|Inglourious Basterds drabbles [1-10]
AN: These are surprisingly fun to write.
And I've been meaning to get back atop my IB story. That will just remain put-off for the time being.
OH! And these drabbles are NOT (I repeat, NOT!) in any order in any way.
Like I said before, completely at random times.
It was hard to describe what really attracted Lydie to Donny Donowitz, but she was for certain that it was something that most other men seemed to lack. There was a way that he walked, which apparently mattered a great deal to her, seeing as how she had taken quick to notice. Not exactly a swagger, but something quite akin to it. She especially liked to watch him leave. As he would lumber towards the door, his filthy undershirt clinging to his back, she would trace with her eyes the smooth curve of his shoulder blades.
She could not speak
Upstairs, down the narrow hallway and past the first door on the left, Lydie was hiding away in her room, knees kept close-knit tight into her chest. Not necessarily ‘hiding’, per say, but keeping herself unknown and silent while the men below partook in their whiskey, laughing boisterously and clapping each other on their backs. It was something men like them did. Pressing her ear to the floorboard, she listened into their drunken conversing. It was Aldo who was raising his voice above his men. Lydie lifted her head and took in a breath.
That was when Donny stepped in.
“Oh, um, sorry Donny.”
The large man only shook his head, but still appeared very disgruntled about having his beer spilt down the front of his undershirt. Every one of the Basterds knew that Lydie was quite possibly the clumsiest young woman to have ever handled drinks. No one ever said anything. Aldo always kept his boys in line.
Donny looked up from burning holes into the table with his eyes to see Lydie set another mug by his massive forearm. Quickly ducking her head, she scurried away back into the kitchen.
Donny took a sniff at the beer.
There were two marks on Lydie’s body, both of which she preferred not to speak of.
Along her arm was a bruise, wide and with hues of purple and blue. Once a German officer had seized her and roughly shaken her by that arm, applying too much pressure for her skin to tolerate. It was ugly.
The other, a more personal one, rode alongside the curve between her shoulder and neckline, a pink hickey with a halo of violet discoloration. Sometimes it was painful, but tracing her fingertips across it only brought her a smile at the thought of Donny
It was a completely thoughtless idea to follow the men out into the woods. Every step she would take could have surely given her away. They should have. What would her mother had said? She would have surely deserved a good chastising. But that wasn’t important right now, she realized, as she began to enjoy her view from behind the thick trunk of an oak. Several of the soldiers were standing knee-deep in the river’s rushing waters, shirts tossed aside along the bank. Donny was amongst them, crouching on a large rock.
Lydie diverted her attention to a drifting leaf.
The couple stood aside from the mixed crowd of German soldiers and humble French citizens, which was a strange combination to say the least. Shaking in her smooth, black gown, Lydie refused to bring her eyes to meet the brutal eyes of Donny. It was a horrible inferiority complex.
“Hey, quit yer sobbin’ and listen.”
She wasn’t crying. She wished she could confront him in a harsh way, but she was a coward playing the dismal role of a pseudo hero.
“Just shut it, alright?” He wasn’t looking at her, which made saying goodbye harder than it should have been.
It was hard to hear over the many sounds of German and English calls and the cracking of bullets firing from their loaded pistols. She hid beside Aldo, so close that she could breathe in the somewhat comforting smell of his snuff. He growled out something foul before turning back around the trunk and firing once more into the thicket of gunpowder smoke. Lydie tucked her gun between her trembling knees, where the hot barrel rubbed against the cloth of her britches. Rubbing the dirt from her eyes she grabbed the gun once more before firing. It was so easy.
“Hey, aren’t you s’posed to be heading off ta church?”
Looking away from her book, Lydie stared upward to the young Boston native.
“I don’t go.”
Donny was a surprised. The French girl was a good one, but she didn’t go to church? He wanted to question her further and ask why, but he kept his mouth shut, a smart gesture. He didn’t speak about his faith (apart from their introductions where Aldo had stated his men’s Jewish heritage), so why should she?
He swung his bat back atop his shoulder and shuffled for the door.
And that was that.
You might assume that all French women are great cooks, who stay in their tidy kitchens baking various breads and sweets for their loved ones. But by God, Lydie was the worst of them all.
The poor girl couldn’t bake a proper biscuit had you asked her to. Aldo disapproved, and often told her so. He may have bed-side manners, but to some limitation. Being from Tennessee, he was raised to believe all women should be capable cooks.
“Girl, can you do anything right?” he slammed his palms down atop the counter where white flour rose in a cloud.
They had fought over something trivial, something along the lines of her disastrous cooking. Donny had crossed a delicate line when he had declared aloud that her cooking was complete crap. Only, his words were much more harsh and vile. Of course she was not opposed to letting herself slip a few out now and then.
Outside she sat atop the flat trunk of a long since chopped down tree, drawing large circles in the dirt with the tips of her filthy boots.
She knew good and well that Donny would not apologize. Donny was just that kind of man.
So, I hope those were decent enough.
Man, these are really addicting to write! 8 D
I haven't had this much fun writing in a while.
· Sat Mar 06, 2010 @ 01:16pm · 0 Comments