On that Square

In her quest for justice, his silence gives them forever...

         On that square, filled with people, I loathed him.

         I screamed as loudly as I could at him—at them—my lungs sucking in the brittle warmth of a bitter winter. My fingers were growing numb, my stupidity in not wearing proper gloves reminding me of the possibility of frostbite the longer I remained there.

         But I’ve always been stubborn, and I had no intention of leaving this place until I was physically—

         “Hey!” I cried as one of the masked men suddenly rushed forward to strike.

         He was enormous. Armored. In that gear, he looked built for war, his baton a missile already locked on its target.

         Me.

         I shut my eyes and braced, heart pounding, painfully aware of how many of my comrades had already fallen to these monsters dressed as men.

         It never came.

         Shouts erupted instead. My attacker was yanked back with a snarl of rage and shame, a voice cutting through the chaos—sharp, furious, protective.

         “Stand down, asshole! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

         Him.

         The commandant.

         The man I’d been screaming at for two hours straight.

         He looked too young for the authority he wielded, but it clung to him all the same. He’d endured my insults in maddening silence, his face unreadable behind the helmet.

         For three nights now, we’d been locked in a strange standoff. I cried for justice. He listened—without reacting—while doing his duty.

         And that hurt more than his anger ever could have.

         Why did I care?

         Why did his indifference feel like rejection?

         I wanted—no, needed—him to see me. To understand why I was here. Why I couldn’t stop.

         The baton-wielding officer grumbled but obeyed. Shields snapped up in perfect unison.

         I prepared for impact.

         Then our eyes met.

         Something changed.

         His gaze—dark, intense—no longer felt distant. It flickered with urgency, with warning. His lips moved.

         Take cover.

         The world exploded before I could react.

         A sharp pop, followed by the eye-watering, throat-scratching, impossible-to-breathe sensation as yellow smoke flooded the square.

         Mustard gas?

         Something cold, then hard and uncomfortable, was slammed over my face. I clawed at it in panic, convinced I was under attack—until my fingers closed around the edges of a gas mask being fitted onto me.

         I looked up into those familiar dark eyes—the commandant—who motioned for silence before gripping my hand and dragging me away from the chaos.

         I caught one last glimpse of what had been a relatively peaceful protest. Now yellow clouds swallowed the square, human shapes staggering, collapsing, screaming as flashes of light and sharp gunfire tore through the air.

         He pulled me down a back alley, following a few others lucky enough to escape.

         My eyes burned, vision blurred by the fog forming inside the mask with each shuddering breath. I’d lost the poster I’d spent days working on—drawing the monster’s face alone had taken hours—but none of that mattered.

         What mattered was the strength of the hand holding mine as we moved farther from the noise.

         Up close, he seemed taller. As he spoke—still issuing orders while he and a handful of officers ushered civilians to safety—I noticed his accent. German?

         “…all right?”

         “Huh?”

         “I asked if you’re all right.”

         He removed the mask himself, careful, gentle; allowing me to draw in air my lungs barely tolerated. I slumped against a wall, finally taking in my surroundings.

         We were far from the riots now. Vans waited, doors open, ready to take us home—I hoped.

         “Here. Drink this.”

         I eyed the water bottle.

         “It’s not poisoned,” he said, amusement flickering in his voice. He removed his helmet, revealing damp strawberry-blond hair and a face that might’ve been handsome if not for the crooked nose. One too many fights, I guessed.

         He took a sip, belched, and handed it to me.

         “Drink before your throat gets worse.”

         I obeyed, wincing as the cold water soothed raw muscles. A headache was forming.

         “Why did you do that?” I rasped. “You should’ve left me.”

         He ignored the question, checking his gear as though I hadn’t spoken. Then—audacity incarnate—he walked away to ensure his officers and civilians were safe.

         Only about twenty of us had made it out. Once-proud protesters now reduced to sobbing, silent survivors.

         “The van will take you home,” he said when he finally returned. “I suggest you stay there until this is settled.”

         “I’ll be back tomorrow—” I started, before horror surged as my stomach emptied itself onto his uniform.

         Urgh.

         I didn’t know whether to apologize or laugh in petty victory. The decision was made for me as the world spun and the asphalt rushed up.

         I might have felt arms catch me—but that could’ve been imagination.

         I woke to an IV drip and blinding white hospital curtains.

         How did I get here?

         “Finally awake, huh?”

         That accent.

         My eyes widened. Gone was the military gear. In its place: a navy button-down, black trousers, a stylish gray winter coat.

         And… flowers?

         “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, placing them in a vase. “But I can be quite stubborn. After I dropped you off here—after you vomited on me, mind you—I thought the least we could do was get to know each other.”

         He pulled up a chair and smiled bashfully, suddenly boyish enough to make my foolish heart flutter.

         I felt feverish.

         “My name’s Chris,” he said. “Chris Merkel. It’s a pleasure to finally speak to you—for as long as you’ll let me, Miss Diana Maurey.”

         I let him stay.

         I let him talk.

         I let myself fall.

         All the way to our wedding day.

         Because on that square, filled with people, I didn’t just meet the enemy.

         I met my forever.


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Word Count: 967
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp 24th Birthday" 
Prompt: On that square, filled with people...