Young Writers Society

Father Martin’s teeth clattered and his tea spilled as the floor violently shook from the unexpected boom. Screams from outside followed and the old priest instinctively got under his coffee table, as they told you to do in those days when you heard an explosion. His knees creaked and ankles bent in ways they hadn’t in some years, but he felt no pain because of the sudden adrenaline. After about two minutes of waiting for a companion blast, he rushed out of his flat and into the street. Outside, people had already rushed for cover, entering homes that weren’t theirs and crouching behind walls away from the source of the explosion. Father Martin rounded the bend toward the side street behind his building, fighting to breathe through the soot and dust that polluted the air. There was a small fire ahead of him. It seemed to be a car that had detonated. He surveyed his surroundings and couldn’t see anyone that was wounded or dead. There was no way of telling if someone had been in the car. The screams had died down as most people had taken shelter in the past minutes, and an eerie calm filled the road and surrounding houses. Father Martin coughed vigorously, his lungs filling with the ash produced by the car and the uplifted road. Satisfied with his investigation, he turned around to head away for fresher air, but he heard a soft whimper beyond the car. Hand over mouth and nose, he leaned forward to listen more keenly, and the whimpering became more distinguishable. He pressed on as the dust cloud began to lift and got to the burning car. It was destroyed, with only the half-shapen wheels remaining to form any semblance of a vehicle. The whimpering turned into croaking, and Father Martin hastened to move around the car. There was a bush on the side of the road that was slightly singed by the shrapnel of the car, which was scattered as far as fifty yards away. The cries came from there, where he found a small boy leaning into the bush. Father Martin ran to examine him. His left arm had been blown off and blood poured from the wound. Both of his legs looked to be broken. The joints were bent at odd angles while the boy sat propped up against the bush. Cuts and bruises marked his entire face, presumably a consequence of both wayward shrapnel and a bad landing if the boy had been airborne. His hair was filled with soot and matted with blood, concealing its natural color. Father Martin did not know what to do. He unfastened his cassock to use his shirt underneath as a cover for the boy’s left arm, in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. He removed his white shirt and tightly applied it to the boy’s shoulder, where it instantly became soaked in crimson. Then, he ran his hand through the boy's hair, revealing multiple cuts on his scalp and patches of auburn-dusted brown hair that attempted to penetrate the layers of pollutants and blood. Father Martin sighed. “What is your name lad?” he asked the boy.

Struggling to produce the words, the boy replied weakly, “John Michael Finley, father.”

Father Martin nodded and said, “I’m going to give you your last rites lad. Your fate is with the Lord now.”

John Michael’s whimpers of pain turned into louder cries of dismay as tears streamed down his face, diluting the ashy garnet that stained him. Father Martin conferred the sign of the cross over John and began.

“May you, John Michael, return to him who formed you from the dust of the earth. May Mary, the angels, and all the saints come to meet you as you go forth from this life. May Christ who was crucified for you bring you freedom and peace. May Christ who died for you admit you into his garden of paradise. May Christ, the true Shepherd, acknowledge you as one of his flock. May he forgive all your sins, and set you among those he has chosen.”

Instead of acknowledging the prayer, John pleaded, “But can’t I have a doctor father? I want to see my mum. I want to see my mum!” He repeated over and over. His eyes were dominated by fear and pain, begging more convincingly than his words. Father Martin put his head down, then shuffled closer and scooped John into his arms, pressing his left side into his body, trying to further stem the flow of blood from the missing arm. He began to run towards the main street, but John sharply breathed and cried as he did, so Father Martin slowed down.

“There’s so much pain,” cried John Michael. He promptly passed out in Father Martin’s arms. His frantic breathing drastically slowed, and his facial expression relaxed into a drawn frown. Having been so focused on John Michael, Father Martin had not noticed the woman looking on just to his right. She had the same mahogany hair as John Michael and the same lifeless eyes.