumble to the window. I'm tall enough to stand on tiptoe and look out. A garden, then a meadow, finally a forest. Luckily, we're on the ground floor. I walk around the chamber, testing my body. It works, but it's weakened. I try to think, but my mind is still filled with the fog of fainting. I stagger, I have to sit down. Darkness.

I'm really afraid they'll come back. I'm even more afraid that this man won't be strong enough to help me. He's just staggering around, looking confused, even though I've been feeding him and drinking him for days. It's quiet, there's no sound. The screams, the wild laughter, the thuds and the pounding of boots have stopped. It's as if we've been forgotten locked up here. Buried alive in the company of moldy bread and stale water. Oh my God! He's fainted!

I finally slept soundly. It's night. I feel stronger, my head is clear. I eat plenty of dry bread, drink stale water. The woman just stares at me. She's huddled in the corner, looking up from there. She no longer whispers, she doesn't warm me with her body. She's clearly terrified. I try the door, but I can't handle it. The woman might fit through the window. The lock is stuck, but I finally manage to open it. She's weak, she can barely pull herself up even with my help. She almost falls out, I hear her thump, then there's a deafening silence. I pull myself up, but my shoulders are too wide, I can't fit through. I tug at the frame. Suddenly a large stone flies through the window, whizzing past my head by just an inch. A strong tree branch flies after it. At first I don't understand, then I realize what she wants. I pull off my torn, bloodstained sweatshirt, wrap it around the end of the tree branch to muffle the noise, and clamp it under the rotten window frame, then start hitting it with the stone. A few more hard blows are enough and I hear it crack. I struggle, I pull. Finally it breaks. I pull myself up. I am completely exhausted by the time I squeeze my shoulder through the opening. I hang in the air, I have no strength to do anything. I breathe gasping, bleeding from several wounds. The wall and the wood shards have torn my skin in several places. The woman is waiting, crouching on the ground; she waves for me to hurry up and be quiet. I am surprised that she waited. I thought that if I help her out, she will run away without looking back. I gather the remaining strength and push myself out. I also hit the ground with a dull thud.

We run as far as we can to the forest, panting, stumbling. He stops at the first trees, looks back, waits for me. From there we move at a forced pace. He takes my hand. He pulls and pushes if necessary. He holds me, lifts me over. We swim across a narrow river. The current is strong. Not very strong, but enough for me to be unable to cope. I pace myself, the shore is approaching, but it seems like I'm barely making progress, and I'm drifting further and further down. I lose my sense of direction, I just swim, but I don't know where I'm going. It's very dark and there's a mist over the water. Finally my feet reach the bottom. I struggle out of the water, I don't know where I am, or where he is. I don't dare shout. I'm terribly cold. It's the end of April; there's no frost, but the night is cold and the wind is blowing. Someone is coming. He walks carefully. He stops, then hesitantly starts moving again. I lie flat on the ground, barely daring to breathe. Then I see the tall, strong figure. I whisper. I cry. My teeth chatter. He pulls me up from the ground. His hand is on the back of my head. He pushes me forward firmly, but not roughly. He dictates a forced march again. My God, this is not even human! How does he have the strength to do this? And me? I stomp my feet almost deliriously, one, two, one, two.

She's doing quite well. At the river I thought she had drowned, but somehow she managed to get to shore. By the time we reach a farm, it's already dawn. She collapses like a sack on the edge of the forest. I pull her under a fallen tree and throw a few branches and brush against her body while I look around the house. It's empty. It looks like they've abandoned it days ago. They've left in a hurry. No wonder. The war is approaching quite quickly, although the mountains and the river may give some advantage to the fleeing residents. Unfortunately, the looting has already begun. Former neighbors are killing each other for their belongings. I find a motorcycle in the garage, food in the kitchen. The woman is sleeping or passed out from fatigue or cold. I am at the end of my strength by the time I drag her to the house. I lock the door. I don't dare light, lest the smoke give us away. I pull her wet clothes off, undress, and now I warm her with my body under the thick wool blankets.

Darkness. A human body on my body. He embraces me, entwines me, almost pulls me into himself. He breathes in my ear. I lie frozen in fear, terrified, but he is asleep; his body twitches as if he is fighting.

The smell of sausage scrambled eggs, bread with buns, tea and freshly brewed coffee. Her hair smells of shampoo as she bends down to put the steaming mug in front of me. She's changed. She's also found some clothes for me, and she puts them on a chair next to me. The fork in my hand trembles as I take the first few bites. I have to force myself not to stuff the food down, but to eat slowly and methodically, so that I don't vomit it all up after days of starvation. A hot shower on my skin. Towels that smell of dishwashing liquid. I don't know the person looking at me in the mirror. Of course I've been like that before, but not this much; after all, I'm a soldier. I was. Now I'm a deserter. It's a wonder they didn't kill me right away. These are the days of the end of the world, when man is a wolf to man.

He eats slowly, almost ceremonially. He chews and swallows leisurely, but he doesn't enjoy the flavors. Maybe he doesn't even feel them, he's just concentrating on the food itself, which means life. The strength to escape. He's definitely a soldier. At least he was. His strength, endurance, purposeful behavior, and the fact that he muttered, "Captain, thank you," in his sleep all point to this. After washing, in his clean clothes, he looks like a handsome man. Except for his face, of course, which will never be the same again. His nose is broken, his eyebrows are cracked, and there are several deep cuts on his face. My face and body have suffered theirs too. I haven't looked in the mirror yet.

Her hair is beautiful and shiny. Dark brown, like her eyes. She is thin, like a teenager, almost all bones. She is not beautiful, but her reserved, yet courageous tenacity, her will to live, gives her a strange, sublime charm. If our faces weren't the way they are, we could be an ordinary couple having breakfast together. But the sunlit dining room is a stark contrast to our wounds, our startled twitches, our silence. We may have two or three days, then we must move on. I hope we have enough fuel to get to the sea, and from there by boat, up north, where there is a lot of new land since the ice melted. There, perhaps, I can live out what is left in peace. It would be nice if she came with me, but I cannot force her. I have had enough of the violence for a lifetime. I have seen my family die, my comrades. I have seen a man shed the thin veneer of civilization and become a bloodthirsty brute. I saw and experienced the torture, the humiliation, the senseless violence, the death. I know now that I did what I was ordered to do, it didn't go down well with myself or the world. Mothers, children, fathers and brothers on the ground soaked with blood, their eyes staring into infinity. The screams, groans, wails and dying groans creep into my dreams just as the captain stands there in the hail of bullets, giving his life so that his four remaining men can escape.

He said we would stay for three days. At least he wouldn't stay any longer. This was the first time he had spoken to me. He offered to go north with him, but he left the decision to me to make my own. Maybe I would go with him. Why would I stay? I can't go home; home doesn't exist anymore. Parents, husband, children are all in the past. What I lived for is dead. Then it doesn't matter where I am? My soul will never be easy, and life is life everywhere. This man can protect me and is strong enough to work. He hasn't touched me or the drinks in the pantry, unlike my husband and father-in-law. I start packing what I think I need from the things I find in the house. A sewing kit, bandages, painkillers, soap, towels, a set of bed linen, warm clothes, food, two pots, a frying pan. There is more than enough food in the freezer and pantry. I just bake and cook for three days; mainly meat and bread. We try to eat a lot, but not too much, to get stronger. We sit down to eat at the beautiful oak table several times a day. On the last day, I pack the freshly baked, cooled meat, bread, and potatoes for the trip. I put canned goods, chocolate, cereal bars, nuts, apples next to them. Anything I can find in the pantry that doesn't need to be cooked. I pour strong coffee into a large thermos. He assembles the engine, cleans it, and lubricates it. He greases and packs the tools he found in the garage. He goes into the forest three times a day to look around so that we don't get surprised. Every night, he sets up the traps he found in the garage by the door and windows. He sleeps downstairs in the living room, he gave me the upstairs bed, but I don't dare to be apart from him, I'm scared, so the first night I went downstairs to him. Without a word, he let me go to the sofa and lay down on the quilt spread on the floor. He has a black eye.

The motorcycle is in good condition, its tank is almost full. It's a good big motorcycle, it will handle the little trailer I found in the barn. It's not even a trailer, more like a small metal cart that they put together at home. I also found fuel in a can, so it will definitely last until the sea. It's a shame that only the motorcycle is there, judging by the tracks, the family took two cars, but we can still take everything we packed. The woman is very homely. She is hardworking and cooks well. She does things in the kitchen with practice. She packs the basics of a new household without a word, practically. She sleeps with me in the living room. When I heard her footsteps coming down the stairs, my heart skipped a beat. Not from desire, but from embarrassment, that this tortured body was now offering itself, and I couldn't touch it, because all I could think about was what her brutal captors must have done to her. Despite the desire, pity would have held my hand back. I was relieved when she curled up in the armchair. Of course, I gave her the sofa. Even lying on the floor, I could smell the clean scent of her hair.

Last day. The departure. We arranged everything, packed it, loaded it. In two small backpacks, maybe they were for children, one red, the other green, I pack water, food, bandages and medicine in case for any reason we have to leave the motorbike there and continue on foot. I am afraid, but I also hope, although I cannot say what. Maybe my new life, if not make me forget it, will sink the old one deep into the depths of my brain, from where it will never emerge again. And that this tall, black-eyed man will be more decent than my husband was, who offered me to the rascals who were destroying our farm in exchange for his life. But at least his sweatshirt kept this beaten, tortured stranger warm.

At dawn I pack everything and tie it to the trap. We shower one last time, have a hearty breakfast. She writes a thank-you note to the family in case they come back, and apologizes for robbing their house. It's a nice gesture, though it doesn't make much sense. She stands hesitantly by the motorcycle, as if she's wondering whether to get on or not. I put the helmet on her head, pulling it tight, like I did for my son when I sometimes took him for a ride around our farm. What a ringing voice he made. I push the memory away. I mustn't think about him. Not my daughter's wheat-blue eyes, her dimpled chin; nor my wife's golden hair, her warm smile. I can't think about them if I don't want to roll around on the ground screaming, mad with pain and anger, cursing people, God, the whole world. My heart has only been able to break into pieces once anyway. I watch this serious-faced, hesitant woman listen as she finally makes up her mind and gets on the motorbike. Maybe one day I will see her smile.

THE END