The Medusan Experiment

The year was 1916, and the world was occupied with the harsh reality and tragedies of the Great War. I arrived one afternoon at the trenches on the northern end of Ypres, within the province of West Flanders, located in Belgium. Most of the country was under German occupation, with the exception of the Western Front.

I had been working with the Belgian resistance movement. My name is Nathan Westbrook, an American scientist. I was sent to Ypres to attempt to diagnose an unknown chemical that was being utilised by the Germans against the Allied forces stationed on the Western Front.

The journey was perilous, and the Germans were vigilant about all trains passing through Belgium. I had travelled from the adjacent province in France. Along the way, I contemplated what type of unique chemical could cause such massive casualties on the battlefield. Its catastrophic effects revealed the veracity of war—its insatiable madness and cruelty.

Once at the hospital, where the wounded were treated and the dead were amassed, I immediately began my observations with extreme caution and conscientious care. I wore the proper protective equipment to guard against any exposure to possible chemicals found on the bodies or clothing of fallen soldiers. It was a horrendous sight to bear, and their haunting afflictions struck me deeply. It served as a precursor to the maddening fervour of war and its costly toll.

As a man of science and practicality, it was an ineffable vision—one no person should ever witness, let alone be forced to speak of. It was my first experience with chemical or biological warfare, but regrettably, it would not be the last.

It would come to be known that throughout the war, these barbaric weapons were being tested on soldiers and prisoners alike. Chemicals such as chlorine gas—a greenish-yellow cloud with a bleach-like smell—caused severe irritation to the eyes, nose, lungs, and throat, ultimately killing by asphyxiation. Phosgene, which smells like mouldy hay, is six times more lethal than chlorine gas.

There was mustard gas with its acrid smell. Dianisidine chlorosulphate attacked the lungs instantly. Tear gas had been first used in 1914 by the French and then by the Germans at Neuve Chapelle. Chemical warfare had existed for centuries, ever since the ancient Athenians.

Some of the dead soldiers were kept in a private part of the hospital where I had not been before, and they were noticeably different from the others. I believed I had already seen the worst of death’s grim visage, but inside the tents erected nearby lay remains that were not only unsettling—they were unnatural.

More chilling and unusual still was that all of the deceased in this area were visibly stiff and frozen. Unlike the others, whose pallid faces bore protruding alabaster eyes, these corpses had turned rigid like statues. I had seen men collapse in convulsions, distorted in agonising death, but this was altogether different.

It was clear that some type of chemical gas was involved. The question remained: what could cause these men to freeze like hardened icicles? When touched, they crumbled—reduced to particles of ice.

The valiant men who stood on the parapet had suffered least, because the gas was denser near the ground in their inhospitable trenches. The use of chemical weapons was a violation of the 1907 Hague Convention on Land Warfare, yet the Germans would not be the only ones deploying such abhorrent methods.

The Geneva Protocol, signed by 132 nations on 17 June 1925, would eventually ban the use of chemical and biological weapons in warfare. But for now, my task was urgent: identify this deadly substance before it could wreak more havoc.

It took me an entire week of studious observation and analysis to arrive at a conclusion. After countless hours of experimentation, I concluded that the lethal agent used was a form of liquid nitrogen.

At -196 degrees Celsius, it was highly dangerous. Its vapour could rapidly freeze skin tissue and eye fluid, causing cold burns, frostbite, and permanent damage—even with brief exposure. Apparently, the liquid nitrogen was being transported via trains in specialised containers and siphoned into battlefield tanks. Survivors of the gas attack described it as odourless and colourless.

From my understanding of chemistry, I knew that liquid nitrogen consisted of pure nitrogen molecules. At normal pressure, nitrogen becomes a liquid, and upon release, it rapidly expands into gas, absorbing heat from its surroundings. This process drastically reduces the temperature—much like the evaporation of sweat cools the human body.

Eventually, the gas freezes and solidifies into a glass-like mass. But this nitrogen “glass” is unstable. Its atoms seek to reorganize into a crystalline structure. As it shifts, it fractures into a million microscopic fissures—shattering like glass, almost as if forming a gestalt.

I was given the name of a German scientist—Dr Ludwig Reiner—as the possible mastermind behind this terrifying innovation. I had heard of his expertise with gases, though I was unfamiliar with his recent experiments. It was said that he was a man of considerable intellect, and if this chemical weapon was his creation, he needed to be stopped.

My immediate objective was twofold: assist the army in countering this chemical threat and locate Dr Reiner before he could create further monstrosities.

I left Ypres and travelled to France, where I could study one of the frozen bodies more closely at the laboratory of Dr Van Der Hout, a Belgian scientist and secret member of the resistance. He was eager to assist, and upon examining the body, he concurred—liquid nitrogen was the weapon in question.

Disturbingly, reports suggested that Reiner had been experimenting on Allied prisoners and local civilians. If this were true, his actions were criminal and depraved. Dr Van Der Hout believed Reiner was operating near the German–French border, though the exact location remained uncertain.

We began to estimate how much nitrogen was required to instantly freeze a human body. Lacking human test subjects, we used rats. Though smaller in size, their reactions gave us measurable data. The results were horrifying.

After a week, we finally received intelligence on Reiner’s whereabouts: he was in Paris, operating covertly as a German spy. We rushed to the hotel where he had reportedly stayed, but we were too late. He had vanished—leaving behind a grim calling card.

Inside the room were frozen bodies—British agents sent to capture him. They were stiff and lifeless, like sculptures in an ice gallery. Upon contact, they disintegrated into shards and flakes. The room was bitterly cold; even my own breath curled into mist.

There was no sign of Reiner. Oddly, he had registered under his real name, which may have tipped off the agents. Was it a trap? A ruse? Either way, he had slipped through our grasp.

However, we found a document he had left behind. Was it deliberate? A mistake? It mattered not—the information within was invaluable.

The paper, written in German, bore the title Das Medusan-Experiment—The Medusan Experiment—named for the petrifying Gorgon of Greek mythology. Its contents were disturbing, filled with diagrams and theories about freezing human beings alive and using fear as a weapon.

What I read that day would haunt me for the rest of my life.

It confirmed beyond any doubt what I had long suspected: Dr. Reiner had been conducting experiments on captured Allied soldiers and local civilians. He had documented every procedure, complete with dates. Even more disturbing was his intent to deploy liquid nitrogen on other battlefields. That was why it was imperative to stop him and prevent further atrocities. These were appalling crimes against humanity.

The Germans continued to use liquid nitrogen in warfare, and it was a terrifying nightmare to face. The gas masks worn by Allied soldiers were ineffective against this deadly substance. We relayed all the findings from the documents to battlefield commanders, especially in Ypres, where the fighting was intense and the casualties overwhelming.

I had the distinct sense that the Germans were willing to go to any lengths to win the war—whatever the cost. Dr. Van Der Hout agreed with my assessment and warned that the Allies should prepare for even greater horrors. It wasn’t unthinkable that liquid nitrogen could end up in the hands of the Allied forces as well.

Dr. Reiner was later located again—this time, apprehended at the German border in Alsace. He had been meeting secretly with German chemists in the remote countryside. He was immediately taken to Paris for interrogation. Dr. Van Der Hout and I traveled there to question him, but when we arrived, he was gone. He had escaped French custody.

Incredibly, he used the same method as before—liquid nitrogen—to flee. How he managed to possess such a substance while under French supervision was baffling. It became clear we were dealing with a cunning and dangerous man who couldn’t be underestimated.

When I spoke with the French authorities who had held him at the local police station, they explained that he had been searched before being detained. Apparently, someone from the outside had entered and handed him the substance. The most plausible explanation was that this individual was either German or a German sympathizer. Whoever it was, they had successfully breached the station’s security. Not only was Dr. Reiner a clever chameleon, he was bold enough to escape—twice.

There was a strong possibility he had returned to Germany to seek refuge, knowing he was being hunted. Another possibility was that he had gone to the front lines in Ypres to join the German effort there. While not ruled out, that seemed too risky given the threat of recapture.

Then I received a telegram: Allied forces had intercepted a train carrying nitrogen gas bound for Ypres. There was no doubt—it was meant to be used against Allied troops.

We visited the train station to inspect the dangerous cargo. After a thorough examination, we confirmed it was nitrogen gas. Once it was carefully removed, the train was deemed safe to operate. The discovery posed a critical danger.

Was this the Germans’ new tactic—transporting nitrogen and other poisonous chemicals by train? What if this train had carried passengers? That was a terrifying possibility. We weren’t just dealing with a rogue scientist; we were dealing with a master manipulator and likely a spy. The effects of liquid nitrogen weren’t secret—what was hidden were the Germans’ and Dr. Reiner’s operations.

We were tasked with handling the containment of the chemical in a coordinated effort involving multiple nations. Without international cooperation, our investigation would have been futile. At that point, all we could do was wait for any news of Dr. Reiner’s arrest. We had already identified the cause of the strange, frozen bodies found among the fallen soldiers. Now we just needed to find Dr. Reiner and uncover the full extent of his plans.

Back in Paris, we stayed alert for any information. It was clear Dr. Reiner knew he was being hunted. His network in Belgium and France was far more widespread than anticipated. He would be forced to use aliases to avoid capture and maintain his anonymity.

We had to prepare for every scenario. This was a serious matter that demanded time, effort, and unyielding vigilance. The war had already shown us the horror of chemical weapons, and nitrogen gas was among the worst. The chilling images of frozen soldiers haunted us—they could not be forgotten.

Months later, a secret laboratory was discovered on the outskirts of Ghent. What we found there was deeply disturbing—more frozen bodies, eerily similar to the ones we had seen before. It was impossible not to be emotionally affected. I couldn’t stop asking myself: what was the Germans’ ultimate goal with these inhumane experiments?

If the goal was to terrify their enemies, they had succeeded. It was tragically ironic that in the next Great War, the Germans would take experimentation to even more monstrous extremes. Chemical warfare would continue, but liquid nitrogen would no longer be used.

I never fully understood why the Germans stopped using it. My theory was that they faced difficulties in its transportation and deployment. Another possibility was that they had run out of the chemical and couldn’t replicate its effects. As a scientist, I support discovery and progress, but I oppose the use of chemistry for destruction. The world is already full of cruelty—we don’t need more of it, especially led by ruthless men.

One night in my hotel room in Paris, as I studied various war-time gases—particularly liquid nitrogen—I was unexpectedly visited by a stranger. To my shock, it was Dr. Reiner himself.

At first, I didn’t even notice his presence—I was too engrossed in my notes. But when I looked up, there he was. I was stunned. Finally, I was face to face with the infamous Dr. Ludwig Reiner. He had caught me completely off guard, unarmed and unprepared—except for my wits. He was an imposing figure—tall, commanding. But the most striking feature was the long, visible scar running down the left side of his face. I knew immediately I was at a disadvantage.

He spoke in accented English, "Are you not happy to see me, Dr. Westbrook?"

"How do you know my name? How did you get into this room without being seen?" I asked.

"How I know your name is irrelevant. As for how I entered—I have my connections. Someone gave me a key."

"What do you want? You can’t hide from the authorities forever. You’ll be caught eventually."

"Perhaps. But not tonight. What I want is for you to listen to my proposal."

"What exactly are you proposing, Dr. Reiner?"

"That you assist me."

"Assist you? Are you insane?"

"I don’t believe so. Would a madman come here, knowing the risk of capture, to speak with you face to face?"

"Only a desperate and reckless man would."

"Desperate, maybe. Reckless? No. I assure you, I am quite sane. So I ask you again: hear me out."

"Turn yourself in, Reiner. There’s no other way. Germany won’t win this war."

"Perhaps. But I am a scientist, like you—and a proud German. Together, with our knowledge of chemistry, we could revolutionize warfare."

"Or destroy humanity."

"That depends on the intent. We could achieve unprecedented breakthroughs in chemistry."

"I want no part in your lunacy. You won’t succeed."

"Then you leave me no choice but to kill you. I gave your colleague, Dr. Van Der Hout, the same option. He refused. And I had to eliminate him."

"What have you done with Dr. Van Der Hout?"

"I did what was necessary. I killed him."

He had pulled a sample of liquid nitrogen from inside his trench coat. He intended to throw it at me—to freeze me to death. Just as this was happening, someone knocked on the door. It was a police agent who wanted to speak with me. The arrival of the officer startled Dr. Reiner. He fled through the window and down the stairs outside the room.

I immediately opened the door and informed the police that Dr. Reiner had escaped and was somewhere in Paris or its surroundings.

Unfortunately, he made his way to Brussels and vanished. That encounter proved to me that Dr. Reiner not only had the capability and cunning to find me—but that I was now his personal enemy. My fears were confirmed when it was later clarified that Dr. Van Der Hout had indeed been murdered.

Two years passed after that harrowing experience. By then, America had entered the Great War on the side of the Allies. I was in France when I received word that Dr. Reiner was aboard a train traveling from Paris to Brussels that afternoon. I boarded the same train, expecting to find him among the passengers.

I knew I was walking into immediate danger. I didn’t yet understand why he was on the train, but I had a strong sense his intentions were sinister. One of my informants tipped me off—he was in disguise. I knew Dr. Reiner wouldn’t go down easily. I was right.

Accompanied by the French gendarmes, we began our search as soon as we boarded. Dr. Reiner rarely traveled with others. He could easily blend into the crowd. What we didn’t anticipate was the cruel plan he was about to carry out—a plan we only uncovered once we were onboard.

There were 200 passengers on the train, and it took careful attention to detail to spot him. The gendarmes inspected every car, checking names against the manifest. But Dr. Reiner's name was not on the list. That didn’t mean he wasn’t there—it just meant he was using an alias, as he had before.

Dr. Reiner was cunning and omnipresent in ways that defied reason. By then, the war was going poorly for the Germans. They were retreating from bloody battlefields and occupied territories in Belgium. Many were desperate to flee the country and avoid arrest for their war crimes—especially crimes committed against Belgian civilians.

Dr. Reiner was well aware of those atrocities. He had been behind the clandestine experiments. He knew that if he were captured, he’d be tried and convicted for his unspeakable crimes.

And if found guilty, he would hang.

We could not afford to let him slip away again.

At exactly 1:00 p.m., Dr. Reiner was spotted exiting the front compartment near the conductor. The train was brought to an immediate halt, sending the passengers into a frenzy of panic. The ducenary screams echoed as chaos unfolded, and many were injured.

I wasn’t harmed, and I quickly rushed toward the conductor's area with the gendarmes. Inside, we found the conductor—completely frozen solid. A horrifying sight: a human body transformed into an icy corpse. The temperature was unbearable. We couldn't stay in that compartment.

There was no doubt in my mind: Dr. Reiner was responsible for the conductor’s death.

But what else had he planned? That, I did not yet know.

I warned the gendarmes that he might have released nitrogen gas into the air vents, which could condense into liquid form and kill the passengers. If that were true, we had to act immediately.

We were halfway to Brussels when the train was stopped again. We raced to close the vents before the gas could reach the remaining passengers.

But we were too late to save them all.

The gas had already flooded the front cars. Passengers inside had frozen to death. It spread quickly to the next cars—freezing everyone inside.

Each following car fell silent with death.

Only the final car remained—a small group of passengers huddled together in terror. We closed the vents, unsure whether that would be enough. The passengers, visibly shaken, had seen the horrors for themselves. There was nothing else we could do.

The gas had enveloped the rest of the train. We had no idea how long we could hold out. There were gas masks on board, but they were in the frozen front cars—unreachable.

It seemed we were trapped, at the mercy of Dr. Reiner.

The men tried to calm the panicked women. There were twelve of us left. Seconds passed like hours. Time slowed. An hour dragged by as we waited in silence.

Someone proposed detaching our car from the rest of the train. Time was critical. If we didn't act, we’d all freeze. The freezing temperature was already starting to creep through the thick metal walls.

Then, we heard Dr. Reiner’s voice over the cab radio.

Had he returned to the front car? That was the only way he could have survived the liquid nitrogen.

He spoke directly to us. It wasn’t a demand—it was a threat.

He announced that we were now his hostages and would be taken back to Brussels.

Once the cold subsided and the vapors thinned, Dr. Reiner entered the last car. He wore a gray trench coat and trousers, with tall black boots. He pulled off his gas mask. His jet-black hair and icy blue eyes were unmistakable. I recognized the scar on his face instantly. That devilish smirk revealed his cruelty.

Despite his intelligence, he had a certain twisted joy—a sadistic arrogance that bled through his words.

“We meet again, Dr. Westbrook,” he said.

“What do you plan to do with us, Dr. Reiner?” I asked.

“That depends on you, Doctor.”

“How so? I don’t see how I could possibly be of benefit to you or your cause. What do you really want?”

“The same thing I asked you once before—join me. Help me. We can make discoveries that would make our nations—Germany and America—into the greatest powers in the world.”

“And if I refuse? What happens to the passengers?”

“They die. But if you accept...I’ll spare them.”

I agreed—not out of free will, but out of obligation. I couldn’t let the others die.

The passengers were led out the back of the train. But as they stepped out, Dr. Reiner drew a pistol and opened fire.

He had lied.

He executed them one by one—coldly and without hesitation.

I knew then I was next.

Without thinking, I lunged at him. We struggled. I managed to wrestle the pistol from him.

Realizing he was losing, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small canister of liquid nitrogen—intending to pour it on me.

I shot him before he could.

But in his panic, he spilled the nitrogen on himself.

He froze instantly—his body transformed into an icy statue, rigid as stone.

It was horrifying to witness. But it was over.

The madness of Dr. Ludwig Reiner had ended. Justice had been served.

Twelve passengers survived.

The war would end soon. Germany's occupation of Belgium—lasting from 1914 to 1918—was over. The divided territories and the General Government collapsed with the armistice of November 1918.

Dr. Reiner’s experiments would later inspire atrocities in Nazi Germany during the Second World War.

The Medusan Experiment documents were sealed by the U.S. Army, never to be released to the public. Records of his atrocities, recovered in Brussels, were classified.

I returned to America, where I helped develop the first atomic bomb that ended the war in 1945.

As a chemist and physicist, the moral weight of that choice remains with me. I served my country—but at what cost?

I often wonder: am I truly different from Dr. Reiner?

He used chemical weapons for his nation. I did the same.

I leave that moral question to the reader.

But I will say this—I was never a barbarian. He was a fascist. I was a humanist.

Upon the defeat of the German forces in 1918 and the liberation of Belgium, I was summoned by the Allied Commission to investigate a clandestine laboratory discovered on the outskirts of Dinant, a city devastated by occupation. The moment I set foot inside the remnants of the hidden structure, I felt the lingering malice of the place—as though the walls still echoed with the screams of the victims who had once been taken there.

The laboratory was nestled within the limestone caverns, unreachable unless one knew the path through the surrounding forest. It had been sealed with German engineering—false walls, hidden hinges, and mechanized locks requiring codes that only the elite of their scientific hierarchy had known.

With me were two British officers and a young Belgian interpreter named Henri Duclos. The lad was no more than twenty years old, but the occupation had aged him by a decade. When we forced the final metal door open with dynamite, the scent of sterilized decay filled our nostrils. The air was stale, chemical, dry—and something far worse: the stink of violated science.

The entrance to the hidden laboratory revealed itself slowly, grudgingly, as if reluctant to allow intruders into the tomb it had become. Nature had nearly reclaimed it. Ivy smothered the stones above, and brambles clutched at the lower path. The concealed door, once masterfully embedded in the cliff wall, bore rusted hinges and war-pocked seams. It was only after the fourth explosion from the Royal Engineers that it gave way.

Inside, the air was still, preserved in sterility. A chemical stillness clung to the floors and walls, as though the atmosphere had ceased movement decades ago. There was no wind in that place, no breeze, not even the scent of earth—only antiseptic and iron, an olfactory warning that something unnatural had happened there.

Along the far corridor, beneath the remains of broken piping, lay rows of examination tables, half-collapsed, half-standing. Some had straps affixed to them, stained by what looked like ink but was surely blood. Others had grooves carved into the steel, the work of fingernails dragged across cold surfaces in final spasms of fear. On the walls were scratched symbols and notations—jagged equations, hastily written formulae, and strange diagrams that merged anatomical sketches with geometric impossibilities.

At the rear of the cavernous chamber, light reflected off a wall of glass tubes—tall, narrow cylinders, each one large enough to hold a person. Most were empty. One still held a shape: a small body, curled in a fetal position, its skin pale as wax, its hair drifting gently in preserved suspension. A number had been etched into the glass.

Everything felt hollow. Everything was quiet.

The notebooks were found near the incinerator. Their bindings were cracked, the pages stiff from exposure. In them were meticulous records—clinical, unflinching. Times, temperatures, weights. Age brackets. Notes on tissue density under exposure. Comments on the effect of extreme cold on cognition. Phrases like "extended silence achieved at -34°" and "no pulse detected, but intermittent ocular movement persisted for six minutes."

There were photographs, too. Sepia-toned, grainy. Human figures bound upright to metal harnesses, their bodies encased in frost, their limbs bent at rigid angles. Some seemed preserved in the moment of screaming. The frost captured even the outlines of their breath.

No words could explain what had happened there. The evidence did not need them.

There was the seal of the Allied Commission and a warning written in three languages: Do Not Enter.

We passed broken tables with instruments still rusting from use. Some beakers remained filled with dark liquids congealed into resin-like substances. On one steel table lay the fossilized body of a young man—frozen mid-scream—his skin paled to bluish glass from exposure to nitrogen. His limbs were twisted unnaturally, his veins blackened.

On the far end of the room, the British lieutenant found something extraordinary: a locked cabinet filled with notebooks, charts, and correspondences. They were written in Reiner’s meticulous handwriting, each page a portal into a mind both brilliant and warped beyond recognition. He had detailed not only his nitrogen experiments, but also preliminary blueprints for large-scale gas dispersal systems, injectable cryogenic agents, and even theoretical models for what he called “psychological freezing”—an induced hypothermic state designed to erase personality and reprogram behavior.

The horror was not just in the content but in the precision—the calm, exacting language. As if human life were a mere variable to be manipulated.

Henri found a photograph among the documents—children lined up, some with amputated limbs, others blindfolded. Their faces reflected no emotion. On the back was written, in Reiner’s scrawl: “Test Group D-7. Reaction to accelerated cooling and neurological suppression promising.”

I turned away in disgust.

The war had ended, but its scars were just beginning to be uncovered.

There was an envelope that bore no seal. Its edges were worn, handled too many times before arriving. It had passed through cities like a ghost—touched but never stopped, always moving toward its destination.

The handwriting was old-fashioned and narrow, with exaggerated flourishes. It had not been touched by a pen for years, perhaps decades, but the ink had not faded. It carried a weight beyond paper. A deliberate finality.

The letter unfolded slowly, crackling at its creases. The words were precise. Measured. Void of sentiment but heavy with accusation. They carried the scent of snow and steel, of intellect stripped of empathy.

In it were no apologies. No pleas for forgiveness. Only a mirror—one that refused to turn away. It offered no new information, no classified secrets. Only a final observation: that cruelty needed no monstrous face. That even those who believed themselves moral could become instruments of suffering, if they allowed utility to overshadow humanity.

The paper was set aflame, its ashes rising like specters into the hearth.

But its message remained.

There was a lone monument that stood at the edge of a field where silence had replaced screams. It was modest—granite and bronze, shaped like an outstretched hand, the fingers broken off at the tips. Around its base were names carved in small letters, arranged in no order, as though even death had denied these souls the dignity of sequence.

The grass around the site had grown tall, bending under the weight of wind. A wooden bench nearby bore the carvings of initials—remnants of other visitors who had passed through, leaving their marks in quiet rebellion against forgetting.

Footsteps made no sound in that place. The soil seemed to absorb them, as if mourning required silence.

Behind the monument, the ruins of the original village loomed in fragmented stones. A chapel’s bell tower leaned at an angle, never rebuilt. A school’s doorway opened to nothing. The trees surrounding the field had grown thick, their branches gnarled and twisted, as if even they had suffered.

One stood before the monument, reading each name aloud in the mind, imagining each one as a life once warm, once full of laughter, now reduced to an etching on stone. There was no weeping. No prayers.

Only the stillness of truth.

My cabin stood on a Vermont hillside, surrounded by firs and snowbanks. Smoke curled from the chimney like a memory, soft and slow. Inside, the fire burned low, its heat fighting the draft from the mountain wind. Books lined the walls. Most had yellowed pages, their spines cracked from years of reference. Scientific texts mingled with poetry. On one shelf, a worn copy of Plutarch’s Lives lay beside a weathered German medical almanac.

A journal rested open on the desk. Its last entry was brief. A few observations on ethics. A comment on memory. And a final line that trailed off before its end—as though the writer had paused, not knowing how to finish.

Outside, snow fell. The kind that muffles the world. The kind that erases tracks.

In the distance, a frozen lake glimmered beneath moonlight. On its surface, ice moved beneath the weight of wind—cracking softly, shifting imperceptibly. Somewhere beneath, the water slept.

And in the cabin, sleep came gently. Not as surrender, but as release. It was a place that allowed me to reflect on my experiences with the war.

The fire crackles softly, its warmth a muted contrast to the coldness that has settled into my bones. I stare into the flames, watching the way they twist and flicker, each spark an echo of some distant, forgotten thing. The room feels heavier than it should, the silence pressing against me like a weight I can’t shed. I’ve been home for what feels like an eternity, yet somehow, the past never leaves. It’s always here, just beneath the surface, ready to rise up at any moment.

I sit in the worn leather chair, my hands hanging loosely in my lap, the weight of what I’ve seen and done pulling me down. My body is tired. I feel it in my back, my legs, the way my joints creak with each movement. But it’s not the exhaustion that’s hardest to bear—it’s the way my mind won’t quiet, won’t leave me alone. The screams, the blood, the fire, the faces of the lost, they all linger in the corners of my mind, waiting to be remembered, demanding to be felt. I close my eyes, but it’s no use. I can see them all as clearly as if they were standing before me.

I used to think that coming home would be a release, a way to escape what I’d gone through. But the house feels more like a prison than ever. The walls that once felt like protection now seem to close in on me. The ticking of the clock on the mantle is the only sound that keeps me company. Tick. Tick. Tick. Every second a reminder of how little time there is left, how much time has already been wasted.

I try to focus on the fire again. There’s something soothing in its rhythm, the way the flames move with such fluidity, such certainty. It feels...out of place. The world outside is quiet, the fields bathed in moonlight, empty. But inside, it’s chaos. My thoughts are fragments, scattered like shards of glass, each piece cutting deeper than the last.

The war...I can’t escape it. Even now, it follows me. The battles, the moments when I had to make decisions I’ll never be able to justify, let alone forgive. The faces of the people I couldn’t save, the ones I didn’t even try to save. The children who cried for their mothers, their innocence lost in an instant. The families torn apart, the homes reduced to rubble. All of it lingers, festers. The stench of smoke and blood still fills my nostrils, even though the battlefields are a world away. I can still hear their cries. I can still hear mine.

I know I’m not the only one haunted by this. I see the men I fought beside in my mind’s eye. The ones who have returned, broken, hollowed out by the same violence. It was never just the enemy that we fought. It was each other, too. It was the part of ourselves that we lost with every life we took, every soul we damned in the name of some cause that never really mattered.

I shift in my chair, the leather creaking beneath me, and my gaze drifts to the window. The moonlight outside is cold, pale. It’s the kind of night that feels like it’s stretching forever, and I wonder if I’ll ever feel free of this. I wonder if I can.

How many people died for nothing? How many lives were destroyed in a conflict that, in the end, no one even remembers? It was all so senseless. We were all so senseless. The leaders, the ones who set it all in motion, they’ve gone on with their lives, untouched, unscathed. The people they sent to die—what happened to them? Who remembers their names? They’re just forgotten now, another page in history that no one bothers to turn.

I can feel my chest tighten as the memories flood back. I close my eyes again, trying to block them out, but it’s no use. I hear the gunfire, the shouts, the blood-soaked earth beneath my boots. I see the bodies—too many bodies. Faces I never got to know, lives that were snuffed out in an instant.

The worst part is that I know I wasn’t innocent. I fought. I commanded. I did things I’ll never be able to take back. I was just as much a part of it as the men who gave the orders. There’s no distinction between us in the end. We were all complicit.

I stand up slowly, my body protesting the movement, and shuffle to the window. The air outside is cool, and I press my palm against the glass, feeling the chill seep into my skin. I can’t escape it, no matter how far I go. No matter how much distance I put between myself and the war, the war never leaves me. It’s in my bones, in my blood. It’s in the silence that now fills this house.

I think of the faces again—the mothers, the fathers, the children. I think of how their lives were stolen from them, how they were nothing but casualties in a game they never asked to play. The world keeps spinning, indifferent, as if nothing happened. But I can’t forget. I can’t pretend it didn’t matter.

My breath hitches in my chest, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I allow myself to feel it—the grief, the sorrow, the guilt. I let it wash over me, and it’s suffocating. I feel like I’m drowning in it, in all the things I couldn’t change, in all the people I couldn’t save. The weight of it presses down on me until I can barely stand.

I turn away from the window, feeling a wave of nausea rise in my throat. The room is spinning now, the walls closing in, and I stumble back to the chair. My hands grip the armrests, and I close my eyes again, the darkness of the room somehow less oppressive than the darkness inside me.

The fire crackles on, indifferent to my pain. The clock ticks steadily, marking the passage of time, each second another reminder that life goes on, whether I want it to or not.

But for me, there is no going back. There is no forgiveness. There is only the aftermath, the ruins of what once was, and the ever-present knowledge that I will never escape the weight of what I’ve done.

And so I sit there, in the quiet, listening to the sound of my own breathing, waiting for the storm inside me to subside. But I know it never will. It will always be there, just beneath the surface, a constant reminder of the price I’ve paid. I cannot erase the horrendous images that were caused by Dr. Reiner's madness.

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