Whispers of the Past

The woman’s scream, sharp and piercing, was the first thing that truly registered in Johny’s muddled consciousness. It was a sound so different from the panicked cries of his Ma, so utterly alien. Then came the man’s grasp, firm and surprisingly gentle, as he caught Johny before he could fall. But the words that followed, tumbling out in a rush, were lost to Johny. His own body was a symphony of suffering, a dull ache that had bloomed into a fiery agony, radiating from his back and down his legs. He could feel the dampness there, the sticky warmth that seeped through his thin breeches, and he knew it was blood. He knew blood.

“Oh my God,” the woman breathed, her voice a shaky whisper that vibrated through Johny’s small frame. “Mark, look!”

Johny’s vision swam. He saw the man, Mark, his face a mask of disbelief, his eyes wide and fixed on Johny’s back. Then, a flicker of movement, a slight shift in the woman’s hold, and Johny felt a searing jolt of pain as something shifted. He cried out, a choked sob, and buried his face against the woman’s shoulder. Her fabric felt strange, smooth and cool, not rough like his Ma’s apron.