An Angels Touch

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Cathy slipped from the car. Oh, God, this was it, this was how it happened.

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Death was cold, Death was ice. Killing first the extremities, then the limbs, then the heart, the mind With every effort, he dragged himself from the driver's seat, to the passenger's seat. Out the door. Tears stung his eyes. Cathy, oh, Cathy She looked at him and nodded. Sound went on around them, so distant, part of a different world.

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He brought his fingers to her again. Ten bloody fingers entwined. Someone was sobbing near them. He was dimly aware of what he heard.

Oh, dear God, the blessed little orphans, help, help, someone help them Something huge and black passed by them. He thought that Death had swooped down for them then, quickly and neatly. But the huge black thing came and went, leaving a flurry of snow to fall down upon them, as if they were done for already.

Don blinked. Not death, but a nun. Running across the metal-and-flesh-strewn accident scene. Trailing blood herself, trying to get help. So much. Those poor little ones in the train. Don, oh, God, I had you, I had everything. No regrets, Don. Cathy, you can't die—you can't—and you can't be happy—". Her chest rattled terribly. There was blood in her lungs, he thought. A clinical realization. At such a time. Cathy was talking. He wanted so badly to hold on to her.

He didn't even seem to be able to do that. I had you.

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Oh, God, Cathy, help is coming, listen to me, sweetheart, you have to hang on, you can make it. He wanted to hold her. The cold had seized him. His limbs. His torso. His heart, he was certain. He could suddenly hear it beating. One thump. A very long time. Another thump. Each beat coming more and more slowly.

Soon the pulse would stop completely. I can't! I'm too cold to reach you. Please, touch me, reach me, let me feel you one last time Or thought he died. It was the weirdest damned night. He touched her, kissed her. The cold overwhelmed him, sweeping throughout the whole of him.


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But now He had his hands on a heavy luggage bin and was shoving it aside. There had been a railroad conductor beneath it, pinned there. The man was unconscious, but breathing evenly.

An Angels Touch Poem ~ Julie Carrick ~ In the Waiting Project

He might have a broken leg, Don mused, looking at the position of the fellow's limb, but it looked like he had a good chance. He looked up.

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Cathy was standing at the cock-eyed entryway to one of the train cars that had gone askew. He hurried toward her. He looked down as he leaped over the wreckage and realized vaguely that the blood was gone from his trenchcoat. He didn't seem able to dwell on that for the moment; Cathy was calling him.

The train's lights had gone out. Only here and there were flashes blinking illumination. Don could still see that this railcar was the one loaded with children. The orphans. They had apparently come from a Brooklyn facility called St. Mary's: the name was stamped upon most of the clean, though shabby and worn, baggage the munchkins had carried; some had suitcases, some backpacks. The bags seemed to have come in a multitude of sizes, perhaps six or seven in all.

Listen to the sirens. People who know what they're doing are coming now. We could hurt them—". He didn't seem to be able to do that.