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MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Fingers tethered together with fingers; desperate, clinging, frightened. The skin beneath thick, olive fingers was waxy, sheer like paper as it covered too-thin muscle. There came the slow, steady drip upon the concrete floor; the rhythm of it so predictable that it almost sounded like a heartbeat. One faster than the intermittent throb within the young boy's chest. For that was all he was, no older than nineteen. His begging for his mother had quietened in the last hour, and that served as no peace.
"…may almighty God release you from all punishments in this life and the life to come. May He open to you the gates of Paradise and welcome you to everlasting joy."
The words held little weight now, falling upon dead and unhearing ears. Those spindly fingers had grown slack, the breaths becoming shallower and shallower until they didn't come at all. Quietly, this boy had slipped away into death's embrace, laying upon the thin-mattress of the cot.
Silence would have been easy, then, but it was not granted to Father Tadhg Kiernan.
The assault upon his senses came from all angles, his body awash now after his duty to the dead done. The rubbing alcohol of the kidney dish nearby, dirty instruments laid within. The slowing drip of ichor that wept from septic wounds delved deep into gizzards. The chitter of the fan high above, blasting its cool air. The stench of infection and all things medical that was more familiar to Father Kiernan than should have been when he'd sought the quiet life of priesthood.
But war was like that. It took something quiet and tore it into shreds, just as it had the boy's belly with bullets.
The cotton sheet upon the cot shifted a little beneath the weight of a white cat, thick in its haunches and careful in its movements. She moved over the boy's still body, not ever stepping upon him, to rub against Father Kiernan's shoulder. With a sigh, he ran his rough hand through the thick of his hair, the white and black threads snagging at his scarred knuckles.
Standing, Father Kiernan flinched a little at the harsh sound of the metal chair scraping over smooth concrete floor of the medical tent. "You did all that you could, Anne."
The nurse, huddled within the corner, had wrapped herself in her own arms in self-comfort. Father Kiernan knew the dedication Anne proved with each surgery; not only in her effort to keep the boy alive and stave off the infection, but also in her commitment to hope. It was commendable, really, in a hellish place such as this.
"Let it be comfort enough that his soul has found peace," Father Kiernan offered her the smallest of sombre smiles, watching as the white cat leapt from the cot and pattered over to Anne. He lingered, watching as the feline nudged against the nurse's legs. "I shall leave you to have a moment with him."
A large palm pressed against the spring-hinged door, Father Kiernan preparing himself for the blistering heat of the evening, before he was drawn to a pause on the threshold.
"Thank you, Father."
He wished that they didn't thank him, but he knew all that they saw were his cloth. A man of duty, a man of the faith, but never him. Without looking over his shoulder, Father Tadhg Kiernan said lowly as he shoved himself free; "No need."
It was the humidity which struck him, first, just as it always did. It was the kind of oppressive heat that clung to skin and soaked clothes. Father Kiernan absentmindedly pulled at the collar of his shirt, aching to be free of the tight of them, as Tilly, the white fur ball, fell into step beside him.
"This heat will be the death of me." The irony came in the slightness of his Irish accent, Father Kiernan's blood a mix. His father, a New Yorker, and his mother a red-headed Irishwoman.
His long steps carried him between tents and to the showers; communal stalls within seperate by chest-high walls. Most of the men would have showered, having eaten and turned in long ago. Father Kiernan ached for the silence and the cool of the water, and found his pace turning brisk.
"…may almighty God release you from all punishments in this life and the life to come. May He open to you the gates of Paradise and welcome you to everlasting joy."
The words held little weight now, falling upon dead and unhearing ears. Those spindly fingers had grown slack, the breaths becoming shallower and shallower until they didn't come at all. Quietly, this boy had slipped away into death's embrace, laying upon the thin-mattress of the cot.
Silence would have been easy, then, but it was not granted to Father Tadhg Kiernan.
The assault upon his senses came from all angles, his body awash now after his duty to the dead done. The rubbing alcohol of the kidney dish nearby, dirty instruments laid within. The slowing drip of ichor that wept from septic wounds delved deep into gizzards. The chitter of the fan high above, blasting its cool air. The stench of infection and all things medical that was more familiar to Father Kiernan than should have been when he'd sought the quiet life of priesthood.
But war was like that. It took something quiet and tore it into shreds, just as it had the boy's belly with bullets.
The cotton sheet upon the cot shifted a little beneath the weight of a white cat, thick in its haunches and careful in its movements. She moved over the boy's still body, not ever stepping upon him, to rub against Father Kiernan's shoulder. With a sigh, he ran his rough hand through the thick of his hair, the white and black threads snagging at his scarred knuckles.
Standing, Father Kiernan flinched a little at the harsh sound of the metal chair scraping over smooth concrete floor of the medical tent. "You did all that you could, Anne."
The nurse, huddled within the corner, had wrapped herself in her own arms in self-comfort. Father Kiernan knew the dedication Anne proved with each surgery; not only in her effort to keep the boy alive and stave off the infection, but also in her commitment to hope. It was commendable, really, in a hellish place such as this.
"Let it be comfort enough that his soul has found peace," Father Kiernan offered her the smallest of sombre smiles, watching as the white cat leapt from the cot and pattered over to Anne. He lingered, watching as the feline nudged against the nurse's legs. "I shall leave you to have a moment with him."
A large palm pressed against the spring-hinged door, Father Kiernan preparing himself for the blistering heat of the evening, before he was drawn to a pause on the threshold.
"Thank you, Father."
He wished that they didn't thank him, but he knew all that they saw were his cloth. A man of duty, a man of the faith, but never him. Without looking over his shoulder, Father Tadhg Kiernan said lowly as he shoved himself free; "No need."
It was the humidity which struck him, first, just as it always did. It was the kind of oppressive heat that clung to skin and soaked clothes. Father Kiernan absentmindedly pulled at the collar of his shirt, aching to be free of the tight of them, as Tilly, the white fur ball, fell into step beside him.
"This heat will be the death of me." The irony came in the slightness of his Irish accent, Father Kiernan's blood a mix. His father, a New Yorker, and his mother a red-headed Irishwoman.
His long steps carried him between tents and to the showers; communal stalls within seperate by chest-high walls. Most of the men would have showered, having eaten and turned in long ago. Father Kiernan ached for the silence and the cool of the water, and found his pace turning brisk.