[Fic] Diary Entries
A-ahh hm. Well. This is a journal entry from Francis’ journal after the end of WWII when Arthur is trying to rehabilitate him. It’s… from my own personal head cannon- so stand alone I’m sorry if you don’t understand it ;n;
Head-cannon: During the French Occupation Francis was kept bound and blind-folded in a dark, dank basement. His blind-fold never got removed until after Paris was freed. Why? They wanted to.
Anywayyyyy onto the fic! (forgive the terrible mellow dramatic speech.)
---
July 16th, 1945
Memories of my country’s occupation and my own imprisonment still haunt the forefront of my mind even in my recent freedom. My wounds still ache and my protruding ribs do not allow me to forget the experiences I suffered there. But even as I write this- I finger one scar in wonderment- The scar that will forever remind me I am nothing less than a nation- Less than immortal.
The scar that marks the very day I died- And yet- God or whatever force that created us would not take me from this earth.
I remember the day I obtained this scar with perfect clarity. I sat in the same chair that I had been in for a terribly long time, my eyes still covered with a crude blindfold, and my mouth stuffed with a disgusting gag to prevent me from keeping everyone awake with either my sobs or screams.
The tapping had started again- I had learned to recognize the pattern by this point and I could determine that this set of tapping was not of Ludwig’s or his soldiers, but one that I had only heard when I was about to be particularly badly beaten. A chill ran down my spine as I attempted to swallow, a feat impossible due to both the gag and my dry mouth. This tapping never spoke- So I could not discern the attitude of this him or… her I suppose it could have been. The other ‘tappings’ I could read- they spoke to me; sometimes they would have an apologetic tone and sometimes they would have one of enjoyment, a few times I could even recognize the drunken slur that many German soldiers seemed to have. But at least I knew what was about to happen to me, with this one- I never knew. I knew the pattern well.
Even now, safe and sound in this small cozy cottage with Arthur curled up next to me, the rhythmic tap, tap, tap of boots on the cold cement floor continues to haunt me. He’s trying to help, I know he is; but I can only wonder if he even knows what I’ve been through. He’s been lucky- no, strong- he’s been very strong. He hasn’t been forced down on his knees before the Reich and forced to serve another, he just doesn’t know. I’m glad he doesn’t.
That day was the first time he spoke to me. He spoke in German like the others, so I couldn’t understand what he was saying at first; I knew the tongue, but refused to understand it. Funny how you can make yourself forget a language when you do not want to hear what is said. But then he started talking in English and all too soon I caught onto what was going to happen to me. And… beyond my better judgment I put a name, a face to that tapping that day.
“So Franny, ready to die yet?”
Was all he said to me, was all he needed to say to me to trigger the instant realization of just who had been giving me some of the worse beatings in my stay. I felt my hands start to tremble behind me and I wished, I prayed, that he would take the gag out of my mouth. The German- no, the Prussian that I heard walking in front of me that I had once called ‘friend’, who I had held so dear, was responsible for this? I knew that wars and a nation’s duties came before personal feelings but even Ludwig had managed to take some pity on me; I knew he didn’t enjoy this, it was simply his job. Like all soldiers.
But there was no mistaking the pleasure in Gilbert’s voice that day- the pure enjoyment dripping from his words. He wanted to do this, he was happy to see me suffer and to squirm underneath his mud-caked boot.
He yanked the gag from my mouth, and as soon as I was able to speak again I asked him a simple, weak, watery question.
“Why?”
And he answered me, just as simply:
“Because, Franny, It’s fun.”
One of the things I pride myself for is being able to read a person well, even just by voice. I normally can pick out lies easily; but, this time I told myself he was lying. There was no way any human being, any nation could willingly do this to another and not feel remorse, any sympathy- not if they still had a soul.
So I did the most sensible thing I could think of at the time, I bowed my head, and I started to cry.
“Oh c’mon Fran,” he said. “It’ll be over soon right?”
I could hear the cold, mechanical click of a German Lugar in my ear and the only thought that ran through my head was whether he would shoot me between the eyes or through the heart.
My mind could still visualize the blazing white hair, the cocky red eyes and the marred, pale skin that made up Gilbert Beilschmidt. He had never been an overly kind person, and he could get violent at times when his ‘awesomeness’ was challenged, but never, not once did I ever think him capable of something of this magnitude.
The Prussian yanked up my dirty, matted hair before I could think anything else and I felt the cold steel press up under my chin hard. I heard a small click that I knew to be the hammer of the gun, now ready to fire.
“Please Gil…” Was all I managed to say, and to my great surprise it worked and the cold metal left my skin as soon as it had come.
Quiet laughter echoed through the small, dank room and I could picture the smirk outlining Gilbert’s features perfectly. I still can at this moment, and it sends chills through me. I don’t think that image will ever leave me, even if it was purely mental.
And I had a right to be afraid because within the next few seconds a loud, earsplitting bang echoed through the room, replacing the laughter with dead silence. I could feel nothing; nothing but the warm, sticky liquid seeping into my mouth and into the front of my shirt.
I was dead. And Gilbert Beilschmidt had killed me.