The Diary of Captain Thorne

Diary of Captain Florian Thorne
By Jocelyne Waddle ©

12/31/1946
The war is over, they said… but not for me. I should have died when my plane was shot over the Rurh Valley in March ’45. Instead, I was taken to the center of hell – used as a lab mouse for the sinister experiments of a deranged Nazi doctor.
My rescue and return home brought me no relief; chained and forsaken, my days are steeped in despair, surrounded by the silent lament of decaying flora. I remain a captive in this isolated greenhouse, a prisoner of the very people I once fought to protect. What a bastardly irony!

03/20/1947
I fought them with all my remaining strength. I strained against my bounds, hurling curses at them. To my shame, I even pleaded to be left alone, but scientists have neither soul nor compassion.
It took three of them to restrain me as another two seized my left hand to prod an emaciated rat. Predictably, it perished in terrible agony like everything else I touched. I am ashamed to have taken its life, and I dread that next time, they might bring a dog or a cat.
I despise these professors and their prying students cloaked in NBC suits. To them, I am nothing more than a monstrous specimen. Yet today, one of them challenged my treatment. Unlike the others, she met my gaze with empathy.
Did she see the man I am still, despite my altered state? Her name is Dr. Jasmine Milkthistle, a toxicologist. Her presence has ignited a flicker of hope. I can feel an unexpected longing take root.

04/05/1947
Jasmine comes regularly, always fully suited. I am mesmerized by everything she does—how she observes me with her warm brown eyes, the color of rain-kissed earth, and how she bites her thumb when thinking.
I have no illusion, though. She is not much different than the others, viewing me as her pet project. She often brings an array of poisons to test their effects on me. I agree with all she tries; what do I have to lose?
To please her, regardless of the physical agony of these studies, I persevere, yearning for the fragile comfort her nearness awakens in me. Each time she draws near, my pulse races with a forbidden desire to feel her warmth against my skin. Her gloved fingers hovered over mine this afternoon, sending the drums of my heart into a wild beat. I know I am a fool to think she feels the same.

05/01/1947
I am not who I once was. It is getting harder to hold things. My skin is turning a disturbing shade of green, and tiny root-like growths are sprouting on my hands. I ache constantly like a teenager; I must have grown several inches since last month. My clothes are getting uncomfortably tight. Where I once preferred a good pint, I now crave water.
On several occasions, I begged Jasmine to bring a mirror, desperate to see myself, but she always demurred, finding excuses. This afternoon, I caught my reflection in one of her bottles and gasped, horrified by what I saw. Am I this wild creature with weathered skin and tangled beard and hair? Only my blue eyes remained the same.

05/05/1947
Jasmine was late today and immediately busied herself, but I could tell she was distraught. Have I mentioned what a terrible liar she is? But oh... she is so perfectly feminine and fiercely intelligent.
This visceral need to hold her, to wrap myself around her, is not lust. I only want to offer her my body as a shield to protect her from such a cruel world, but I digress.
After much cajoling on my part, she finally admitted that her mentor at the college had warned her about the army’s interest in creating more soldiers like me who can kill with a mere touch. The news has left me emotionally drained, unable to comfort Jasmine when she broke down and sobbed at her desk. Who cares if I live or die? She deserves a better man.

05/09/1947
Another day without seeing Jasmine. Has she finally forsaken me? Torn between love and reason, I screamed my rage.

05/30/1947
What a ghastly, horrible, terrible day! Jasmine, looking frail, confessed her recent absences were due to secretly taking small doses of poison, hoping to build her resistance. Unfortunately, one of these instances backfired, but she is determined to continue. She plans to become as toxic as I am so that we might finally embrace. I am terrified of losing her, yet selfish enough to dream of the possibility of holding her, even for a moment.

06/03/1947
She did not wear her protective suit today, exposing her fragile, perfect beauty. I wept when she declared the depth of her feelings for me. Unable to explain how heartbreaking this was for me to hear, I turned into a brute. I should have told her to choose another, someone who could offer her a future.
I did not. I became a coward, turning my despair on her. I threatened her and said terrible things. I even denied loving her, though she is more precious than my life. I screamed my contempt for her as a scientist. She responded by shushing me as if I were a disobedient child and stepped closer. I froze.
Standing on her tiptoes, she begged me to hold her, explaining that this was the end. I was to be taken away, dissected, and studied bit by abominable bit so they could finally uncover the mystery behind my poisonous touch.
As I drowned in her eyes' naked longing, I stifled a sob, my trembling lips meeting hers like a prayer, burying my despair in our kiss. I did not close my eyes. I wanted to memorize every second, every detail of her perfect face.
I held her close and yearned to invent new words, a language that bloomed with tender oaths to paint all the hues of my devotion, but I could only whisper bland cliches and sweet nothings. She convulsed once, smiling as I killed her. I did not yell, did not curse. In the silence of the greenhouse, my heart shattered.
This is my last entry. I do not know how long it has been since we kissed, but I feel roots growing and leaves unfurling as I become one with her. Our fingers interlace, becoming more plant-like with each passing moment.

06/15/1947
I, Doctor Mcpherson, head professor at the Department of Botany at Oxford, am writing this entry in Captain Thorne’s diary.
Having received no news from my mentee, Professor Milkthistle, for the past two days, I grew concerned and was intent on investigating her whereabouts. I arrived at greenhouse number 6 early this morning.
I hoped to find her there since her enthusiasm for the man kept inside was always infectious. The last time I saw her, I admonished her for becoming too infatuated and neglectful of her responsibility as a botanist. I even teased her, telling her she sounded more like a woman in love than a scientist.
As I entered, an eerie silence hung in the air. In the far corner, I discovered a dense, overgrown vine that had cracked the glass panels. Tendrils of the unknown plant had already begun smothering the structure from the outside. Intrigued, I drew closer and was astounded to see that cradle inside the invasive species, a most vibrant specimen of Jasminum officinale, commonly known as the poet’s jasmine.
Enchanted by its powerful scent, I reached out to observe its fragrant waxy flowers better, but to my horror, the outer vines shifted as if by an undetectable breeze, revealing wasps’ nests entangled with yellow snakes while white spiders scurried underneath.
I cried out, repulsed. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but I swear I saw two fierce blue eyes staring back at me before the vines readjusted themselves.
I am a man of science dedicated to research using solid data, yet I must admit I was unprepared for the terror that engulfed me. Ignoring all sense of decorum, I turned and ran as fast as my old legs allowed me. Breathless, covered in sweat, and bereft of my hat, I reached my office, where I immediately ordered that greenhouse number 6 remain locked and secured behind an impenetrable steel fence.
Of course, the Police will be called to look into the fate of my mentee. Given their abysmal record of finding missing women and knowing the man was kept in secrecy, I am confident they will conclude she ran away with a lover. It is my fervent hope that it is so. In our world restricted by reproducible experiments and logic, I pray she found a love that defies all explanations and, in its tender embrace, discovers a passion that transcends the here and now.
And me? I will continue my work, still stubbornly wanting to unveil the secrets that nature has buried in the plant world. But I will now be gentler as I handle each new plant, in awe of the silent wisdom encrypted in every leaf, petal, and root. Greenhouse number 6 will forever remain a beacon so I can remind my students to tread lightly on a realm where our limited understanding may cause more harm than good.