Grip The Burn
The dying lay thick on the third floor of Mercy Hospital.
A black-robed priest walked between stretchers, crossing himself at the dismaying sight of another dying human being. Some would die in the middle of his rites; some lay, open-mouthed, eyes glazed, scorched flesh putrefying.
It was a soul-murdering job, and only the strongest faith buoyed him.
"Long night, father?"
He nodded, "Two hundred dead."
"That's double the capacity of the Onyx."
He nodded. "They were trying to pack them in. I believe that was the term the owner used in the paper today."
Nodding his head. "A true shame."
"Amen."
He entered another ward; two more dead, clutching his robes. The last curtain he parted brought him to the most needy of the flock.
Her face had been scorched; she would probably never work again, unless as an example of what sin could do to a woman. She lay in the fetal position, rocking, staring blankly ahead.
"Child..."
"I don't deserve it."
"Even the least of God's children deserves a blessing."
"I wasted my blessing."
He stared at the shivering form. Blood, slashed like a question mark across her bodice.
"The world's saying no again. No everywhere." Tears came to her eyes. "Why am I alive?"
"Because you'd eat your own ma to live."
She stared up at him through a curtain of tears. "What kinda thing is that for a priest to say?"
"I ain't just a priest, Roxanne."
She wanted to scream when the fog cleared from her eyes. "Amos?"
"Who else? You ruined women for me, Roxanne."
But for the first time, the words coming from her were not coated with self-pity. "They all died because of me. They burned. I watched 'em burning, and I couldn't do nothing..."