30 Days of Flash Fiction: Day 3 "15/08/1998"

"15/08/1998"

It was nothing but chaos. People in the street were screaming for help, for their God, for anything that would bring them peace. He could see the bodies of those fortunate to have died when the Vauxhall exploded. They didn't have to suffer the fate others would.

He felt a wave of nausea and dizziness hit him, but he scrambled to his feet anyway. Making his way through the rubble, he came upon a teen boy, his ginger hair stained dark from the blood.

The boy's eyes radiated the fear his body could no longer show. The man stooped low down, trying to hear the words struggling from the boys crimson stained lips.

"Help," the boy rasped. "Help me please."

The man didn't know what to do. The RUC were running around, coming from the direction of the courthouse.

He started to yell out, but a grip on his arm made him turn back to the boy. Blood coughed up from the boy's mouth, the hemorrhaging in his body becoming too much.

"No," the man said in vain. "No no no. Stay with me, lad. Stay with me." His efforts were of no use. The light fading from his eyes, the boy stopped trembling, finally coming to peace.

The man sat for awhile, staring at the vast emptiness in the boy's orbs. He tried to rationalize the event. All the death and carnage. All that he saw when this poor boy passed. But he could find no fairness. Nothing was just about it. The revelation made nauseated. The pounding in his head increased until he could take it no longer. He turned and heaved onto the pavement.

A medic stooped in front of him. "Sir, I'm going to need you to come with me," he said. The man looked up, his vision hazy and unfocused.

"What of the boy?" the man asked.

"He's passed, sir. There's nothing we can do for him," the medic replied.

"What about his body? Will his family know?" he asked.

"We'll notify any family he has," the medic said.

"Good. Good," replied the man hazily, the medic pulling him away from the street.

Many weeks after, the man thought back to how that boy had fade in his arms, the lighting going out despite his worthless efforts.

They say 29 people died that day in the Omagh marketplace, but if you told that to the man, he would call you a liar. He'd say another life laid next to that ginger headed boy, wishing that there was fairness in this dark world.