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.

"Arthur, it's okay. It's gonna be alright." The wounded soldier gripped John's wrist, pulling him closer.

Arthur's mouth was moving, opening and closing in an attempt to form his last words. John put his head down, trying to hear. But Arthur's words were unintelligible.

"It… it hurts…" he murmured, as his voice faded into a whisper, and John leaned in even closer. What was he trying to say? Arthur mumbled again and then stopped. His head lolled to the side.

The words were out of John's mouth before he could process them. "MORPHINE! I NEED-"

"John Dickinson?" At the mention of his name, John came back to the waiting room. He gasped, pulled out of yet another daydream–so far, the second one that morning. A trickle of cold sweat rolled down his brow, and he quickly pulled out his handkerchief to wipe it away.

His hands were shaking.

"Mr. Dickinson?" The woman with the typewriter repeated his name, and John took a deep breath, trying to steady his heartbeat. He debated not moving. It would be easier to walk right out of the room, back outside, and not stop until he ended up far, far away. But the woman was looking at him. He stood, dragging himself toward the desk before she could repeat herself.

"Here," he responded curtly. She looked him up and down, frowning.

could feel her gaze of displeasure boring into his back as he turned toward the door. He made the short walk across the waiting room and turned the cold, brass door knob. The door opened to a small office, mainly taken up by an oak desk and a small, mahogany, leather couch studded with gold buttons. The man behind the desk wore large spectacles, a mismatched suit, and a necklace with a cross resembling one John wore long ago. He motioned for John to take a seat with a small smile, showcasing the dimple in his right cheek.

"Hi there, Mr. Dickinson." The man's smile widened. "I'm Dr. Holmes, but you can call me Arthur. I'd like to-"

"No," John said without thinking; Dr. Holmes frowned at him.

"I'm sorry?"

"No, Dr. Holmes suits you just fine." John hoped that the doctor didn't hear the small crack in his voice. Dr. Holmes pondered for a second before continuing on.

"So, Mr. Dickinson, why are you here?"

"I don't know."

The doctor paused with his pen halfway to paper, not expecting John's instantaneous response. John was telling the truth. He would have never seen himself showing up to a therapist's office, but then again, things had definitely changed since that day. Why was he there? Why did he even have to be there?

Why did Arthur have to be there? But Arthur had always known it would end that way – he had said so the first day they met.

"I'm gonna die right here," Arthur had said, grinning like a madman.

The liveliness of the dining hall was at its peak, shouting and guffawing coming from every long table. Forks and knives clinked on plates, men toasted life and death with chipped tin cups. John and Arthur sat at the table with men on either side of them, packed like sardines.

"You really think we're not goin' back?" John had said quietly, gumming down the stale bread on his plate. Arthur had laughed, grabbing his flask and downing the rest of its contents in a swallow.

"Not me," he said. "I'm gonna die right here."

John shook his head. "Why would you say that?"

"It ain't worth coming to this terrible place unless I end up a martyr," Arthur said with a serious face. He met John's eyes. "That's the only way I'll be redeemed." Arthur had become quiet then. "'Besides, if I go home, it's never gonna be the same."

John pushed the food around his plate. "You got anyone? Back home?"

Arthur's eyes crinkled as a smile formed on his face. "Yeah, actually. Her name's–" But before he could continue, another man slapped Arthur on the back and drew him away from John. It was over, just like that.

John never learned her name.

"Lost in thought, Mr. Dickinson?" It was Dr. Holmes.

John gasped and looked down to see his hands gripping the couch tightly, his knuckles white and his jaw clenched. He looked up at Dr. Holmes, who eyed him curiously. John cleared his throat.

"That happens sometimes," he said. He slowly unwrapped his hands from the couch to cross his arms.

"Do you want to talk about those thoughts?" Dr. Holmes inquired.

"No."

"Isn't that why you came here today, Mr. Dickinson?"

"Maybe."

"I'm here to help."

"I've guessed."

"So let me help you." John stared at the wall behind Dr. Holmes; his empty stare bore into the frame behind the doctor's desk, stained with age.

"I'm trying," John said.

"Just let go."

"I can't!"

The doctor tucked his pen into his breast pocket. He pulled the spectacles off of the bridge of his nose. Clasped his hands together.

"Are you okay, Mr. Dickinson?"

John was surprised by the bluntness of the question. He fell silent once more. The answer to that question wasn't complex. But

saying it would turn speculation into fact. And John wasn't quite sure he was ready.

"I…" He took a shallow breath, filling the silence with the sound of his quiet exhale. "I don't think so." He mumbled the words under his breath. The doctor leaned forward.

"Pardon?"

"No!" The words came suddenly. John watched as the doctor looked at him with curiosity. Then he leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes.

The glassy eyes of Arthur Kingsley stared back at him, devoid of all life. A good man, a good soldier. A good friend. There had to have been some way to save Arthur from that bloody fate, some way that he missed…

He opened his eyes with a start, trying to get the face out of his mind. "I'm sorry… Arthur..."

The poor doctor didn't know that the apology wasn't for

him.

Dr. Holmes studied John, meeting the man's eyes. "Why are you crying, Mr. Dickinson?"

Quickly, John wiped a tear from his cheek. It surprised him, as crying was unfamiliar to him. He adjusted in his seat, ashamed to look the doctor in the eyes.

The picture behind the doctor's desk stared at him. A blonde woman with two young children behind her. She was laughing. Beautiful. Just like Arthur's girl, John thought.

He had only learned who Arthur had back home when it was too late. The photo Arthur had given him still haunted him to this day. It was a small, wallet-sized photograph, wrinkled with the age of war, but John could see the woman clearly. Blonde and beautiful, laughing at something the person behind the camera had said. But he had never known her name.

"Find… her," Arthur had said.

"What's her name?" John asked. "Arthur, what's her name?"

Arthur's lips moved as a gun exploded next to the two men; John pressed his face towards Arthur's mouth, fighting to hear over the ringing in his ears. But his last words had already been said. Arthur's pale hands pressed the photo into John's. Bloody fingerprints covered the woman's laughing mouth. The entire right corner was soaked through; whether from Arthur's hands or his own, John wasn't sure.

Later, John tried to wash the blood off the photo—off his clothes, hands, and mind. But it was impossible. The stains still lingered.

He'd never found the girl in the photo. Every day he wondered if she was still waiting for the man who died that day.

Maybe he should try the phone book again.

"Mr. Dickinson?" The doctor was still waiting for an answer.

"Oh." John pulled out the handkerchief to wipe his face again. More tears had appeared.

asked.

John knew full well what he was seeing. The same thing he'd seen for the past eight months. He saw Arthur's last moments, over and over and over again, trying to hear his last words. Trying to listen to him.

"Arthur, stay with me, please." John's final sentence to Arthur echoed throughout his head. He remembered his hands slapping Arthur's face as he got the dying man to open his eyes one more time. Arthur had grasped at John's jacket, opening his mouth.

He had whispered something. But under the roar of the machine guns, it disappeared.

Then Arthur dropped down and was still, his last words heard only by the war.

He lay there with his eyes wide open as the blood pooled around John's legs.

John screamed as the tears rolled down his face. He screamed. And screamed.

"I couldn't hear what he said," he spoke out loud. "I don't know her name." He saw the doctor finally register what John had been trying to say the whole time.

The doctor looked down, and John couldn't identify the emotion that passed through his eyes. "A shame," he said.

"Yes," John replied, empty. "What a shame."