At the Mention of a Martyr
Ashleigh Provoost
John Dickinson sat rigidly in his chair, staring at the
floor. The waiting room had an aura of quiet foreboding; the only sounds to be heard, despite the three other people that sat around him, came from the loud keys of a typewriter as a woman typed furiously behind the large desk. He kept his head down as he tapped his fingers against the armrest, waiting for his name to be called. The clock read 10:02, two minutes after his appointment was supposed to start; he hoped that his tardiness might cancel the appointment that awaited him.
He tried to take a deep breath to clear his mind, but the
sound of a car backfiring made him jump; his hands curled into fists as glances were thrown his way. John met the eyes of a man with a deep red tie, chapped knuckles curled around the handle of an old briefcase. The man quickly looked away.
John closed his eyes, and just like that, it began to play in
his mind. Images flashed in his head, using his closed eyes as a projector screen.
"Kingsley? Come on, Kingsley." John could faintly hear his
own voice; he was looking down at a man in front of him, a heap on the ground. "Arthur, it's me."
John was talking as if it would bring the man back.
Blood had started to pool slowly, making a ring around Arthur's midsection.
John pressed his hands down frantically on Arthur's wound,
soaking his own hands in the process. 40
