Q:Psychometry by Dazzle -Improved Edit

I looked at this again, and decided I had slashed too hard, and some
significant parts had indeed been cut out.

apologies to dazzle, and here's my new one>

psy?chom?e?try - The ability or art of divining information about
people or events associated with an object solely by touching or being
near to it.

She sat on the snowy platform where she'd fallen. Eyes open, staring,
fiercely gripping the rusting bucket. She was beautiful. Her blonde
hair had spread out as she went down, as if to slow her.

There had been no exclamation; no scream, no cry of surprise - just a
thump as she hit the pockmarked cement of the platform. Instinctively,
as she fell, her arms reached out, hands grabbing, fingers curling over
the lip of the bucket. It came away from the wall, its heavy bracket
pulling from the crumbling brick, dropping to the surface next to her
with a metallic clang as she jarringly come to rest.

A few old women looked on from the benches. Were they waiting to leave
or expecting an arrival? They were probably there yesterday and would
be again tomorrow, a routine undisturbed by a few foreigners milling
around.

The girl's lips were moving - a silent mantra. No one could hear what
she was saying. Her breath misted in front of her face, masking her.
One of the young Americans knelt beside her, putting his beer down,
leaning towards her. It was easy to guess that the American boys, still
carrying their beer and laughing as they approached, were being helpful
because she was attractive. The scene was almost romantic: the boy
placed his ear near her mouth. His friends stop laughing. Everyone
watches. Everyone waits. The boy looked up. "'Water!' She's saying
'water'"

*****

The train slows to a halt. Shouts ring out outside, and the crunch of
boots on hard-packed snow nears the railway car. The door slides -a
harsh grating slide, as if it is little-used. Weak light illuminates
the car. Blinking in the light, some peer outside wanting to know where
they are. Others shield their eyes, huddling away from the light, the
cold, the unknown - a slow movement of people shifting, trying to
dislodge cramp and fear. Fingers clutch each other's numbed flesh. The
sound of other doors opening reaches their ears and snow drifts down
outside.

The black-uniformed officer squints into the railway car, trying to
pierce the gloom. He looks smug, looking down at the people whose
destiny he feels he controls. A shiny new death's-head emblem twinkles
on his hat. Smiling, he very slowly raises an imperious hand. People
look away, turn, as if back in class again trying not to be picked.
Don't pick me! don't pick me!, huddling in the gloomy warmth, clutching
each other.

The officer's finger points at a small blonde girl pressing herself
against the woman next to her, trying to hide. The officer's finger is
already moving onto the next child as the girl looks up to the woman,
who nods. The blonde girl stands. The officer picks again. And again.
As each child stands, he smiles - they are his to play with. He turns
his hand palm upwards and beckons. The children shuffle forward. Two
soldiers appear, one smoking a hastily-rolled cigarette. The other
laughing. They help the children onto the snowy platform. The children
blink, shivering as they line up, snow swirling around them. One of
them turns his head to look back at the train. Each car has a line of
silent children - a break on a school trip. The soldier's guns point
down, casual, relaxed. A few are smoking. The officer in black walks
along, nodding his head as he passes each line. The soldiers raise
their arms in salute, fingers pointing at the sky.

The children's hands are numbed by cold and they are stiff from
inactivity and fear. Older ones help the smaller ones. A boy has
slipped and grazed his knee. A single drop of bright red blood traces
its way down onto his black shoe as the children stand on the platform,
gazing around.

The other people on the platform form a small group, murmuring amongst
themselves, not wanting to become associated with the silent figures,
not wanting to attract attention from the guards.

The soldiers motion to the children. At the end of the platform is a
line of red buckets and a tap. The blonde girl starts to walk towards
them. She beckons for others to follow. The children begin to walk,
moving in a line together. The other lines move. There is a soft crump
as each child creates footprints in the fresh white powder as soles
connect with the hard surface beneath.

There aren't enough buckets - some children aren't needed. At least
they are getting a break from confinement. Some even smile. They
organise themselves. Some fill, while others carry the heavy buckets
back, water sloshing over the sides, cold metal gripped in red-raw
hands as knuckles turn frozen white. The guards are lined up waiting,
guns holstered, a mixture of breath and smoke fogging the air in front
of them. Their faces are obscured, their lips smiling.

Even though more than half her burden is already spilt, the little
blonde girl is staggering under its weight. The officer moves forward
to intercept her. The child stops. She waits. The other children wait
and watch. The girl looks up as the black figure of the officer
approaches. He towers over her, smiling at a small child, who is
shivering, trying to keep hold of the heavy bucket, clinging on to it
with most of the water gone. The officer's lips curl in scorn, and a
soldier laughs behind them. The officer's shiny boot slams against the
bucket. Black on red! The girl reacts in pain and shocked surprise, and
the bucket....

*****

...dropped from her grip as her hand opened. It rolled to the edge of
the platform and clanked onto the tracks.
She blinked, shook her head. The American boy stepped back, bending to
help her up. "Thank you." She said. He nodded and walked back to join
his friends.

The old women stopped staring and went back to their muffled
conversations. The American boys picked up their rucksacks and waited
as the train approached.