Creative Writing Internal

Chimneys sigh and exhale, blowing plumes into the awaiting sky. Water trickles and the rats scurry to devour the remains. Living for the job in fear of being next. Abominations, rats must be dealt with suitably. Next. Remain composed, tattooed rats shuffle in, don’t move, get ready. Lock clicks, mask on. Lock clicks, rats are gone. Darkness swamps the well-lit room, blanketing the tiles in morbid harmony. Heavy, humid, harrowing darkness, the kind found lurking in old peoples homes often accompanied by the sickly sweet stench of impending doom. All sharp, harsh angles, the absence of shadows is unsettling. Artificial light drowns the square room, illuminating all imperfections. Mould creeps along and through the grooves in the tiled walls, barely noticeable but haunting, the only sign of decay in the otherwise pristine room. Square, white, ordinary, normal. Everything should be normal, nothing out of place that could tamper with perfection. Rats are the only impurity and imperfection. Purity, purity in blood. The chimneys sigh. Next. Clutching an older woman’s hand a little girl skips in, a rat scurries in, hair buzzed but rosy-cheeked. The witching hour has struck; only children shower at night. Stepping into the stall her smile lights up the bleak block. Lock clicks, mask on. Her radiating smile falters and then falls. Just before her body does. Dead rat.

Listen. Chimneys sigh as deafening silence whispers down the hallway, the peace short-lived. Screams started up again, Death is awake, and Her presence is announced. She flourished during the nighttime, it’s impossible to be scared of the dark in the sunshine. Cries echo down the hallway, wife, husband, father, son, mother, daughter. Number. Rat. Nothing. Sorting is next and brutal. Left. Young, old, sick, frail, pregnant they would get to dine with Her. Lucky, it was painless like floating down a river bathed in sunlight until all oxygen leaves the lungs and there is nothing left to breathe except the red-hot crystals. Every breath is agony. Inhale, burns down the throat leaving a trail of blisters in its path. Exhale, straight to the heart and brain. Children collapse straight away, little hearts can’t take it. The stronger ones go into epileptic seizures then within a couple of minutes cardiac arrest takes over. Some rats try to claw the walls in an attempt to escape. A brief moment of fear, then it is all over. Right. Drawn out, every single bone is reduced to rubble, muscles groan as torn to shreds. Blood oozes through frozen veins. Dirty rat blood. Work until fingers bleed, eyes can’t open, brains screamed to stop, sleep. Work ’til Death. Purify the blood. Even worse are the “experiments”. Even rats don’t deserve that. Imagine having every single nerve in the body removed and then put back, the vertebrae in the spine shattered then rearranged, drinking seawater until forced to mutate or die. Experiment rats come to shower when they have fulfilled their purpose. They show no fear the moment the lock clicks and the crystals start hissing only relief. Broken. Dead rat.

Lock click mask on, lock clicks mask off. Routine is distracting, it must be nearly dawn yet the rats keep on coming. None quite as angelically vile as the little girl. Inconsequential scum. Pristine tiles stare casting cruel accusations, the fan spins in agreement. As the sun rises, brilliant light swamps the plain room. Accentuating the bleakness, the only decoration offered are the small, lifeless bodies that cluttered the floor before the rats wash them away. Death loves children. In her arms, she envelops them in her perfumed shadows. She smells like delicate bitter almonds with soft hints of marzipan. Her gentle bouquet of cyanide is an acquired taste. A familiar scent from hours of work. After standing in this room all night Death becomes a friend, an ally. The rats lose meaning, lose significance until no longer rats just numbers. Once something dies enough times it becomes meaningless. Humans, then abominations, then rats, now numbers.

Look. Brilliant daylight streams in through the barred glass windows. As the sun rises the stark shower stalls shimmer. Water glows as it trickles into the drain and the fan whirrs in excitement. The sun offers hope, the night is over. It’s impossible to be scared of the dark in the sunshine. Wrong, numbers walk in. Lock clicks mask on. There is no hope here, only Death. One of the numbers, waddling behind the others, is pregnant, looking ready to pop at any moment. Death will love this. The moment the lock clicks her hand goes straight to the balloon straining on her stomach. Motherly instincts kicking in, rushing to the door she lets out a bloodcurdling scream as the crystals hiss in answer, a python eyeing up its weakened prey. 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, the python pounces. Going down she writhes on the cold concrete floor. Limbs thrashing in all directions. Eyes roll back in the head as she froths at the mouth. Standing by the door is a tall figure. A bell chimes somewhere in the distance. 6 ‘o’clock, the shift is over.

Turning and taking one last look over your shoulder you see the lady finally give up, her lifeless body stops convulsing as stillness consumes her. Walking out into the bright light your swastika burns a hole into your arm as the onlooking faces stare. Striped pyjamas and shaved heads wait in line for the shower. Holding your head high, a smile on your face as the warm rays caress your cheeks, you walk past. The camp is a whirr of activity as you stroll through. Excitement for the new nation thrums through your Aryan veins beating like a war drum. A pure Germany, free of weakness and disease. Rats, scum, vermin, abominations to the nation. What do you do with pests? You remove them. Extermination at its finest, Auschwitz awaits.