Whumptober 2024 Day 12: Starvation
Oct. 12th, 2024 03:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosanicusNo. 12: STARVATION
Underground Caverns | Cannibalism | "Just a little more."
582 words, EvS, immediately post-Hatchet
There was no benefit to starving the men at Onor Prison. Each man was given enough to survive, so that he could work. A starving inmate was a poor worker, a poor worker was a liability, and a dead worker was extra paperwork and a work-crew short a man. Almost every inmate attempted to starve himself at least once, but after two or three days of missed meals he would reveal himself, through a dizzy spell or outright collapse, and wake to find himself in what passed for a prison hospital with a tube being forced down his throat.
All this to say, Erich had been thin when Bigglesworth - unaccountably - came to his rescue on Sakhalin, but he had not been skeletal. It was not possible to count his ribs or vertebrae from a distance. His sickly pallor had more to do with lack of sleep and fresh produce than a lack of calories.
And still, when faced with a full plate of food at the airbase in Tokyo, he couldn’t stomach it. Fritz was next to him, digging into his own meal with the enthusiasm of a still-growing youth, casting worried looks at his uncle when he thought he wasn’t paying attention.
Erich paid attention to everything. It had always been exhausting, but he couldn’t deny its utility. He scraped his fork through the American excuse for gravy. His throat hurt.
Bigglesworth, opposite him and three seats to the left, glanced his way. It was hard to determine if it was a look of concern or judgement.
Either way, it spurred Erich to action. He speared a slice of carrot and chewed at it for a moment, swallowed as quickly as possible. It settled oddly; he could feel it at the back of his throat as he brought another piece to his mouth.
Ten minutes later, he had eaten perhaps a third of the food on his plate. The mashed potatoes would have offended him even before his imprisonment, but the rest - he pushed his chair back and stood, nodding to Bigglesworth. The food wouldn’t settle in his stomach; hunger clawed at him, even as the idea of eating anything else made him feel… not quite sick. He wondered what would happen here, if he refused to eat at all.
Bigglesworth, for his part, frowned. He glanced between the plate and Erich, possibly believing he was being subtle.
“The food’s not to your liking?” He asked. “I’m sure the kitchens could rustle up something else, if we asked.” He did that sometimes; said ‘we’ when he meant ‘I’. It should have been irritating in its condescension, if it wasn’t for the fact that Bigglesworth didn’t seem to notice he was doing it.
“No need to be a nursemaid, Bigglesworth,” said Erich. He waved a hand dismissively. It was a gesture from a past life. “I fear my appetite will need time to recover.” It was a reasonable explanation, he thought. Let Bigglesworth make whatever assumption he liked.
He had been a repeat offender at Onor. His longest stretch before discovery was five days, by which point he had felt almost like he was flying. The memory of the prison hospital was very close.
Bigglesworth wished him a good night as Erich turned on his heel to leave. He rested a hand, briefly, on Fritz’s shoulder. His nephew’s plate was empty, the excuse for gravy scraped almost clean.
When Fritz was very small, food was scarce. On Erich’s rare visits to Berlin, he was greeted with excited, outstretched hands.
Underground Caverns | Cannibalism | "Just a little more."
582 words, EvS, immediately post-Hatchet
There was no benefit to starving the men at Onor Prison. Each man was given enough to survive, so that he could work. A starving inmate was a poor worker, a poor worker was a liability, and a dead worker was extra paperwork and a work-crew short a man. Almost every inmate attempted to starve himself at least once, but after two or three days of missed meals he would reveal himself, through a dizzy spell or outright collapse, and wake to find himself in what passed for a prison hospital with a tube being forced down his throat.
All this to say, Erich had been thin when Bigglesworth - unaccountably - came to his rescue on Sakhalin, but he had not been skeletal. It was not possible to count his ribs or vertebrae from a distance. His sickly pallor had more to do with lack of sleep and fresh produce than a lack of calories.
And still, when faced with a full plate of food at the airbase in Tokyo, he couldn’t stomach it. Fritz was next to him, digging into his own meal with the enthusiasm of a still-growing youth, casting worried looks at his uncle when he thought he wasn’t paying attention.
Erich paid attention to everything. It had always been exhausting, but he couldn’t deny its utility. He scraped his fork through the American excuse for gravy. His throat hurt.
Bigglesworth, opposite him and three seats to the left, glanced his way. It was hard to determine if it was a look of concern or judgement.
Either way, it spurred Erich to action. He speared a slice of carrot and chewed at it for a moment, swallowed as quickly as possible. It settled oddly; he could feel it at the back of his throat as he brought another piece to his mouth.
Ten minutes later, he had eaten perhaps a third of the food on his plate. The mashed potatoes would have offended him even before his imprisonment, but the rest - he pushed his chair back and stood, nodding to Bigglesworth. The food wouldn’t settle in his stomach; hunger clawed at him, even as the idea of eating anything else made him feel… not quite sick. He wondered what would happen here, if he refused to eat at all.
Bigglesworth, for his part, frowned. He glanced between the plate and Erich, possibly believing he was being subtle.
“The food’s not to your liking?” He asked. “I’m sure the kitchens could rustle up something else, if we asked.” He did that sometimes; said ‘we’ when he meant ‘I’. It should have been irritating in its condescension, if it wasn’t for the fact that Bigglesworth didn’t seem to notice he was doing it.
“No need to be a nursemaid, Bigglesworth,” said Erich. He waved a hand dismissively. It was a gesture from a past life. “I fear my appetite will need time to recover.” It was a reasonable explanation, he thought. Let Bigglesworth make whatever assumption he liked.
He had been a repeat offender at Onor. His longest stretch before discovery was five days, by which point he had felt almost like he was flying. The memory of the prison hospital was very close.
Bigglesworth wished him a good night as Erich turned on his heel to leave. He rested a hand, briefly, on Fritz’s shoulder. His nephew’s plate was empty, the excuse for gravy scraped almost clean.
When Fritz was very small, food was scarce. On Erich’s rare visits to Berlin, he was greeted with excited, outstretched hands.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-12 05:56 pm (UTC)Erich paid attention to everything. It had always been exhausting, but he couldn’t deny its utility
OMG yes I wish to subscribe to your headcanon here, I love this take on Erich.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-12 07:27 pm (UTC)